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Chapter 10

‘Juice?’ Angela said. She put a glass of pink grapefruit crush down on a coaster in front of Kirsty. The juice was the same colour as Angela’s painted fingernails.

‘Thanks,’ Kirsty whispered. She took a sip. It was so sharp it stung her mouth. Her eyes watered as she forced it down.

‘Right.’ Angela swished into one of the leather chairs that stood like sentries around the dining table. ‘Ben has told me all about your little problem. Your dad putting his head in the sand again, is he?’

Kirsty frowned but didn’t say anything. Ben looked down at his hands, clamped in his lap.

Angela smiled a TV presenter smile at them both. ‘My dears, you should have come to me in the first place. Your father doesn’t like to rock the boat. If you want to keep your grandad’s allotment, you need someone effective on your side. Darlings, I’ve been getting my own way for years now. I’m a professional!’ Angela laughed, a tinkly sound like a wind chime.

Ben seemed to curl deeper into his chair. Kirsty sat up straighter. This was really interesting – an adult on her side might be just what she needed! ‘Do you really think you can help?’ Kirsty asked.

Angela waved her arm in the air, as though she were bashing aside any problems. ‘Of course I can help! As I understand it, the rotten council won’t let you take the allotment on because you’re too young. Is that it?’

Kirsty nodded her head slowly; that was mostly it.

‘Well, dear, you need to start a campaign to force the council to change their mind, to bow to public pressure.’

‘We held a demonstration,’ Kirsty said, ‘but it didn’t work. We thought about a petition?’

‘A petition? How ridiculous. No, dear, this isn’t the nineties. Petitions run by some miserable old hag in the shopping centre don’t cut it. What you need is a media campaign. You need to get headlines. “Council Caught in Kidz’ Carrot Crisis”, that sort of thing. We need to get some pictures of you looking all sad, with a trowel, some trees and whatnot in the background. You need to issue a press release, perhaps even start a website. Oh yes, you’ll definitely need a website – givemeagarden.com, kidzforfreedom.org, something like that –’

‘Mum,’ Ben interrupted. ‘Mum, isn’t that going a bit far?’

Angela stared at him, as though he had spoken in Latin. ‘A bit far? Sweet pea, you can never go too far with a publicity campaign. Do you remember when I opened my first salon and I had that truck driving around town with that enormous wig on top of it? People were talking about it for weeks afterwards.’

‘Yes,’ Ben sighed. ‘I know.’

‘Or do you remember that time when I started doing glamorous nails and I had the local paper put fake fingernails in every copy to advertise it?’

Ben just nodded silently. The excitement that Kirsty had been feeling began to knot in her stomach. She remembered too well how upset Ben had been. Hundreds of people had called the paper to complain when loose fingernails dropped out of their morning paper and plopped into their cornflakes. Trails of broken nails followed paper boys down the streets. Newsagents had been finding fingernails on their floors for weeks afterwards. Ben had nearly died of shame.

‘What we need is to think of a great stunt for you. Grab people’s attention. A gimmick. How about a gardening marathon? Do you think you could dig for twenty-four hours?’ Angela said.

A digging marathon? There was no way she could dig for that long! It would kill her! Kirsty bit her lip, then said, ‘No, I don’t think my mum would let me.’

‘Hmm. Never mind, I’m sure we’ll think of something,’ Angela said. ‘We can start with the photos. I’ll call a photographer friend of mine. I can make you up to look a bit sad, you know – Oliver-Twist-meets-abandoned-puppy, that sort of thing. Wait here, I’ll just go and make a phone call.’

Angela got up from her chair and swept out of the room with all her jewellery jangling.

‘Wow,’ Kirsty whispered.

‘I know,’ said Ben. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What did she say she was going to do to me? Oliver Twist’s puppy?’

‘I have no idea. I should have just said no. I shouldn’t have said anything to her in the first place. This is all my fault.’

Kirsty smiled at him. ‘Yes. It probably is. But perhaps it will work? She seems to know what she’s doing. I quite fancy the make-up bit anyway.’

‘You would. I don’t know. Perhaps she does want to help. But she might just want to get her salon in the newspapers. I bet she gets the photographs done with the shop in the background. I’m really sorry.’ Ben’s voice fell to a whisper.

‘It can’t be that bad,’ Kirsty grinned.

A rustle of silk and the clanking of metal told them that Angela was back. She swung into the room, grinning like a cat in a cream factory. ‘Well, dears, that’s all sorted. Jermaine will meet us at the salon in twenty minutes. Chop-chop, we haven’t got all day. Grab your coats. We’ve got a campaign to launch!’