Chapter One

April 2006

TODAY I FOUND out what my biggest fear was. The kind of fear that turns you cold all over, makes your heart beat faster and sends your tummy into a spin.

I had thought it was big fat spiders with long hairy legs that scuttle across my bedroom floor and make me scream. Mum always dashes in and tells me off for making a noise, but she brings the spider-catcher (a kind of long thin plastic gadget with a trap on the end of it), catches the spider, puts it safely out of the window and gives me a hug.

I was wrong, and the reason I know is because I’ve just found out what my greatest fear really is. But by the time I realized, it was too late.

I don’t want to write anything about the wedding. I smiled and said all the right things to everyone who spoke to me. I thought I was doing fine too, until the reception.

‘I haven’t seen you really smile yet,’ said my cousin Sangita. She was picking at the remains of the wedding feast – chicken curry and rice, and posh fish and chips for anyone who didn’t like Indian food. ‘Give it a go – your face won’t crack, you know.’ She regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Or will it?’

Around us swirled snatches of conversation in English and Punjabi, and the high-pitched shrieks of kids running riot while their parents gossiped. The hall was a dazzling burst of colour – peacock, emerald, cerise and daffodil-yellow saris stitched with gold and silver embroidery and sequins – contrasting with the men’s blue, grey and black suits. The tables were piled with empty silver dishes, and scents of coriander and masala hung in the air. Garlands of flowers, wilting a bit now, hung on the backs of the chairs and festooned the stage in long, looping chains. It was a typical wedding reception. But, for me, it was the end of my own little world.

‘I have been smiling,’ I defended myself. ‘I don’t have to smile all the time, do I? I’m just taking a short break from smiling at the moment. That’s all.’ Even to my own ears, my voice sounded a bit hysterical.

Sangita shrugged. ‘If you say so,’ she replied, nibbling on the jagged edges of a broken poppadom. At the front of the hall the band were taking to the stage, making a big self-important fuss about tuning their instruments.

‘Look, Dani,’ Sangita went on kindly, ‘it’s not an ideal situation. Everyone knows that—’

‘You don’t say,’ I snapped, but I regretted it immediately because Sangita wasn’t the problem. Although she’s five years older than me and thinks seventeen is grown up, we’ve always been quite close. But I was afraid that if I started talking about how I really felt, it would all burst out of me in an uncontrollable flood. ‘It’s just—’

I stopped; I had to because I was horrified to hear a telltale wobble in my voice. I could not speak my biggest fear aloud. Was I going to lose my mum?

‘Ow!’ Sangita suddenly shrieked, clapping a hand to her head. A large brazil nut had just bounced off her skull and landed in her lap. She whipped round and glared at the table behind us, where our great-uncle, Hardeep, was sitting with some of his young grandchildren.

‘Sorry, Gita,’ giggled Lakhbir, grinning all over his round, cheeky face. ‘Sushila’s trying to throw the nuts into my mouth, and she missed.’

‘Bloomin’ kids,’ Sangita muttered, rubbing her head. She turned back to me. ‘Dani, I know how difficult this is for you. No one’s expecting you to be thrilled about it.’

I glanced at the gaggle of elderly women, wrapped in white saris, sitting at the far end of the room. Their grey heads were bent close together. They hadn’t stopped gossiping to each other since the start of the day, and I could guess what they were talking about.

‘At least they’re enjoying themselves,’ I said bitterly.

‘Oh, don’t let them worry you,’ Sangita said, patting my arm. ‘It’s not their fault they’re still stuck in the nineteen fifties. Marriage was for life then, even if your husband turned out to be a mad axe murderer. Things are different now, even in India.’

‘I know,’ I sighed. ‘But everyone thought it was pretty bad when Mum and Dad got divorced four years ago. And now this …’

‘Not all arranged marriages work out,’ said Sangita wisely.

‘It was only sort of arranged,’ I told her. ‘Mum met Dad at college, and Nanniji and Nannaji liked him and his family so they said it was OK.’

Sangita put her head on one side, her loose dark hair swinging like a waterfall of straight, shining silk. ‘And now your mum’s marrying Ravi. He’s very good looking, but what’s he like?’

I thought about the man my mum had married an hour ago. I tried to be fair, even though I didn’t want to be.

‘He seems nice.’ It was lame, I knew. But what else could I say? I didn’t need a new dad. I have a perfectly good relationship with my own dad, thank you very much. It was the Easter holidays: I should have been in France, visiting Dad. Instead I was here, at my mum’s wedding.

‘What about Ravi’s daughter?’

‘Lalita?’ I shrugged, deliberately keeping my face blank. ‘I don’t know much about her except she’s the same age as me.’ I knew a bit more, but I didn’t want to talk about it. I knew that Lalita hadn’t seen her mum, who was an Englishwoman called Belinda, since she was about two years old, although I didn’t know why her mum had left and never come back. Lalita had been brought up by her dad and his mother. I bet the chattering grannies in the corner loved that one.

‘So you’re going to be one big happy family then?’ Sangita asked knowingly. ‘Ow!’ She clutched at her head as another oversized brazil nut clattered to the floor, and swung round. ‘Lakhbir!’

‘Er – sorry, putar,’ Great-uncle Hardeep said apologetically, holding his hands up. His round face, remarkably like Lakhbir’s, was pink with embarrassment beneath his festive blue turban. ‘That was me.’

I glanced at Sangita’s face and had to laugh.

‘He’s worse than the kids!’ Sangita said under her breath. ‘Oh, well, at least it made you smile, Dani.’

But my smile was already fading because I could see my mum coming towards us. I tried to keep it fixed to my face with sheer willpower, and could feel my mouth stretching into a fake grin.

Mum looked beautiful. She always did, but today she glowed, as if she was lit from inside. She’d debated whether to wear the traditional red sari or not, but as she’d worn that when she married my dad, she decided not to. Instead she’d chosen a turquoise sari embroidered with thousands of tiny crystal beads. Her hair was swept up and threaded with sweet-smelling, creamy flowers.

‘Dani, here you are.’ Her smile was wide but anxious. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

‘I wasn’t hiding,’ I said, trying not to sound defensive. With great tact, Sangita had turned away to talk to her mum, who was further down the table.

‘I know.’ Mum was trying not to sound accusing, and I felt my heart sinking. We’d always been close. Now there was a kind of barrier between us. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Sure.’ My voice was aggressive. Would I never get the balance right? ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

Mum slid her hand into mine and held it tightly. ‘Nothing’s going to change between us, Dani,’ she murmured softly. ‘I’ve told you that so many times.’

I couldn’t say a word because of the enormous lump which had wedged itself in my throat.

Everything’s changed. I have to share you with Ravi. We have to move in with him. I have to start a new school. And there’s Lalita. I don’t want a stepsister I hardly know …

I’d said all these things before, many times. Mum and I had talked and argued and yelled at each other. We’d hugged and cried on each other’s shoulders; we’d slammed doors and made silly threats. It hadn’t made any difference. Here we were, and Mum was married.

‘Meeta?’

Ravi appeared beside us, and as he took Mum’s other hand, I tried to fight a wave of resentment. Was this how it would be from now on? Would he always be butting in? I was aware that Sangita was glancing over at me, so I didn’t let what I was thinking show in my face.

‘I’ve come to warn you that the band want us to start the dancing off,’ Ravi went on teasingly to my mum. ‘Are you up for it?’

‘Of course,’ Mum replied with a special smile just for him. It was easy for me to see how she felt about him, and it was painful. But honestly, I really could understand why she’d fallen for him. He was tall, handsome, generous, kind and cheerful. So why didn’t I like him?

Ravi was looking at me now. He ran a finger round the inside of his shirt collar as if he was rather uncomfortable. ‘Are you all right, Dani?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I replied, just as politely. This was pretty much how we always talked to each other. Every time we speak, it’s like we’re strangers meeting for the first time. How are we going to cope with living in the same house?

Ravi swept Mum onto the dance floor, and everyone applauded as the band began murdering a love song from the film Kabhi Kabhie. I turned away to find Sangita watching me sympathetically.

‘Dani, if you want to talk—’ she began. Then she gave a great gasp. ‘Oh! There’s someone under the table!’

We pulled back the tablecloth and there was four-year-old Sushila, another of Great-uncle Hardeep’s grandchildren. Her face flushed with success, she’d grabbed hold of Sangita’s handbag and was crawling off with it.

‘Give that back!’ Sangita roared, dropping off the chair onto her knees. ‘It’s designer!’

‘Better get a move on,’ I advised as Sushila crawled off at speed towards the next table. ‘She’s got a head start.’

‘I’m never having kids,’ Sangita grumbled, hitching up her long pink lengha skirt and preparing to follow. ‘Remind me of that on my wedding day, Dani.’

‘That’s what Auntie Disha said,’ I remarked, ‘and now she’s got four.’

Sangita groaned and crawled off after Sushila. I was grateful to her for being sensitive to my feelings and offering to help. But there was only one person I really wanted to talk to. I went to find her.

Other people were joining Mum and Ravi on the dance floor. I threaded my way through them, resisting various attempts from relatives to grab my hands and pull me into the dance. As I crossed the room, I saw Lalita, Ravi’s daughter, sitting at a table with her gran.

Under cover of the dancers moving round me, I studied Lalita more closely. All the times we’ve met – mostly at Pizza Hut and Burger King and on trips to theme parks – and I’ve hardly got to know her at all. None of our outings had been wild sucesses, but they’d been fairly civilized. Flipping back through the pages of my diary, which I’ve been keeping for the last year or so, I’m amazed by how much I didn’t notice. How much I didn’t realize.

The last time Lalita and I met was when Mum and Ravi told us, a bit fearfully, that they were getting married.

‘You cannot be serious!’ Lalita had shouted. ‘You’ve only known each other for five minutes!’

She said all the things I was thinking too. It wasn’t until later that I found out that Mum had been seeing Ravi for about six months before she introduced me to him. She’d tried to explain that she knew it was going to be serious, but she hadn’t known how to tell me. I was grown up enough to realize that Mum and Ravi didn’t really know how to handle the situation, and were fumbling around helplessly, trying to do the right thing by everybody. But I wasn’t a grown-up. I was still a kid, wasn’t I? And I felt hurt and cheated and frightened of the future. I guess Lalita felt the same, and she wasn’t shy about showing it.

Now she was slumped sulkily in her chair, kicking at the table leg. She’s taller than me, slimmer, with light brown hair and blue eyes, which I suppose she gets from her mum.

A stepsister. I still can’t believe it. It’s like a fairy story. Or maybe a horror film. Dani vs the Evil Stepsister. Not that I really thought Lalita was evil, of course. A bit mean and selfish and a loudmouth maybe. Or perhaps she’s just brave enough to say all the things I’m thinking and feeling myself?

Her gran sat next to her. I didn’t like the look of her much either. She was tall, slim as a twig and elegant in a cream silk sari, but she seemed to have a permanently snooty look on her face. According to Mum, Lalita had been brought up by her gran, who wasn’t very pleased when Ravi and Lalita had moved away from Edinburgh down south so that Ravi could start his new job. (I wasn’t too pleased about it either: that was where Mum and Ravi had met, at the company where they both worked.) I guessed that Lalita’s gran was even more unhappy about Mum taking over as Lalita’s stepmother.

I had to go past their table, but I kept as far away from them I could. Even with the noise of the music though, I still caught a snatch of conversation.

‘Of course I’m not very happy about this marriage.’ Lalita’s gran shrugged her narrow shoulders, her dark eyes flashing. She wasn’t even trying to keep her voice down. ‘But what can I do about it? Ravi’s so stubborn – always has been, ever since he was a little boy …’

He’s lucky to get my mum. I longed to tell her that, but didn’t. I didn’t want Ravi and Mum to get married, but I did want things to work because of people like Lalita’s gran. I wanted Mum to be happy, but I didn’t want it to be with Ravi. I didn’t like Lalita, but I could understand exactly how she was feeling … I groaned silently. Would I ever manage to sort out the confusion that was doing my head in?

My nan was talking to some of our relatives. She had her back to me as I approached the table, but with that kind of sixth sense she seems to have, she swung round and saw me coming. She immediately got to her feet.

‘All right, putar?’

‘Kind of,’ I said in a low voice. ‘Well. Not really.’

Nan took my arm and led me over to a couple of empty chairs in the corner of the room. She sat me down and studied my face. Even though her black hair’s streaked with silver now, her dark eyes are still sharp and keen.

‘So what’s the problem, Dani?’ she asked, but went on without waiting for me to answer. ‘I think my diagnosis would be a severe case of down-in-the-dumps.’

‘Have you got a cure, Doctor Chadha?’ I asked glumly. Nan really is a doctor, but there wasn’t any kind of medicine in the world that could make me feel better today.

Nan nodded. ‘Time, patience and lots of love.’ She gave my hand a squeeze. ‘Things will sort themselves out. I know your mum wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t think it was going to be best for both of you.’

‘How can it be best for me?’ I muttered. ‘I don’t want to move house.’ Now there would be no more popping round every day to see Nan in the next street. I hate the idea of being a long bus ride away from her. I worry about her being on her own, ever since my granddad died a few years ago, although my mum’s sister, Auntie Disha, and her family live close by.

Nan sighed. ‘I know it’s hard, putar.’ She’s different to Lalita’s gran, rounder, shorter, smilier, just more comfortable. But there was a shadow in her eyes now. She hadn’t tried to talk Mum out of marrying Ravi, but I knew she wasn’t very happy about it either.

Loud shrieks of laughter made us both look up. On the dance floor Great-uncle Hardeep, like a turbanned Pied Piper, was leading a conga of children clasping each other’s waists. Baby Sushila was right at the end, struggling to keep up on her chubby little legs.

Nan rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. ‘Why does my brother never grow up?’ she said. ‘He’s always been the same!’

As we watched, Sushila stumbled and fell. The rest of the line conga’d off without her, and she opened her mouth to roar. But Ravi, who was nearest, quickly scooped her up and presented her with the white carnation from his buttonhole. Sushila’s round, adorable face broke into a dimpled smile.

‘Do you like him?’ I asked. I didn’t need to say who.

‘Ravi seems nice, but I know absolutely nothing about him.’ Nan shook her head, pursing her lips. ‘When your mum told me she’d met your dad, I found out everything I could about his family. I think I even knew their shoe sizes. Just to make sure he was a good boy.’

‘You should have been a detective, Nan,’ I said with a grin.

‘Go on with you. I know you’re going to say it didn’t make much difference in the end, anyway,’ Nan replied with a shrug. ‘They still got divorced.’

‘But Dad’s great,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s just that he and Mum are really different. You know what Dad’s like. He’s chilled out, he doesn’t take life that seriously. Mum needs someone she can rely on. Someone like—’ I stopped.

‘Someone like Ravi?’ Nan suggested gently. ‘Well, good luck to them. This time I’ve left Meeta to make her own decisions. Anyway, I don’t think your mum would give Ravi up even if I discovered he was—’

‘A mad axe murderer?’ I broke in.

‘Exactly.’ Nan nodded. ‘So how are you getting on with Lalita?’

‘Oh.’ I pulled a face. ‘I’m not.’

‘But you’re moving in with them,’ Nan said, her eyes searching my face keenly. ‘You’ll have to make an effort, Dani.’

‘Why?’ I asked sulkily. ‘She won’t.’

Nan clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘It’ll make the whole situation worse if you go into it with this attitude,’ she warned. ‘You have to try and get along.’

‘Like you’re doing with Lalita’s gran?’ I muttered. ‘I haven’t seen you speak to her all day.’

‘Don’t be a cheeky madam,’ Nan said sternly, wagging her finger at me. ‘I greeted her very warmly this morning when we met for the first time.’

‘And then kept out of her way as if she had the plague,’ I added.

Nan frowned at me, but didn’t argue. ‘It’s funny,’ she said, almost to herself, ‘but she reminds me of someone. I just can’t think who.’

‘Cruella De Vil?’ I suggested.

‘Danjit!’

I know I’ve gone too far when Nan calls me by my full name.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘But if Lalita doesn’t want me and Mum to move in, being friendly to her isn’t going to make any difference. And we’re going to be in each other’s faces all the time, now that we’re going to the same school as well.’

‘You are?’ Nan looked puzzled. ‘I thought your mum had agreed that you could stay at Oakfields because there weren’t any free places at Lalita’s school?’

‘There weren’t.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘But the headteacher, Mrs Bright, phoned yesterday and said that someone in Year Seven had left unexpectedly, so I could start after Easter. Mum never wanted me to stay at Oakfields anyway because it means getting two buses from Ravi’s house, so …’ My voice tailed off miserably. Staying on at my old school with all my friends, Amana, Tia and Charlotte, had been the one thing that was keeping me going. Now even that was being taken away from me.

‘Which school is it?’ asked Nan.

‘Coppergate Comprehensive.’

‘Coppergate!’ I wasn’t prepared for Nan’s reaction. She sat up in her chair, her eyes flying wide open. ‘The school in Banbury Road?’

I nodded, wondering why she was looking so interested.

‘I went there myself in the nineteen sixties,’ she explained. ‘Only it was called Coppergate Secondary Modern then.’

Surprised, I stared at her. Nan had told me lots of stories about her childhood. I knew she’d come to England from India with her mum and Hardeep in 1963 to join her father, who was already here. Nan had described the village they’d left behind in the Punjab; she’d told me about coming to England, studying hard, going to university, getting married and becoming a doctor. But she’d never mentioned Coppergate School before.

‘Nan, is that true?’ I asked, feeling quite thrilled. ‘You never said.’

‘No.’ For some reason, Nan’s initial excitement seemed to have faded very quickly. There was a bleak look on her face that I couldn’t quite understand. ‘I wasn’t there for very long, only a couple of years or so. We were living in a rented flat at the time; then my father bought a house in a different area and Hardeep and I had to change schools.’

‘But still’ – I beamed at her – ‘it’ll be great to go to the same school you did!’

Nan shook her head. ‘It’s not quite the same school,’ she explained. ‘The old building was knocked down quite recently. I think they built a new school just across the road.’

‘Oh.’ Now I was the one whose excitement was fading rapidly. It would have been fun to go to the same school as Nan. But although it had the same name, it wasn’t really the same at all. I felt a bit cheated.

Nan was staring across the room, but I didn’t think she was looking at anything or anyone in particular. There was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she’d gone inside herself. I patted her arm.

‘Nan?’

‘Sorry, Dani.’ She shook herself out of it and smiled. ‘You’ve just reminded me that I have something for you.’

I watched as she opened her handbag. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what she pulled out. In her hand was a thick, tattered exercise book with a blue cover. It was held together with sticky tape in several places.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘My diary.’ Nan handled the exercise book tenderly, as if it was something very precious. ‘I started it in nineteen sixty-three, the day my mum, Hardeep and I left the village to come to England to join my dad. I was twelve, just like you are, Dani.’

I stared eagerly at the exercise book. Nan had never mentioned it before and I’d had no idea it existed.

‘I began my diary on the day I started a new life,’ she went on. ‘And today you’re starting a new life too, Dani. I know you already keep your own diary, but maybe reading mine will help.’ She held it out to me. ‘I was going to give it to you later, but now seems a good time.’

‘Oh, Nan!’ I took the exercise book just as carefully as Nan had handled it herself, laid it on the table and flung my arms round her. ‘Thanks – I’m dying to read it!’

Nan returned my hug. ‘You’d better take a look inside,’ she suggested, eyes twinkling. ‘You may not be so keen then!’

I opened the covers. The thin white paper had yellowed over the years and it felt very fragile. Each page was covered in writing, the lines very close together.

‘Nan!’ I groaned. ‘It’s in Punjabi!’

‘Of course.’ Nan was trying not to smile but couldn’t help herself. ‘I could speak English in nineteen sixty-three, but my written English wasn’t very good.’

‘It’ll take me ages to work it out,’ I said with a sigh.

When I was young, Nan had insisted on speaking Punjabi to me whenever she could, and she’d taught me to write it too. I’d complained a few times that none of my Indian friends could write in Punjabi, even though they sometimes spoke it at home. But I hadn’t really minded. Nan had a way of making things fun, even learning the alphabet. My spoken Punjabi was good, but since I’d started at Oakfields, I’d had so much homework I didn’t have time to practise written Punjabi, so I knew translating Nan’s diary wasn’t going to be easy.

‘Well, it’ll be good practice for you,’ Nan replied with a satisfied chuckle. ‘Have you still got that Punjabi dictionary and grammar book I gave you?’

I nodded.

‘Good.’ She laid her hand gently on my head for a moment. ‘Now make yourself scarce, putar. I can see Mrs Garewal homing in on me like a heat-seeking missile, and you know what a busybody she is.’

I jumped up, clutching the diary, and kissed Nan quickly on the cheek. ‘Thanks,’ I whispered.

‘Oh, here you are, bhanji.’ Mrs Garewal, moving remarkably quickly for someone so rotund, zoomed over to nab my empty chair. ‘How are you? This must be such a sad day for you …’

I started backing away.

‘Not at all, bhanji,’ I heard Nan reply robustly. ‘Why should I be sad because my beti’s marrying such a nice young man?’

‘For the second time,’ Mrs Garewal riposted immediately.

‘Well, you know the old saying, “Third time lucky,” bhanji,’ retorted Nan. ‘That means Meeta’s got another chance if this one doesn’t work out.’

I grinned to myself as I slipped away. Good old Nan. She might not be very happy about this, but she wouldn’t let anyone know it. Especially not an interfering old busybody like Mrs Garewal.

The doors to the hall stood open, so I slipped outside into the car park. I could have gone back to join Sangita, but I wanted to keep Nan’s diary all to myself. As I smoothed the crumpled covers, I could hardly wait to start translating it. Even though I knew that Nan was growing up during the 1960s, to me it seemed as far away from today as ancient Egypt. All I knew about the sixties was The Beatles and mini-skirts.

I could see a patch of grass in the sun at the corner of the car park, so I headed over to it. I’d sit and look at the diary for a while. Maybe I could manage to work out a few sentences without the dictionary …

Then, to my dismay, as I wove my way between the cars, I saw Lalita right in front of me. She must have popped out to collect something from her dad’s black BMW, and now she was slamming the door and locking the car again. I didn’t have time to move away or hide because, in that split-second, she looked up and saw me.

We stared at each other in hostile silence.

‘Hello,’ I offered eventually.

Lalita glared at me as if I’d insulted her, her family and her whole way of life.

‘Shut up,’ she said through her teeth. ‘Don’t you get it? I don’t like you, I don’t want you moving into our house and I don’t want your mum to be my stepmother.’

‘And don’t you get it?’ I snapped, forgetting everything Nan had just said. ‘I don’t want those things either.’

‘I just want you to know’ – Lalita took a step towards me; I didn’t move, even though she’s much bigger than me – I wouldn’t give her that satisfaction – ‘that if there’s anything – anything – I can do to get rid of you and your mum, I will.’

With that, she brushed past me and went back into the hall.

So here I am, sitting in bed in Nan’s spare room, my diary on the duvet in front of me. Mum and Ravi are on their way to Italy on honeymoon. Lalita is staying with her gran. And that’s how it is for the next week until we all move in together. Just one big (un)happy family.

I can see it all now, and my heart can’t sink any further.

But I don’t want to think about all the problems which lie ahead. Instead I reach for Nan’s diary and open it at the first page …