Signs of Love: Stupid Cupid (5 page)

Will leans forward to meet her eye. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely.’ Barbara’s gaze doesn’t waver. She might not be the coolest chick in Green Park High, but I admire the way she makes no apology for what she thinks or
feels.

Will leans back with a shrug. ‘Whatever.’

‘Barbara, that sounds really great. I’m looking forward to reading it.’ Cindy makes a note on her clipboard then she turns to Will. ‘What have you got for us this
week?’

Will slowly crosses his legs. ‘Solid, fact-based prose as usual,’ he drawls. ‘I don’t want to bore you with the details.’

Cindy’s lips twitch. Drawing her perfectly plucked brows into a sympathetic frown, she reaches out and touches his knee. ‘Don’t worry, Will.’ Her voice is like syrup.
‘If it’s boring I can always brighten it up here and there when I edit.’

He swipes her hand away. ‘Don’t you dare!’ he snarls. ‘I don’t want it ruined by your frilly prose.’

‘Calm down, William.’ Cindy leans back, a slow smile on her lips. ‘Go on then, tell us what it’s about. We’re all
dying
to know.’

He fries her with a death stare. ‘Revision,’ he growls.

‘Ooh.’ Barbara claps her hands together. ‘How helpful. Do you give tips on how to revise more effectively?’

Will doesn’t even look at her. He’s still barbequing Cindy with flame-eyes but he can’t shift her smug grin. ‘It’s about the dangers of
over
-revising,’
he says. ‘I’ve quoted medical reports, specialist opinion and given case studies.’

‘Sounds fascinating.’ Cindy makes a leisurely tick on her clipboard. ‘I can hardly wait to read it.’

Will sits up, his face dark with menace. ‘What’s
your
piece about, Cinders?’

Cindy raises her chin. We’re glued to our seats like monkeys watching the gorillas fight.

‘I’ve written an
amazing
article on how certain foods are linked to ugliness.’

How certain foods are linked to ugliness!
Where does she get this nonsense? Will’s going to annihilate her.

He slides down in his chair and grins. ‘I knew you could eat yourself thin, but I didn’t know you could eat yourself pretty.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Cindy’s earnest now. ‘It’s totally up to us whether we’re pretty of not. A good diet is key to good looks. Too many carbs make you sallow and
jowly, while raw vegetables will give you the face and figure of a supermodel.’

I shrink behind my frothing curls. She must think I eat nothing but crusts.

Will folds his arms. ‘Perhaps you could give a PowerPoint presentation to the canteen staff,’ he suggests. ‘Green Park could do with a few supermodels.’

I scowl at him. Is that what it takes to get liked by him? Supermodel looks? If I ever have a boyfriend, he’s going to love me for my mind.

Who am I kidding?
I slump in my seat. It would be fantastic if boys thought I was stunning, despite my wildly curly hair and freckly nose.

‘It’s getting late.’ Sam glances at the clock. ‘Shall I tell you about my piece, then we can call it a day?’

Cindy tucks her hair behind one ear. ‘I was saving you till last, Sam,’ she says in her honey voice.

Sam rubs his palms on his knees. ‘I checked out a new band, the Raging Dwarves.’

Cindy sucks the end of her pen. ‘Cool.’

‘Great live band,’ he says. ‘Good atmosphere. And I made a list of this week’s top-ten MP3 downloads. Added a few comments.’ He runs his fingers through his hair.
‘Just my opinion. Everyone’s taste is different.’

‘Sounds great, Sam.’ Cindy’s too busy winding her pen round a stray tendril of silky hair to make a tick on her clipboard. ‘I’m sure our readers will love
it.’

Will grunts. ‘Sounds a lot better than your eat-fruit-look-cute piece.’

Cindy rounds on him, turning from gentle lamb to big bad wolf in a blink. ‘At least I don’t bore my readers using statistics to state the obvious. What are you working on next week,
Will? A well-researched piece that proves
some
boys are taller than
some
girls?’

Will rubs his nose. ‘Next week’s piece will blow you away, Cinders.’

‘Really, Will?’ Cindy narrows her eyes. ‘Why don’t you tell us about it?’

‘It’s secret.’

‘Is that because it doesn’t exist?’

‘Yes, it does.’

‘Prove it.’

‘I don’t have to prove anything to you.’

I sit up. My brain is whirring, this growling match could be the perfect opportunity to get myself upgraded from horoscopes. I give Will my best doe-eyed look. ‘Perhaps it’s
something I can help you with?’

He looks at me like I’m a monkey who just learned to talk. ‘
You
?’

It’s just the reaction I’d hoped for. I look appealingly at Cindy, pleased to see her eyes flash. I knew it, she’s not going to miss this chance to sabotage Will.

‘What a splendid idea, Gemma.’

She’s taken the bait. I hold on to my chair, swallowing back excitement. The deal’s not sealed yet.

Will’s staring at me. ‘How can
she
help
me
?’

I stare back, my smile fixed.

‘She’s our editorial assistant,’ Cindy reminds him. ‘Helping out is what she’s here for.’

I brace myself for Will’s reply when the door opens and Mr Harris peers round. ‘Oh good,’ he says happily. ‘You’re still here. Just thought I’d check in to
see how it’s all going. Are we on track for the next edition?’

‘Cinderella over there wants me to let a Year Nine help out with my next article,’ Will complains.

Cindy looks up at Mr Harris warmly. ‘It’ll be such good experience for Gemma,’ she gushes. ‘I know she’s been dying for a chance to get involved in a more serious
way.’

Mr Harris nods approvingly. ‘What a great idea.’ He smiles at me. ‘Are you up for it, Gemma?’

‘Oh, yes!’ I know I’m just a banana Cindy’s hurling at Will, but I don’t care. If it lands me a real assignment, it’s worth it.

‘OK, then.’ Mr Harris turns to Will. ‘I’m sure you’ll find Gemma a great asset.’

Will’s knuckles are white as he clutches the edges of his chair. ‘OK, Mr Harris,’ he mutters through clenched teeth.

‘Good, good.’ Mr Harris glances round the room. ‘Well it seems like you have everything under control, Cindy. Anything else I can help with?’ he asks distractedly.

‘No, thank you, Mr Harris.’ Cindy’s nice as pie.

‘Good, good.’ Mr Harris withdraws, shutting the door. I thank whichever god sent him.

‘Excellent.’ Cindy snaps the agenda off her clipboard. ‘I think that’s enough for today.’

I half expect Will to lunge forward and throttle her but he just grabs his bag and stomps out.

As the rest of the team start shrugging on their jackets and grabbing their bags, I freeze in my seat. My stomach feels suddenly hollow.

What have I done? I’m helping Will on a serious article!

The dark shadow of failure looms over me like a threatening storm. What if I mess it up and prove that I’m not good enough for anything but horoscopes?

‘Get down!’ Will’s hiss echoes round the darkened warehouse.

I duck down beside him, sheltering behind a row of metal barrels. Peering through the midnight gloom, I can just make out a van.

Two burly men are pushing a group of huddled men and women into the back.

‘These are the vans that drive them to mushroom caves,’ Will whispers.

‘And this happens
every
night?’ I take my reporter’s notebook from my pocket.

It’s an imaginary notebook of course. In the real world. I’m dunking spag-bol-stained plates into washing-up water. But, in my head, I’m helping Will expose a dangerous gang of
human traffickers.

‘Every night.’ Will slides a mini video cam out of his pocket. ‘I’ve been staking this place out for a week. It’s the same story. Those men herd the immigrants on
to a bus, drive them to the mushroom caves for a night’s harvesting, then bring them back at dawn.’

I grab a saucepan and plunge it into the warm soapy water. Gloopy pasta is stuck on the bottom. As I attack it with my scrubber, a loud clang booms through the shadowy warehouse. The men have
slammed the van doors shut. They swing up into the cab and rev the engine. Petrol fumes sting my nose.

I scrub at the sticky rim of the pan, then hold it under the cold tap, watching the bubbles rinse down the plughole.

Wheels screech on wet concrete and the van hares out of the half-opened door at the far end.

‘Come on.’ Will ducks out from behind the barrels. ‘We don’t have much time.’

I gaze in the washing-up bowl, glazing over as I watch rainbow pools of grease float past fast-dying bubbles.

Water’s dripping from the rafters high above our heads. I hurry after Will, heart hammering, as we run the length of the warehouse, splashing through oily puddles.

‘In here.’ Will zigzags between steel pillars to a wire mesh staircase, then starts to climb, his footsteps clanging on the metal steps.

I follow, breathless by the time we reach the top and head along a walkway high above the ground.

I grope for cutlery at the bottom of the washing-up bowl. As I poke at spaghetti, gunked between the fork prongs, Will edges toward a steel-clad room built in among the rafters.

He pauses at the metal door. ‘I can’t hear anyone.’

I take a torch from my pocket and hand it to him. ‘You might need this.’

‘Good thinking, Gem,’ he whispers and steps across the threshold.

I reach behind me for the frying pan that’s still on the hob, and dunk it into the water.

Will flicks on my torch. Its beam lights up the floor, highlighting a jumble of sleeping bags, clothes and blankets.

I gasp. ‘How many people sleep in here?’

Will shrugs. ‘Between twenty and thirty.’

The air is thick and hot, and the smell of stale sweat makes me feel sick.

‘Give me the torch,’ I tell Will. ‘Then you can video.’

Will starts to tape what we’re seeing. I can’t wait to publish this.

‘Over there.’ He nods toward a corner, to a stinking bucket.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

‘Toilet.’

The phone rings and I nearly crack a plate as it shatters my fantasy.

‘Can you get that, Gem?’ Mum calls from the living room.

‘Yeah!’ I wipe my hands on my jeans and answer it.

‘Hello?’

‘Gemma!’ It’s Treacle. She sounds worried.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Facebook!’ she squeaks. ‘Why haven’t you changed your status?’

‘My
status
!’ A blush washes over me like a tidal wave. After all the excitement and worry of landing an actual assignment, I’d completely forgotten I hadn’t
changed my status from ‘Marcus Bainbridge’! ‘I’ll ring you back in ten!’ I hang up and race for the living room.

Ben’s snuggled on the sofa beside Mum, pyjama-ed and physio-ed, puffing on his nebulizer. Dad’s snoring in an armchair, head lolling, mouth open. He worked an extra shift today.

I whisk past them, haring for the desk in the corner and turn on the computer.

‘Is everything OK?’ Mum looks up, alarmed.

‘Gotta change my Facebook status!’ I slither the mouse back and forth on the desk, hoping to make the computer hurry up. It’s taking longer than it does to wake up than Dad on
a Sunday morning. ‘Why do we have such an old PC!’ The desktop icons slowly flash as the processor drags itself out of sleep mode and tries to get with the program.

‘Sorry, love.’ Mum shakes her head sympathetically. ‘It’s next on the list after Ben’s new nebulizer.

I instantly feel bad for moaning. The compressor on his current one is on its last legs. I can hear the poor old pump now, whining now as it struggles to push air into the nebulizer chamber
– air that will turn Ben’s medication into a mist he can breathe. If it breaks altogether we’ll have to get the foot pump out and take it in turns till Dad’s worked enough
shifts to buy a new one, so it’s way more important that we get a new nebulizer than a flashy PC.

I slide into the desk chair and navigate to Facebook in two clicks and login.

There it is: my status.

Marcus Bainbridge.

I feel sick.

There are fourteen new comments underneath it.

I hope he gets the message xxx
Lauren Allerton.

Look out, Marcus, you’re a marked man ;)
Josh Carter.

Hey, Gem. Have you been leaving me out of the gossip loop??!!
Sally Moore.

<3 <3 <3 <3 Ryan Edwards.

I slowly lower my head and quietly bang my forehead on the desk.

‘What’s up, love?’ Mum’s looking round.

‘Facebook disaster,’ I sigh.

‘Can I help?’ she asks.

I shake my head without even lifting it off the smooth pine. ‘I’ll sort it.’ I take a deep breath and sit up. Clicking in a fresh, uncontaminated status box, I start to type. I
decide to act causal.
Oops. Silly mistake
. Was searching for Marcus and accidentally made him my status. LOL
.