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Candy and the Broken Biscuits
Lauren Laverne
A fabulously funny Rock Chick -lit series for teens from uber-cool celeb Lauren Laverne. Tune in for a hyper-real rollercoaster ride to Glasto and beyond!Candy Caine is fifteen years old and she's on a mission: to escape dullsville! Candy knows she's destined for bigger things and is determined to leave boring small town Bishopspool and make it big in the music business. Oh – and find BioDad, her real dad, who will most definitely be cool and, of course, will verify her very own specialness (of which she is secretly convinced).With the help of a battered old guitar and her Fairy Godbrother, Candy and her bandmates will attempt to make it in the star-studded, crazy world of rock and roll! Hilarious adventures from the witty pen of cooler-than-cool debut author Lauren Laverne.
Candy Pop
Candy and the Broken Biscuits
Lavren Laverne
To Graeme, Fergus and Dot, who put the song in my heart
I’m on the Pyramid Stage at the festival. In eight bars (thirteen and-a-bit seconds) my band is going to smash into our biggest, loudest, most stupidly catchy single yet. The crowd will jump so high, so fast, the field below us will shake. Lights will flash like the sky is on fire. People will spring out of the throng – sea spray crashing against rocks in a storm. I turn to Hol, she’s on bass and coming in first. She starts playing…the wrong notes. DUN DUN DUN DUGGA DUN-DUN! What the hell is that?
ICE, ICE BABY…
Vanilla Ice. Mum singing along. The dribble-dribble of the shower. Experimentally, I raise one eyelid. Pale, cold sunshine pours in like vinegar eye drops. As I suspected: I’m alive. It’s today. Unfortunately I’m still me.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#uf0f16683-22a8-5a87-9943-2af6548cea39)
Title Page (#uc1c8534a-7c68-528d-b887-a4aeea9c8713)
Dedication (#u550a397c-2838-59bf-ba9d-81985a4a89fd)
Epigraph (#u268dd323-92f8-5399-9f60-75fad204ce33)
1 Their Bloody Valentine (the Morning After) (#u5e603813-6b06-5729-903d-c121c6e4d5c1)
2 Gladly (#u0e405ac6-4a9f-52c7-a0b7-49f297edcb17)
3 Operation Awesome (#uee8f205f-2a56-51b7-9d2e-f0752e707757)
4 The Beast and the Godbrother (#u4363fd84-e331-542e-942e-83bf152bc545)
5 Squashed Bananas and Stew (#u4e9b574f-2383-5252-b95e-faaab338683d)
6 The Magic Bus (Stop) (#u3de1d4ef-cfbe-5857-953d-d977c3db3c79)
7 Bravery, Cunning and Feats of Daring Do (#uaa3f21db-3b22-5947-bfd8-617ea20b58d4)
8 Operation Who’s the Daddy? (#litres_trial_promo)
9 Bus Girl, the Dream Boat and Pants Stain (#litres_trial_promo)
10 5-4-3-2-1…Blast Off! (#litres_trial_promo)
11 Wrecked (#litres_trial_promo)
12 Queen Candy and the Court of the Insane (#litres_trial_promo)
13 The Broken Biscuits Come Together (#litres_trial_promo)
14 This Just In (#litres_trial_promo)
15 Finding the Wow (#litres_trial_promo)
16 G-Day (#litres_trial_promo)
17 Inge Rhabarbermarmalade (#litres_trial_promo)
18 Like No Business I Know (#litres_trial_promo)
19 R41N N8N (#litres_trial_promo)
20 Jugs and Melons (#litres_trial_promo)
21 Found, Still Lost (#litres_trial_promo)
22 The Wierdest Family Reunion Ever (#litres_trial_promo)
23 Living Your Dreams, Enjoying Your Nightmares and L-O-V-E (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1 Their Bloody Valentine (the Morning After) (#ulink_003805f2-ce00-5b36-abc0-a73778fd3163)
Hello. I’m Candy Caine (I know. I know. Didn’t name myself, did I?) Bit of an odd moment to meet, but since my life isn’t about to get any awesomer (and it isn’t, It’s Monday) I suppose it’s as good as any.
Here I am in bed, seven-eighths obscured by my ancient Forever Friends duvet cover, hair exploding from the top of my head like a firework. A brown firework. My eyes are screwed up, as if I can somehow stop the day from starting by not being able to see it. The duvet cover of shame matches the too-short curtains on the window above my bed. One of Mum’s exes put them up when I was seven. That’s nearly half my life ago, people. Dave I think he was called. Or maybe Clive? There was a -VE somewhere in there. Anyway he’s long gone, but his rubbish DIY is still here, in my bedroom, although his teddy-bear curtains are now framed by hundreds of pictures of my favourite bands. I also have a clear view through the gap, out of the window and up into the freezing blue sky. Gulls scream and circle overhead, delighted by the prospect of another day scavenging old chips and bits of kebab off the seafront.
I’m not slagging my home town off. Bishopspool is pretty much your average seaside settlement: small, cold and (I think) beautiful, tucked in beside the unfathomable depths of the sea. We only really ended up here because Mum “stuck a pin in a map” when she left London. So here we are. And it’s…fine.
Reluctantly, I roll myself up to a sitting position before staggering over to the wardrobe, pins still wobbly and sleep-drunk. My extremely un-fetching maroon school uniform is hanging up, all scratchy and angry-looking. The thought of putting it on is about as inviting as swapping clothes with my maths teacher (and I’m including underwear in that).
It’s not just the uniform, though. For me, school is like being forced to play a really complicated contact sport where nobody’s told you the rules and everybody else is on the other team. So you’ll excuse me if I don’t get totally jazzed about it. All the same, I am basically a Good Girl (check my report, it says “bright, tends to daydream”) so after drizzling myself clean under our no-power shower, I slip into my uniform’s polyester embrace, ready for another six-point-five-hours of academic excellence and hearty banter with my classmates. Can’t wait.
If it weren’t for my best mate Holly (and Mum I suppose) I’d probably have stopped going to school by now. She’s the only other sane person in Bishopspool. Holly, I mean, not Mum. Mum’s as mad as a frog in a sock.
Speaking of which, I’m leaving my attic room at the top of our rickety seafront-house, the bottom floor of which is Mum’s business – a beauty salon called The Cutie Parlour (you see what she’s done there?) – when I hear her giggling and, is that…singing?
“Ice ice BABY! Ice ice BABY!!!” Insane laughter (told you). A man’s voice joins in.
Oh no – Ray. That’s put me off my cornflakes already. He must have stayed over last night (after their special Valentine’s Day dinner. Ick).
Ray Hoppings is Mum’s latest boyfriend. Ray is a life coach. What this involves, I couldn’t tell you, although I have a mental image of him following people around the supermarket while they do their weekly shop yelling, “GO FOR IT! WAY TO SELECT CARROTS!” like a football coach at the side of the pitch.
I have actually heard him refer to himself as (DIRECT quote) “Bishopspool’s answer to Paul McKenna”. Paul McKenna! Ray can’t even hypnotise people! I asked him about it once and he said, “I can hypnotise myself” like that was in any way remotely cool. Maybe he’s hypnotised himself not to realise what a total dofus he is.
Opening the kitchen door, I am greeted – even by Our House standards – by an unusual scene. Mum, resplendent in her pink fifties-style salon coat-dress and heels (she’s a dresser-up) is dancing around the kitchen with Ray. In her free hand she’s holding a spatula, on the hob there’s a frying pan, eggs and bacon sizzling away. They’re both still singing Ice Ice Baby. Suddenly Mum shimmies back a few feet and then actually RUNS towards him. Ray holds his arms out. She leaps! And in one Dirty Dancing move, he hoists her into the air before spinning them both round, placing her gently down in front of the oven and kissing her on the cheek.
“Ahem.” Seriously. I can’t think of anything else to say.
“Candy! Morning darling!” says Mum, flustered. “We were just…celebrating! Sit down. I’m making us a proper breakfast.”
Then I notice our big old kitchen table. The usual mess of glossy mags and science-lab salon stuff have been replaced by a smart checked tablecloth, a teapot, knives, forks and actual alive flowers in a vase. Something is clearly up.
“Celebrating what?” I ask, pulling out a chair and easing myself into it.
“It’s a beautiful day!” Ray chirps, setting down a plate of toast. “On a day like this, anything could happen! Dreams could come true! Maybe they already have…” He looks over to Mum, who gazes back gooily. Ick.
“Celebrating what?”
Still humming that appalling Vanilla Ice song, Mum is dishing up slightly burned eggs and bacon with her back to me. She picks up two plates and plonks them down with a flourish on the table. As she lifts her hand away I notice a flash. There – gleaming and glistening on her fourth finger. Left hand. Ice Ice Baby. Oh no.
I feel the shock register on my face before it hits my chest. My eyes widen, my jaw drops open. Mum swoops down into the chair next to me and leans over to give me a huge squeeze of a hug. Beaming her beautiful, perfect-lipstick smile she clasps my hand in hers. Ray is saying something.
“…have decided to take our relationship to the next level…”
They’re getting married.
“…truly make a lifetime commitment…be a family…create something non-traditional but special…”
Oh. My. God.
Ray is still talking but I’m not taking in the words. I pull my hand from Mum’s grasp and drop it into my lap where it lies uselessly by the other one. For a moment I imagine them growing, superhero-style, to ten times their size, lifting Ray up and throwing him out of the kitchen window.
“Candy? Isn’t it wonderful news?”
It’s Mum.
“We’re so excited, darling! I know this will be a big change for you, for all of us, but it’s going to be wonderful! Like Ray says. We can be a family.” She’s holding my hand again, and Ray hers. For a second we look exactly as she wants us to.
“Mum, I’m fifteen! What’s he going to do – adopt me? Walk me to school? Dress up as Santa at Christmas?”
Mum’s smile falters. “I don’t mean that, Candy.” She looks at Ray. “Ray loves me. And you. He wants to be…part of your life. Maybe like a dad, maybe more like a friend. Is that so terrible?”
I can’t believe this. There were always Rays. Rays, Daves, Larrys, lans, Johns, Toms, Harrys and (total) Dicks. They might have stayed for a while but they were always THEM. We were US. And this is Our House. Suddenly I feel like a visitor.
Ray clears his throat.
“Candy, science has demonstrated that human beings only use twenty per cent of their brains. Did you know that?”
I sulk harder, wishing he’d only use twenty per cent of his mouth.
“Before I met your mother, I was using only a fraction of my emotional capacity. But Maggie makes me the best me I can be. In terms of happiness, I am at saturation levels.”
He pauses, allowing us to absorb the full impact of his wisdom. I look straight at my mum. She can’t seriously want to marry this guy.
“I don’t…I don’t know what to say, Mum.”
“Candy darling, Ray loves me and I love him! Don’t you want me to be happy? Don’t you think I deserve that?” She starts breathing a bit hard and I know she is trying to stop herself crying. I look at the clock – eight fifty. Clients in ten minutes. She doesn’t have time to re-do her makeup, so we can’t have an argument now.
“It’s all right, Maggie.” Ray puts his arm around her and leans in, touching his head to hers. Puke. “Candy’s entitled to her feelings.” He turns back to me, every inch the reasonable dad at the family meeting, dealing with the inexplicably moody child. I obviously must have missed the meeting where anybody asked whether I actually wanted to be in this family.
“Well we’d better get going. Start of a new day. Come on love.”
He gestures to Mum, who is still too busy concentrating on not getting upset to actually say anything.
Mum has this thing called “poise”. She developed it years ago, working as a model. It’s the knack of walking into any room as if it’s her surprise birthday party, no matter what kind of day she’s having. Another gift of hers I have not inherited, along with unbreakable nails and consistently obedient hair.
Shaking her shoulders out slightly, Mum adopts her delighted-you-could-make-it expression. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it. She places her twinkling left hand on my shoulder and leans in close.
“Candy. Darling, I love you. Both. Please, please try to be happy for us. If you can’t just yet then give it some time to sink in? It’s a big change, I know.” She stands up and they leave together. Be happy for us. The new us. One without me.
2 Gladly (#ulink_7a9b05ae-9a61-51b9-948a-854cb33623e7)
I don’t remember much about the next ten minutes. All I know is, by nine o’clock that morning I am sitting on the step of the East Bishopspool Pensioners’ Day Centre under an empty blue sky. Believe it or not an OAP club down at the old docks is the only place I can think of going this morning. Yes, I’m that cool. There’s nobody around but I turn the collars of my school blazer up anyway to make it look less like I’m wearing my uniform, in case anyone spots me. Do people still call the police about truanting? They might call the taste police, in which case I’m stuffed. Guilty of possession of aubergine polyester.
Hurry up, Glad.
I’ve never skived off school before. The world looks weird, like it’s the wrong colour or something. I’m freezing and starving. Why couldn’t we have had all this upset after breakfast?
Where is Glad, anyway? She’s always here first. You know what old people are like for timekeeping – fifteen minutes early for everything. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep I look out of my bedroom window at the seafront about 6am and there are old guys out there. Why are they up so early? It’s not like they’ve got work or a train to catch.
The sudden crunch of enormous wheels approaching accompanied by a rapid crescendo of ear-bleedingly loud hip hop pulls me back into the present. Hurtling down the deserted road towards me is a tank-sized 4X4. Its windows are completely blacked out, indistinguishable from its gleaming inky frame. The music inside pulses louder, the throbbing track turned up just loud enough to make it indecipherable.
It’s pulling up. Someone inside kills the music. The black door zzziipps open with that exhalation sound spaceships make in films. I scramble upright. Have I stumbled into the middle of the weirdest drug deal ever? (I’ll meet you at the OAP club at 9.) Somebody is getting out of the car.
The tinted windows and glossy black door make it impossible to see anything apart from their feet.
Plop!
A little sausagey leg with a white plimsoll squashed on to the end lands on the ground, quickly joined by another one – apparently their owner is short enough to have to actually jump out of the car.
Scccrrriick! A familiar walking stick joins the sausage-legs. Little metal coats of arms are screwed into its length, indicating that whoever it is might need a bit of help, but still gets out and about on her travels, thanks very much.
Glad.
“Thanks for the lift, Calum!” she trills, sounding (as always) like a little Scottish cockatiel. The door swings open and a large square white plastic handbag appears, attached to an elderly lady of similar dimensions. “Candy! What on earth are you doing here, lassie? In the name o’ God! You’re freezing! Aren’t you supposed to be at school? Something’s happened – what is it now? An argument with your mother again? You’re as bad as each other, that’s the trouble. That’s it, Calum, just down there, I’ll get the door open…”
Without pausing for or expecting any kind of response, Glad reaches into the cavernous depths of her white bag and produces a huge prison-warden-style bunch of keys. As she immediately selects the right one from the bunch I recognise the driver of the car for the first time. Calum Stainforth. I sort of remember him from school. We all do. I mean, he was one of the wildest pupils in his year. Legend has it that he was eventually expelled for releasing not one but two dogs slap bang into the middle of his English Lit GCSE exam. Nobody knows how he got them in there, but the resultant chaos was so intense that Miss Aitken who was invigilating, had to have a fortnight off and some tablets from the doctor for her nerves. Since then Calum has been trying to make a name for himself as the baddest bad boy MC in Bishopspool. It is somewhat at odds with this precise moment. Calum has removed a fully-stocked tea trolley replete with cups, saucers, teaspoons and two urns from the back of the 4X4. He pushes it along in as manly a fashion as possible, towards the Day Centre. Two saucery-eyes peer out from deep within his hoodie. They meet mine and he stops dead.
“Hey,” I say.
“All right?” he mumbles, not waiting long enough for an answer, then presses on towards the door, with his head bowed even lower than it already was.
