Chapter 14
Alison eyed the Mars Bar with longing before forcing herself to turn away from the confectionery shelf.
All day she’d been attacked by the sights and smells of delicious food at the petrol station.
She’d been on a bakery shift that morning, and could still smell the sausage rolls and delicious sweet pastries from that section of the shop.
Now she was working an extra shift to cover a colleague so there was no escape. It was enough to make her want to weep.
If she’d had second thoughts about sharing the caravan with Rosie they’d quickly been dispelled – firstly by her parents’ delight that she was going to be living so close to them for the next three months, and secondly by the pleasant surprise she’d received when she’d tentatively stepped into the caravan.
‘Oh, wow!’ She’d gazed around in surprise, noting how clean and tidy and spacious it was. There was a large open-plan kitchen, dining room and living room, complete with a proper sofa and armchairs, a large television on the wall, and a stylish fireplace with a pebble-effect electric fire.
‘Dishwasher,’ Rosie had said, proudly pointing it out. ‘Bet you never expected that, did you?’
Alison hadn’t, nor had she remembered the impressive cooker and hob, the beautiful ivory kitchen units with beech worktops, the double-glazed windows and the proper domestic radiators that indicated a fully functioning central heating system. No wonder the caravan felt so warm and welcoming.
‘This is lovely, Rosie,’ she’d said, gazing round in admiration. Bathed in lamplight and the glow from the fire, the caravan felt snug and cosy.
Rosie beamed at her. ‘Come and see the rest of it.’
The shower room had a large, walk-in shower, and plenty of room to move around in, which wasn’t something Alison had expected. There was even a heated towel rail. Rosie’s bedroom had its own en suite which, although small, suited Rosie perfectly well.
‘You can have the bigger shower room,’ she said generously. ‘I’m fine in this one.’
‘Are you sure?’ Alison asked doubtfully. ‘It seems a bit unfair.’
Rosie had given her a worried look. ‘Well, it’s a sort of trade off. You haven’t seen your bedroom yet.’
‘Ah.’
To be fair, it wasn’t a bad size, and at least the two single beds, separated by a bedside cabinet, were full-size ones, and not the usual caravan bunk-style beds that Alison had seen on the rare occasions she’d holidayed in a caravan.
There was a single wardrobe at the end of the room, along with a tiny chest of drawers.
‘I know it’s not exactly huge,’ Rosie had said worriedly.
‘It’s fine,’ Alison assured her. ‘It’s only for three months, after all. Anyway, I’ll only really use it for sleeping in so how big does it need to be?’
Rosie nodded, relieved. ‘I mean, there’s always the sofa if you’d prefer…’
‘God, no! With us both coming and going with our shifts I’d never get a wink of sleep. No, I’m fine tucked away in here. Thanks, Rosie. It’s perfect.’
Well, Alison reflected, as she restocked a shelf in the chiller cabinet with cans of cola, not perfect perhaps, but certainly much better than she’d anticipated.
It really hadn’t taken her long to feel at home in the caravan, thanks to Rosie’s thoughtful gestures – not least the journal she’d presented Alison with that first night.
‘Okay, so you know I like to keep a journal,’ she’d said, as they’d settled themselves on the sofa in their pyjamas, mugs of tea in their hands as they’d valiantly resisted hot chocolate.
‘Oh, do you?’ Alison had grinned. ‘You never mentioned.’
Rosie was obsessed with her journal. She wrote everything in it and decorated it beautifully with washi tape and stickers, torn pages from her favourite books (Alison almost cried in horror at the thought of it, though Rosie assured her she only ever used tatty old second-hand copies), bits of ribbon and lace, old greetings cards and anything else that took her fancy.
What started as a fairly standard-sized – albeit stunningly beautiful – journal had ended up twice the thickness, so crammed full were its pages.
‘Well,’ Rosie said, ignoring the sarcasm, ‘I got you a gift.’
She handed Alison a rather classy-looking cardboard box. Inside, under a layer of tissue paper, lay a pale blue hardback journal, embossed with silver waves. Its pages were thick and appealing, just waiting to be written upon.
‘Got you these, too,’ Rosie said, and handed Alison a bag which contained a whole assortment of stickers, washi tapes and other bits and bobs. ‘Just spare ones,’ she explained. ‘I thought they’d do to start you off, and when you’ve got into it you can buy ones that really speak to you.’
‘Oh, Rosie,’ Alison breathed, ‘they’re lovely. This journal – it’s absolutely gorgeous. But what am I supposed to do with it? You know me. I’ve never been one for arts and crafts.’
‘I thought this could be your three-month diary of your time in Kelsea Sands. You could use it to chronicle Project Alison! Write about what happens every day. Maybe make your own weight loss chart, so you can colour in a square for every day you manage to stick to your diet. Write down your thoughts, and how you’re feeling about everything.
And you can stick things in it that reflect your mood. Whatever you like.’
She scrabbled in the bag and lifted out some of the washi tapes for her cousin to admire.
‘Whenever you get peckish – especially on evenings cos we all know what a hard time that is when you’re on a diet – you can take out your journal and start decorating a page or two.
Honest, it’s so absorbing that you forget all about food! Trust me.’
She paused, giving Alison a worried look. ‘Do you like it? You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. I won’t be offended.’
Alison reached over and hugged her cousin. ‘It’s perfect! Just what I need to keep Project Alison on track.’
Though so far, she thought now, as she stacked the last of the cola cans in the cabinet, her journal entries hadn’t been anything like what Rosie probably imagined. There was nothing positive or exciting written on the pages yet. She could remember the first entry with depressing clarity:
Sunday 1 February – Project Alison Day 1: Messaged Jenna to tell her I was staying with Rosie for the foreseeable and to send my love to the twins. She didn’t reply.
She’d toyed with the idea of messaging again, telling her daughter that she’d be happy to take the girls to Kelsea Sands to see the family if she would like her to, but Rosie had warned her that if she did, she might find herself back at square one before she knew it.
Jenna could be very persuasive. Worse than that, though, was the possibility that Jenna would repeat what Joel had said and tell her she wasn’t allowed contact with the girls.
That would make it all too real and too upsetting.
Monday 9 February – Project Alison Day 9: Visited Mam and Dad.
Dad’s done an online quiz to see which Doctor Who monster he’d be.
Apparently, he’s a Slitheen. They’re very flatulent according to the description.
He’s bitterly disappointed and says the results are fixed because it should be obvious to everyone that he’d be a Dalek.
Yes, that had literally happened. Mam had thrown up her hands in despair and said, ‘He doesn’t even watch Doctor Who! What’s wrong with him?’
Wednesday 11 February – Project Alison Day 11: Went to work early for the bakery shift. Lifting those cinnamon buns out of the oven made me want to cry. Treated myself to two cherry tomatoes.
Should have got a medal for that, she thought, heading back to the till where someone was waiting to be served. Ignoring a cinnamon bun! When she wrote that entry tonight she’d add a gold star sticker. She deserved it for her restraint.
Oh no! There were two bags of crisps and a big bar of chocolate on the counter. She swallowed hard, sure that the customer would hear her stomach growl with longing.
‘Are you paying for petrol, too?’ she asked, without even glancing up at the greedy swine who was about to stuff his face with all those treats.
‘Alison?’
She raised her face and stared in horror into the eyes of Ian MacMillan.
At least, her mother was convinced he was Ian MacMillan, and this was certainly the man who’d been standing in The North Star, his arms full of foil containers, staring in bewilderment as her entire family had gawped back at him. And he knew her name.
‘Ian?’
He smiled. ‘Wow! Sam said it was you. So nice to see you again. I heard you were living here in Hull.’
‘Mm. Yeah. I heard you were back in Kelsea Sands.’
Was it her imagination or did his smile waver? ‘Yes, that’s right. After all this time.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And yes, I’m paying for petrol. Pump number three.’
She nodded and rang up his purchase, including the goodies that were lying there so tempting on the counter.
‘I thought you were a teacher?’ he asked, sounding puzzled. ‘I’m sure Mum said—’
‘Yes, I was. I left the profession and now I work here.’
She could see he was curious about why someone would leave teaching to work in a petrol station, but she wasn’t about to offer him any explanation. It was none of his business anyway.
‘That’s twenty-six pounds thirty with the petrol. Do you want a carrier bag?’ she asked, nodding at the chocolate and crisps.
His face went a little pink as he tapped his debit card on the reader. ‘Yes, please. Awful, isn’t it? I shouldn’t be eating this junk, but I do like to have something in the cupboard if I’m peckish. Truth is, I’m the world’s worst cook.’
Despite herself, Alison smiled. ‘That’s what you think. I could challenge you for the title.’ She dropped the crisps and chocolate into a carrier bag and handed it to him, along with his receipt. ‘You know,’ she murmured, ‘you could have got all that a heck of a lot cheaper in a supermarket.’