and together we will – BEEP
BEEP BEEP-BEEP—
BEEEEEEPPPPP
Blinking, I stare at the hand reaching towards me.
‘You want toppings on this?’ the BOY continues, yawning through his nostrils. ‘We got chocolate sauce and chocolate sprinkles. Strawberry sauce and nuts, but that’s extra. Or butterscotch sauce or toffee sauce. Chocolate flakes are extra too, so are toffee pieces and –’
I sigh. He’s getting this script all wrong.
A few seconds ago, I was the romantic heroine poised to run away with my true soulmate – now I appear to be in a meeting with Willy Wonka’s accountant. As usual, I infinitely prefer my version.
‘Yes, please –’ I smile sweetly as the car behind me starts beeping its horn again. ‘Actually … never mind. Plain is just fine.’
‘That’s one pound thirty, then.’
Smiling harder so my dimples show, I hand the money across while gazing over the counter as intensely as possible, using all my advanced actressing skills to communicate complex, award-winning emotions.
The BOY stares back. ‘You’re ten pence short.’
‘Whoops!’ My eyelashes must have been fluttering too fast to see properly. ‘Here you go.’
Our fingertips touch lightly and I stare at them, waiting for a flash of light, a few sparkles, maybe a bit of casual levitation. Up close, his fingernails have a thin line of black under each one, there are bright red spots marking his cheeks and his apron has melted chocolate smeared on it. Although I’m actually in black jeans and a neon cropped jumper – and it looks like it’s about to start raining – so reality isn’t exactly doing either of us a favour.
But there’s definitely Potential. I just need to harness this new cinematic direction – fast.
‘So,’ I say as the car horn starts blaring again, ‘what’s your star si—’
‘HOPE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE LOOKING FOR A TOILET! DO YOU HAVE CONSTIPATION OR WHAT? GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW OR WE’RE GOING WITHOUT YOU!’
OK, the word toilet is absolutely not going in my big opening scene; I am also editing out constipation immediately.
The BOY’s eyes slide over my shoulder, then widen as he spots the huge luxury car parked behind me.
‘Whoa,’ he says, abruptly waking up. ‘Is that—’
‘Yep.’ I take a step backwards. ‘Thank you so much for this ice cream, kind stranger. I shall treasure it forever and ever, until it melts or gets eaten.’
Quickly – while he’s still watching – I take my hair out of its tangled knot and give my black curls a quick, charming shake.
Then I glance adorably back over my shoulder.
HOPE
I’m afraid I must leave you
here, but this moment will be
engraved upon my heart for the
rest of time.
‘Bye, then!’ I call brightly, waving.
BOY
Goodbye, my dream girl. I will
never serve ice cream in the
same way again.
Ice Cream Boy stares at me for a few seconds with a deep furrow between his eyebrows. ‘Bye?’
I feel an abrupt whoosh of pleasure.
Next time I visit, he’s going to recognise me and ask my name and declare his eternal love for me and everything.
This One is almost definitely The One.
‘HOPE, YOU TOTAL MUPPET!’ my sister screams helpfully. ‘GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!’
‘Coming!’ I call back.
Then – delighted with how the morning is going – I skip towards the car with the blue dress I’m not wearing fluttering behind me.
FADE OUT.
Your natural gift is in connecting with others, Cancer. Today Mercury and Venus are in your fourth house, which emphasises home, family, roots and parents.
Use your talents to bring those bonds even closer.
I’m Hope, your new leading lady.
Nearly sixteen years ago, my parents took one look at my beaming, newborn face and thought: There’s a girl who’ll embody rainbows, sunrises and the kiss at the end of a film. There’s a girl who’ll skip when everybody else is walking, and try to see the best in all things; who’ll never need to look for a silver lining because for her there’ll be no clouds.
And you know what? It totally worked.
Hope is somehow buried inside me, planted deep in the middle of who I am, like the pip of a cherry or the stone of an avocado. My eldest sister, on the other hand, shoved her name into the ground and then tried to get as far away from it, as fast as physically possible.
A bit like a … potato.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Mercy snaps as I climb carefully into the back of the limo, precious ice cream held reverently in front of me. (His ice cream! The Ice Cream Created By Him!) ‘Seriously. It’s not a rhetorical question, Poodle. I’m looking for a clinical diagnosis.’
Twisting, I stare longingly out of the window at the ice-cream van retreating slowly behind us, my fingertips pressed up against the glass. Saying goodbye is so hard sometimes.
HOPE
Until next time, my
chocolate-covered paramour.
Music swells.
END SCENE.
‘Don’t call me Poodle,’ I object, turning to face my sister and licking my ice cream. ‘You know I don’t like it.’
‘How about Poo, then?’ Mer sighs, propping her high-heeled boots on the seat next to me. ‘Smelly, inappropriate in public and constantly disrupting plans.’
‘I am not.’
‘Are.’
‘Am not.’
I stick my tongue out and she pretends not to notice. Mercy’s seventeen and permanently glamorous; today her hair is in a tight black bun, her lipstick’s red, her silk T-shirt is black, her hooded coat is black and her trousers are black leather.
The car seats are black leather too, so every time she moves there’s a loud squeaking sound. Maybe it’s the souls of the poor cows greeting each other in another format.
Without warning, I start giggling.
‘Do you have brain freeze?’ Mer snaps, picking at a perfect red nail. ‘Or are random hysterics yet another side effect of having literally nothing in your head?’
‘Mercy,’