SUN KISSED Read online

‘It’s a question of trust, sweetheart,’ Mum says, stroking my hair, ‘and knowing you’ll be sensible.’

  ‘But, Mum, I am sensible.’ She holds me at arm’s length, taking in my playsuit and heeled boots, my tousled plait, beads and bangles. ‘They’re comfy boots, Mum. You should know. You’re always borrowing them.’

  ‘You look lovely,’ she says, laughing. ‘It’s just not very practical for going on a plane.’ Or what Britta would wear, I think. Even though she’s only eighteen, she’s always allowed to go off on her own, doing triathlons or camping with Venture Scouts. When she goes on a journey, she puts on a really ugly pair of cargo pants with loads of pockets that she stuffs full of plasters and baby wipes. They make her thighs look enormous.

  ‘If you let me stay, I promise not to put any boys in my wardrobe.’ This makes Betty grin and I nearly smile. ‘I won’t even put any clothes in there … or talk to any boys … or even look at boys. It’s not like I had any massive parties planned.’ I did. I had a monstrous sleepover planned for next Thursday.

  ‘Kat hates boys and parties,’ says Betty seriously, but then she ruins it by laughing madly and Bea joins in.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Bea, ‘but it’s funny because you do love parties and, well …’

  ‘Boys?’ I say.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’m sorry, girls,’ says Dad, ‘but it’s all arranged. We’ll have a relaxing break and Kat will have a wonderful summer in Sweden.’

  ‘Frida’s mad. Don’t make me live with her and her peasant clothes and her ambient music. Her boat rocks when cruise ships go past. I’ll get seasick!’

  ‘It’s time to go,’ says Dad firmly. Then he claps his hands together and says to my friends, ‘Who’s hungry? Anyone fancy sushi?’

  ‘I’ve never eaten sushi,’ says Betty.

  ‘You’ll love it,’ says Dad, ‘and I want some chicken katsu.’

  I throw my arms around Bea and Betty for one last hug. ‘You’re not allowed any chicken katsu. It’s my favourite. I’ll be too jealous.’

  ‘Definitely no chicken katsu,’ says Bea.

  ‘I fancy vegetable tempura,’ says my mum, who’s already looking around for a YO! Sushi, ‘and maybe a cheeky glass of plum wine.’

  ‘Mum, I haven’t gone yet. Don’t start celebrating.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Bea. ‘Nothing happens in our town. You won’t miss a thing.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to have any fun when I’m away. All you can do is hang out with your boring boyfriends and be boring.’ For a moment, I’m struck by the total unfairness of Bea and Betty having boyfriends, while I – someone who has put a huge amount of effort into studying the opposite sex and looking awesome – have never been out with anyone. Not even for a day. Betty’s wearing a knitted boob hat and she has a nice, normal boyfriend … and he’s hot. Really unfair.

  ‘Can we go to Brighton?’ asks Bea.

  ‘No.’

  ‘The seaside? The fair? Lush?’ she says.

  ‘No, no and no!’

  ‘What about KFC?’ says Betty.

  ‘OK. Just KFC.’

  And then Dad holds my boarding pass up to the barrier, the doors slide open and, without realising what I’m doing, I step forward and the doors shut behind me. I can’t stop and wave because immediately I’m moved on by a security officer.

  ‘Place your belongings in here, please,’ she says, passing me a plastic tray. I glance back; they’re all walking away. ‘Any liquids over one hundred millilitres?’

  ‘How much is that?’ I ask. She sighs and holds up a plastic bottle half filled with water. She swishes it from side to side. ‘Um, maybe a couple of things,’ I say. ‘Perfume, moisturiser … Does face-cooling mist count?’ She narrows her eyes and nods. ‘Coke?’ I hold up my half-drunk bottle.

  ‘I think you’d better open up your case.’

  While the scary security lady rummages through my bag, I try to catch a last glimpse of Mum and Dad. They’re disappearing round a corner, but Bea and Betty have hung back and are waving like mad, our Ladybird wave: thumb tucked in and four fingers wiggling.

  We made up this wave at nursery school. There were four of us in the awesome Ladybird gang: me, Bea, Betty and Pearl. I didn’t ask Pearl along to the airport because Bea and Betty basically hate her. They’ve got pretty good reasons to hate her and I suppose I have too, but life is never boring when Pearl is around. I wiggle my fingers back at Bea and Betty. A sharp cough makes me turn round.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Serum,’ I say. ‘Loads of people think you can’t use serum if you’ve got oily skin, but that’s just not true. That’s Clinique and it’s very hydrating. You should try it. It’s good on large pores.’ It’s dropped in the bin with a clang and a lump forms in my throat. Next she holds up my jar of peanut butter. ‘No way!’ I say. ‘That’s not a liquid.’

  ‘No spreads, jams or preserves.’ Clunk. In it goes.

  When I turn back, they’ve disappeared. I search around for Betty’s pink booby hat. Nothing. They’ve gone.

  ‘Miss? Please step through the security archway.’

  *

  My plane is paused at the start of the runway, engines growling, moments away from take-off. I stare out of the rain-smeared window and try not to think about what’s about to happen. I can’t imagine how this huge plane, packed full of yelling children and holidaymakers, will ever get up in the air. It’s not helping that the man next to me is holding his head in his hands.

  The plane lurches forward and picks up speed. Suddenly, all I can think about is Pearl’s text. I got it just before I turned my phone off: Hope you don’t die! Ha ha ha!! We’re bumping along faster now, and the pressure forces me back in my seat. The engines start to roar. I take deep breaths and grip my armrests. Faster. Faster. Then the nose of the plane tips up and, although it seems impossible, we are going up, up, up and we’re in the sky!

  ‘Oh, God,’ moans the man next to me, who, incidentally, is wearing a vest when he clearly doesn’t have the physique to wear a vest. If we crash, the last thing I’ll see will be his skinny white arms. The plane banks dramatically to the left, and I look down at the sprawling airport, at the thousands of cars in the car park and at the motorway that curves like a river. Mum, Dad and my friends are down there somewhere, going home together, maybe singing along to Adele.

  I press my fingers against the window and try to guess which tiny car is taking them further and further away from me.

  THREE

  ‘Kat! Kat! Kat!’ Through the crowd of passengers, I see Auntie Frida coming towards me. She squeezes between an old lady sitting on a suitcase and a hugging couple. Frida’s long embroidered dress and tangled hair look out of place in the modern airport. ‘Hej!’ she says, pulling me to her for a hug. I’m squashed against her necklace, one of her own, a chain of silver acorns and twigs.

  ‘Here you are,’ she says, finally letting me go. Her face is clean and shiny and dusted with freckles. ‘So your mum and dad have sent you to have some crazy fun with Auntie Frida?’

  ‘I think the idea is you make sure I don’t have any crazy fun.’

  ‘Ha!’ she cackles. ‘We’ll show them.’ She takes my suitcase off me and heads for the exit. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ Stockholm airport is filled with light; sun streams in through the wall-to-ceiling windows and I can smell coffee and cakes – you can always smell coffee and cakes in Sweden. Frida darts ahead of me, almost at a skip, and that’s when I notice she’s not wearing any shoes.

  I try to catch up with her. ‘What’s with the bare feet, Frida?’

  ‘It connects me with the earth, you know?’ She glances over her shoulder and smiles. ‘When I go barefoot, I feel like a goddess. You should try it!’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Worried about treading in something?’

  ‘No. I just love shoes,’ I say.

  This makes her laugh. ‘Maybe a summer spent with me will change all that.’

&nbs
p; ‘I don’t know,’ I say, struggling to keep up in my three-inch heels, ‘I really love shoes.’

  *

  A few hours later, I’m sunbathing on the deck of Frida’s boat, a coconut water in one hand and Grazia in the other. The sky is turquoise, dotted with clouds, and waves lap against the side of the boat, making my ice cubes clink. Stockholm’s old town stretches in front of us, the houses painted a rainbow of colours. There’s a blue-grey one I really like. I’ve been looking for a vest in that colour for ages.

  Frida’s sitting next to me, legs twisted into the lotus position, staring into space. ‘I’m really into clouds at the moment, Kat. I’ve become a cloud-spotter.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘Look at that one.’ She points up at the sky. ‘It looks like …’

  ‘Cotton wool?’ I suggest. ‘A sheep?’

  ‘I was thinking, two seahorses kissing?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ While Frida cloud-spots, I fashion-spot. ‘Don’t you love these earrings?’ I turn round my magazine and hold it up for her. ‘Hey, when can we go shopping? When I visited with Mum last year, we went to this shop where all the clothes were white.’

  ‘Well, I guess we’ll need to go soon, before the shops shut.’

  ‘I can wait until tomorrow,’ I say, suppressing the urge to jump up and start getting my stuff together.

  ‘We’re catching the early boat tomorrow. I want us to be on the first one that leaves for Stråla.’

  ‘What?’ I sit up and the Stockholm skyline wobbles. All this cloud-spotting and sun must have gone to my head. ‘Where are we going tomorrow?’

  ‘To Stråla, the island. I want to get the boat that leaves at eight.’

  ‘We’re going to an island tomorrow?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Frida puts down her drink. ‘Kat, are you telling me your mum didn’t mention Stråla?’

  ‘Frida, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Your mum is hopeless,’ she says, laughing. ‘Stråla is the most beautiful island in the world.’ Her eyes widen. ‘It’s so peaceful. Totally isolated.’

  ‘Isolated? How isolated?’

  ‘It will take us over three hours to get there. It’s miles out in the archipelago. One of the most distant islands.’

  ‘Are there any shops?’ I ask. If I’m honest, this is sounding like a pretty boring day trip.

  ‘Sure! A wonderful village shop that sells the best cinnamon rolls.’

  ‘Any cafes … restaurants … people?’

  ‘One cafe and a few people,’ says Frida, laughing, ‘but you’re going to love it, Kat. It’s so relaxing. I went to stay there last year, and it transformed me. When I got back to Stockholm, I immediately booked the cabin for the whole summer.’

  I drop my magazine on the deck and pull off my sunglasses. ‘The whole summer?’

  ‘That’s right. The isolation fills me with creative energy. I’m going to keep making jewellery while I’m there.’

  ‘But what about me, Frida? You do know I’m supposed to be staying with you for, like, weeks.’

  ‘You will be staying with me … on Stråla.’

  ‘For a whole month?’ I ask. I feel sweat breaking out on the back on my neck.

  ‘That’s right.’ Her smile fades. ‘I’m really surprised your mum and dad didn’t tell you, Kat. They should have.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘They should.’ She reaches out for my hand. I feel sick. ‘But what will I do all day?’ I think back to family holidays we spent in the countryside in Sweden. ‘Swim? Go for walks?’

  ‘Exactly! Here.’ She reaches into her bag and pulls out a creased brochure. ‘I picked this up when I was there. You can read all about Stråla and get excited. It’s going to be an adventure!’

  On the front of the brochure is a photo showing the silhouette of a person standing on a rock, staring out to sea, the sun setting on the horizon. Stråla: The Serene Isle, I read. I flick through the pages. Mum and Dad knew Frida was spending her summer on Stråla and they tricked me into coming to Sweden just to get rid of me. I guess they thought they were being really clever sending me to a tiny, and presumably boy-free, island … or maybe they didn’t even give it a second thought.

  What they’ve done to me is much, much worse than hiding a boy in your wardrobe.

  ‘Looks good, doesn’t it?’ Frida’s frowning. Already, I’m ruining her summer.

  ‘Yes.’ I look up from the images of sea, trees, cows and more sea. ‘The brochure says we can “pick mushrooms” and “walk round the island to see sheep and cows”.’

  ‘We can’t pick mushrooms because it’s not the right season, but there will be lots of sheep and cows.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. I actually quite like mushrooms.

  Frida stands up. ‘Don’t worry.’ She pulls me to my feet. ‘Let’s go and get you shopped-out so you can’t wait to get to Stråla tomorrow.’

  Usually I love shopping and I particularly like getting ready to go, imagining the clothes I will see, the colours, the fabrics, the thought of finding something that’s just perfect. But as I pull my dress on over my bikini and search around for my purse, I feel heavy. The thought of shopping always makes me happy. Why isn’t it working today? I find my purse and check the credit card Mum gave me is in there. She said it was for ‘emergencies’.

  ‘Ready?’ Frida’s standing on the gangplank.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say, dropping my purse in my bag. Guess what, Mum? I’m going to a tiny island for a month to look at cows. I’d describe this as an emergency.

  I can’t sleep. Frida’s boat is moored on a noisy quay lined with restaurants and bars. Laughter and music mix irritatingly with Frida’s out-of-control wind chimes. Usually, I love falling asleep on her boat – it feels cosy – but tonight the shrieks of laughter keep making me jump. Also, it’s so hot – apparently, it’s the start of a heatwave – so I’m on top of my sheet, sweating in my pants and vest. I’ve opened the window as far as it’ll go, but the air that’s coming in is warm and smells of diesel.

  Frida tried hard to give me a good evening. After some intense shopping, where I bought emergency high-waisted shorts, yellow sunglasses, lipgloss, water-resistant mascara, a straw hat and a troll key ring (for Betty), she took me to this elegant cafe full of girls who looked like models and men with trendy moustaches. So sweet. It wasn’t her sort of place, but I loved it. We sat on the terrace on black-leather cubes, drinking iced tea. After a meal in a Thai restaurant we came back to the boat so Frida could finish packing.

  Earlier, I tried to ring Mum and Dad, but their phones were turned off. I guess they’re up in the air, flying to LA. Britta didn’t answer either and I’ve just spent the past hour desperately messaging my friends. After I told them that Mum and Dad have sentenced me to a summer of acute boredom on Stråla, they’ve been trying to cheer me up. For example:

  Betty: I bet Stråla will be packed full of HOT blond Scandi Gods eating meatballs and checkin out ya bikini bod!!

  Me: I bet it won’t.

  Bea: I’ve Googled Stråla. Amazeballs. It’s beautiful! They have these cows with the biggest brown eyes EVER!

  Pearl: Shut up and get a tan. At least you’re not stuck in this dump.

  I’ve told them I’m going to ring every single day so I don’t get lonely. The boat tips gently from side to side. I turn over my warm pillow and check my phone. No new messages. There’s a knock at the door and Frida peeks in. ‘Still awake, Katrina?’

  Only my Swedish relatives ever call me this. ‘It’s so hot,’ I say, flopping my arms above my head.

  ‘There will be a lovely breeze on Stråla.’ Mushrooms, cows, sheep … and a breeze! Frida squeezes past my bulging suitcase and sits on the end of my bed, arms wrapped round her knees. She’s wearing a chunky fisherman’s jumper and her face is a strange green colour from the lights on the quay. ‘I just came to say goodnight,’ she says, ‘and to say sorry you are feeling so sad.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ I want to tell her that
I’m dreading it, that I can’t imagine what I’ll do every day, that already I feel homesick, actually really and truly sick in my stomach … But if I do that, I’ll start to cry. I pull the pillow closer and we listen to a couple outside arguing in Swedish. I can’t make it all out, but it’s something to do with him ‘stroking Astrid’.

  ‘Hey,’ says Frida, patting my legs. ‘It’s not what you were expecting, but sometimes that’s when the best things take place. Magic happens on Stråla.’

  ‘I don’t believe in magic,’ I mutter.

  ‘That’s because you’ve never been to Stråla!’ Her eyes glitter. ‘And Leo might be there. You’ll like him.’

  Leo. One word, that’s all it takes. I sit up. ‘Who’s Leo?’

  ‘He’s a boy I met last time I was there, a bit older than you, I think. His family stay on Stråla.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ I ask, unable to hide the pathetic glimmer of hope I’m feeling.

  ‘You know, he’s …’ Frida hesitates as she tries to find the right word, ‘ypperlig.’

  Ypperlig. One of those funny words that don’t really have an English equivalent. Mum always says it about Dad. It means ‘perfect’, in just the right way. The woman’s deluded.

  Ypperlig Leo, on the other hand …

  ‘Plus,’ says Frida, kneeling up on my bed to peer out of the porthole, ‘in a few days’ time there will be a full moon, and then, gradually, it will disappear until it’s completely hidden. Amazing!’ She looks back at me. ‘It’s a time of new beginnings, Kat, growth and love. It’s called a dark moon. Isn’t that beautiful?’

  She kneels up a bit higher, trying to get a better view from the porthole. Peeking out below her chunky jumper is her pale pink bottom.

  ‘Frida, I think I can see it … I can see the dark moon!’

  ‘What? Where?’ She sticks her head further out of the porthole.

  ‘Attached to the top of your legs, not covered in a pair of pants like it should be.’

  ‘Ha!’ Frida laughs. ‘It’s too hot for underwear.’

  ‘But you’ve got a jumper on.’

  ‘I didn’t want to embarrass you,’ she says.