The voice of a young woman now pipes through the speakers. “Okay, Brass Monkey, pens in hand and brains in gear, please. Question one. On which soap opera did actor Max Highfield begin his career?”
Henk reaches the group. Steve motions for them all to sit down at an empty table next to his usual team. “We quiz, then we discuss who is trying to kill whom—agreed?”
“No,” says Henk. “We need to sort this out right now. Steve, you have tricked me. Jeff, we must talk immediately.”
Steve jabs his finger at Henk’s chest. “Henk, I’ve put my priorities on hold for a number of days now. I’ve been tied up, I’ve been threatened with a gun, I’ve been in a helicopter with a hangover, and I’ve eaten kale. Now, sit down, shut up, and, for the next ninety minutes, or more if there’s a tiebreak, let me quiz.”
The quizmaster repeats the question. “That’s Max Highfield—I definitely would—on which soap opera did he start his career?”
Henk nods at Steve, and, as they both sit, he says, “EastEnders.”
“You’re sure?” says Steve.
“Definite,” says Henk. “And I know Max Highfield, so maybe we can get a point for that?”
“It’s Coronation Street,” says Jeff. “Guaranteed. And I also know Max Highfield. So.”
“EastEnders,” says Henk.
“Coronation Street,” says Jeff.
Henk looks at Jeff. Jeff looks at Henk.
“Well, you can’t both be right,” says Steve.
Neither man will back down and break their stare.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” says Amy, taking the pen and answer sheet from Jeff. “It’s Hollyoaks.”
“Okay. Question two…”
75
Bonnie Gregor is stretched out in her childhood bed, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling is a painting of the night sky, dark blue and covered in stick-on gold stars. Her dad painted it for her when she was six or seven, and when she was a little girl she would sometimes stare at it all night. It seemed so immense, so full of a twinkling promise. A world her dad had made for her, and so close she could almost touch it.
Then, after her dad died, she would stare at it all night and wonder where he might be? If he was up there, and if he was all alone? As she grew taller, sometimes she would stand on her bed, on tiptoes, and reach up to touch it.
Lying here now, Bonnie realizes that if you look at the stars, the sky seems full. But if you look at the darkness, the sky seems empty.
Tonight Bonnie is looking at the stars. She’s flying tomorrow, the four p.m. from Heathrow. It says on the website to get to the airport at least three hours before departure, so that’s one p.m. It says on Google that the journey to Heathrow will be just over an hour, but you never know with daytime traffic, so she has allowed two hours, which means leaving at eleven a.m., and then, just for added peace of mind, she has given herself an extra hour and has decided to leave at ten a.m. That should do it.
Her next-door neighbor’s husband has agreed to drive her to Heathrow for petrol money because he loves planes.
She looks up at the golden stars; she has mapped them in her brain, forty-one of them, only three peeling, even after all this time. She goes through her lines once again. Quietly. The kids are sleeping next door in her mum’s room. They are very excited to be staying at Grandma’s for the week, though not half as excited as their grandma is.
She’s written a few things she thinks might work.
“What is paint? Paint is color. And what is color? Color can be anything you want. Color can make you happy, it can brighten your day and slap a smile on your face. A bright orange—bosh!—a bright yellow—bosh! bosh!…”
She is experimenting with “bosh,” because she doesn’t really have a catchphrase, and it would be useful to have one. Something to say when you can’t think of anything else, something to fill in the gaps. She’s not sure if she’s cracked it yet, though. “Splosh!” Is that better?
“So if paint is color, and color is happiness, a tin of paint is a tin of happiness!”
That’s the bit she’s most confident about. She’s been through the whole thing with her mum over and over. She will try “Splosh!” out on her in the morning.
The bag arrived today, not a case, as she had expected, but a brown leather holdall.
She has learned the names of all the colors in the range. “Lipstick Red,” “Hello Yellow,” “Pretty Pink,” “Lady Lime,” “Hi-Ho Silver,” “Baby Blue,” and “Agent Orange.”
She knows all about vegan paint, breathable paint, and non-toxic nursery paint. She knows all about zero VOC paints. Volatile Organic Compounds, compounds with “a high vapor pressure at ordinary room temperatures,” and is confident that she can talk about them while sitting by a pool drinking a mai tai.
She hasn’t told her mum yet, but the first half of the money came through this morning. She checked her balance at the cashpoint in Morrisons, and there it was.
The other thing she hasn’t told her mum, though she’s certain it’s fine, is the way she is being paid. It is something to do with Vivid Viral Media’s tax systems; they explained it, but Bonnie’s probably not the right person to understand, so she doubts her mum would be. Either way, Vivid Viral, instead of just paying her the twenty thousand, actually pays her two hundred thousand, and then they arrange a transfer of the extra one hundred and eighty thousand to another company. It’s not a scam, because Bonnie keeps the twenty thousand. It’s fascinating, really, to see the way things are done. One day this will all be second nature to her, and she’ll be able to sit her mum down and go through it all.
On Bonnie’s bedside table are two “Good Luck” cards. One from her mum that says “Chase the Dream” and one from the kids, of a 3D unicorn saying, “I love you.”
Bonnie checks her alarm once again. If she’s leaving at 10:00, or perhaps 9:30 if she’s ready, she’ll make sure she’s up by 6:00, just in case there’s a last-minute crisis. She can make breakfast for the kids and her mum. She lies back again.
“Forest Paints. Breathe. Believe. Achieve.”
This time tomorrow she’ll be on the plane. Up in the night sky, up among the stars. She can talk to her dad while she’s up there. Tell him all about her new adventure.
Bonnie can feel her eyes beginning to shut. She is sleeping easier these days. Less to worry about, knowing she can make Maxie and Mimi happy and safe. That’s the secret to happiness, isn’t it? She looks up at the ceiling again and thinks about her dad with the paint roller, waiting for it all to dry, and working out exactly where to put all the stars. The perfect pattern to make his daughter happy. That’s all you can do for your kids, isn’t it? Try to arrange the stars.
Bonnie pushes herself up and stands on her bed. She doesn’t need tiptoes anymore, as she reaches up and touches the ceiling.
Bonnie looks down and checks the corner of the room. Her bags are safe and sound. There’s her case, with the wonky wheels, packed with every possible combination of outfit. And there’s the big leather holdall, secured with a safety lock.
