THE GLITTER COLLECTION
Kate Maryon

Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2014 HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd, HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollinsChildren’s Books website address is www.harpercollins.co.uk

THE GLITTER COLLECTION

Shine © Kate Maryon, 2010

Glitter © Kate Maryon, 2010

A Million Angels © Kate Maryon, 2011

A Sea of Stars © Kate Maryon, 2012

Invisible Girl © Kate Maryon, 2013

Cover images © Shutterstock

Kate Maryon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBNs:

Shine: 9780007326273 Glitter: 9780007326280 A Million Angels: 9780007326297 A Sea of Stars: 9780007464647 Invisible Girl: 9780007466900 Ebook Bundle Edition © DECEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780008123598 Version: 2014-10-20

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Shine

Glitter

A Million Angels

Sea of Stars

Invisible Girl

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Shine
Kate Maryon

For my brother Tim and sister Susie, Against all odds – like stars at night we shine, I love you both with all my heart x

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

she’s just like a real magpie…

My mum totally loves shiny things, like silver and gold and jewels and big, fast, shiny cars. Mikey, her business partner, calls her ‘Magpie’ because she’s always on the lookout for things, just like one of those magpie-birds that takes shiny stuff and hoards it in its nest. The only difference is that my mum hoards things in our flat, which means if she doesn’t stop soon we’ll be facing an emergency situation due to lack of space.

The thing I worry about most is that my mum says she can’t stop herself. She is truly addicted. And the worst thing is that often she doesn’t even buy things, she just takes them. Anything shiny is just too tempting for her. Some people might call it ‘stealing’; my mum calls it ‘borrowing’. It is stealing though and, well, that’s not exactly a good thing is it? And though me and Mum do some pretty cool stuff, sometimes she can be so embarrassing. Like the other day when we were walking through the market and she saw a fluffy scarf that she wanted for me. She just strolled up to the stall and while she was busy talking to the lady about the weather, she slipped it into her bag. And then what am I supposed to do? I can hardly scream “Thief” and get my mum arrested for shoplifting! So I just stay close and keep my mouth shut, and if people notice we make a run for it, fast.

I also know that she spends money on the internet using other people’s credit cards. You might think that’s a good thing for me because I have stuff, like three iPods, seven watches, a drawer full of rings, bangles and necklaces, two giant plasma TVs and my own laptop. And I do like getting all that stuff…and I love my mum and we’re a team, just me and her. But sometimes I wish she was more like a normal mum. I can’t tell anyone the truth about the stealing or say anything to her about it because I don’t want to upset her, and I’m afraid that if I do say anything she’ll go off on one of her temper tantrums, which means she’ll go straight out to the shops again, just to cheer herself up.

Last month we had a row and Mum drank loads of wine. Then she went out and came back with an amazing mega-red sports car that Mikey got hold of. I wanted us to make up, so I squashed down my worries and had fun as Mum and me zoomed about all over the place with the roof down wearing headscarves and big sunglasses like movie stars do. “Living the dream, that’s what we’re doing, babe,” Mum giggled as we raced down the High Street. But a couple of days ago Mum got bored of it, and sold it on to this uber-rich lady while I was at school.

“We’ve done it, babe, the world’s our oyster!” she squealed, as she showed me the hugest mountain of cash I’ve ever seen. We danced around the living room like crazy things, throwing our money-confetti high up in the air and letting it fall down on us like paper rain.

Right then we knew that the money would change our days. But we didn’t know how much it would change our lives.

Chapter 2

a woman possessed by the idea of a dog…

After school the next day we get down to business, writing big, fat shopping lists and making plans. I am determined not to think about where the money came from and I’m trying to join in with the fun. I find a sheet of plain paper and a marker pen and draw a line down the middle. I write “Tiff” at the top of one column and “Carla”, that’s my mum’s name, at the top of the other. In Mum’s column I write the things she wants: 1) new perfume 2) some more diamond earrings 3) a pair of boots with shiny buckles 4) champagne. Under my name I write: 1) pencil case 2) new tops 3) a book and 4) a pet.

“Don’t even go there, Tiff,” says Mum, “There’s just no way, not ever, that I could put up with a pooping, piddling pet scatting about the house.”

“A pony?” I ask, hopefully. “A pony wouldn’t even come near the house.”

Mum raises her eyebrows and slurps her glass of wine. I can see that something is on her mind.

“My dad got me and Cass ponies when we moved to Sark…mine was called Mabel and…Oh, never mind, Tiff,” she sighs. “The answer’s no and that’s that. Can we not go on about it any more, please? You’re giving me a headache.”

And I know not to go on, or ask any more questions, because my mum never talks about her past. Except occasionally, when she’s had too much wine to drink and the words sort of slip out of her mouth. But once she realises what she’s doing she always stops herself and changes the subject, especially when the subject happens to be Sark, the tiny island her family moved to when she was little. All I know is that my mum ran away from Sark when she was seventeen and has never been back since. I’ve never been, full stop. And I’ve never even met or seen a photo of my dad because he ran off before I was born. And I don’t know her family, including my grandparents and my Auntie Cass.

“In the bright lights, babe, that’s where we belong.” Mum always says. So we never talk about anything old. In our life everything’s always shiny and new.

She takes a brush to my hair and tugs at my tangles.She takes another glug of wine. “Come on, cheer up,” she says, kissing me on the end of my nose. “Let’s have some fun shopping and then we can grab us one of our super-famous slap-up dinners. How would that be?”

“OK,” I say, “but no funny stuff, promise?”

“Promise,” she winks, drawing two big red lines of lipstick across her lips and smacking them together. “You know me, Tiff. It’s you and me,” she says.

“You and me, Mum,” I echo, switching off the TV.

After a bit of retail therapy, where my mum actually managed to keep her fingers to herself and pay for our treats with cash, she decides we need go to Miguel’s to have our hair and nails done. I really, really want to have my hair cut all short and choppy, but Mum insists I keep it long. She loves the way she can brush it and make it all smooth and shiny.

“But I want a proper hairstyle! I’m twelve, Mum; I’m not a little girl. And Chelsea’s having hers done!”

“I said no, Tiff, and that is the end of the haircut conversation.”

And, just like always, Mum gets her way and I have to go along with it.

“Cooooeeeee, Carla,” shrieks Bianca, my mum’s best friend, when we walk into Miguel’s place. She starts leaping up and down in the chair and waving her arms about like a wild thing. “Come and look over here!”

We go over to where she’s sipping coffee and having more highlights put in her ice-blonde hair. My mum and Bianca hug like mad things and jump up and down like they haven’t seen each other for at least a hundred years. Bianca grabs my cheeks and squeezes them hard in a friendly kind of a way.

“Ooh, you two are gonna be so jealous when I show you what I have in here,” she squeals, pointing at her bag. “Look what Harry got me. Can you believe it?”

I do look, and a little pink puppy nose peeps over the top of the bag, and a tiny ball of white fluff wags its tail. Bianca lifts ‘Queenie’ out of the bag and puts her on the floor, and everyone in Miguel’s – especially me – goes crazy for her until she does a little tiddle on Miguel’s gleaming white tiles. Then Miguel starts huffing about the place saying it’s a salon he’s running here, not a zoo.

Mum changes her mind about having our slap-up meal because we spent so long having our hair and nails done. But I don’t mind because when we’re on our way home she starts talking and I totally can’t believe what my ears are hearing.

“I just have to have one!” Mum’s wailing like a three-year-old. I really, really, really have to have one.”

It was only a few hours ago my mum totally refused to even consider the idea of having a pet. But now that her best friend has a puppy, suddenly everything has changed. She is so childish! But right now, I’m trying to think of the positives, and I’m totally fizzing inside with excitement. I don’t want to say anything at all that will make her change her mind because I know we’ll be getting our own puppy uber-quick-pronto. You see words like wait, patience and think just aren’t in her brain dictionary. She loves things to be fast, like fast cars and fast food.

“OK, so let’s go to the rescue place,” I suggest.

“Good idea,” she says, “for some people. But not for us, Tiff! The whole rescue-dog thing would take too long to sort out. I’ve made up my mind: I want a dog and I want it now.”

“Muuumm,” I say, worrying that she’s up to no good, “what are you planning?”

“Don’t panic, babe, even I wouldn’t take someone’s dog! And anyway, we don’t want a boring old biffer of a dog, do we? We want something new; something special.”

I try to argue that rescue-dogs need good homes, but as usual Mum gets her way. We have bags and bags of cash to splash so we head off to the place where Bianca got Queenie and hand over £800 for a cute little white fluff-a-fluff. I fall in love with her straightaway.

“Let’s call her Powder Puff,” I say, trying to think of a good name, “or Snowflake.”

“Good try, Tiff, but I really can’t see myself standing in the park every morning shouting out ‘Powder Puff, Powder Puff’, can you? And she’s really not a frosty little snowflake is she?”

I have a feeling it doesn’t really matter what I think in this situation. Mum goes to the fridge, throws me a Coke and pours herself a glass of her favourite white wine, Chardonnay.

“I’ve got it!” she shrieks. “She’s a Chardonnay from head to tail! Don’t you just love it, babe?”

And I suppose I do. So we get out my favourite hair-brush and give Chardonnay her first proper pamper session. Then we get busy on the internet ordering things that we think a puppy might need. We choose a shiny diamanté collar, a pink lead, some pink polka-dot dog bowls and a proper princess-bed with a special silk doggy duvet. We go crazy over dog clothes and order Chardonnay a tartan outfit and hat for rainy days, a pink party dress for celebration days and a little pink tracksuit for everyday park-wear.

Just when we’re about to order ourselves a takeaway, Mum’s mobile springs into life and blares out a show tune.

“Mikey-babe,” she says. Then she’s listening for a while and I notice that she’s nibbling her brand-new nails. “Right, OK, see you there then.”

She dumps Chardonnay on my lap. “Sorry, Tiff, I just have to go and meet Mikey for a bit. I’ll be back soon. You all right with Chardonnay?”

“Sure,” I say, my tummy rumbling. “See you later alligator.”

“In a while crocodile. And, babe,” she says, halfway out of the door, “I’ve been thinking that we deserve a holiday. Monte Carlo, Las Vegas, Hawaii, wherever you fancy.”

The amazing holiday we had last year flashes into my mind. We went to Barbados and stayed in this uber-cool hotel and pretended we were real princesses. We just had to click our fingers and we got whatever we wanted.

“Barbados again?” I say.

“Hm. I was thinking of somewhere new,” says Mum. “Let’s check out the brochures tomorrow. And, hey, why don’t you call Chelsea and get her to come round for a sleepover, to keep you company?”

“Brilliant idea, Mum,” I say. “Thanks.”

She comes over and kisses me on the top of my head.

“You have to look after your friends, Tiff, make them feel special.” She’s twiddling one of my blonde waves round and round her finger and I catch on her face that far-away look, that thinking-of-her-old-life look.

“The thing is, Tiff,” she continues, “you never know what’s going to happen in life. One day you might wake up to discover that your friends have gone, that they just aren’t there for you any more. So take my advice, babe, and treasure them while you can.”

It’s kind of weird for my mum to say stuff like that, and I’m sure I see a tiny tear escape from the corner of her eye. She wipes it away and heads for the door again. “You and me, babe,” she calls through a perfume haze.

Chapter 3

craaaaaaazy about tiffany’s…

When it’s just Chardonnay and me I call my best friend, Chelsea, to see if she can come over. She only lives in the same block of flats as us, but her dad’s quite a worry guts, so ten minutes later, when she gets dropped off, I pretend that my mum’s just popped out to buy some milk.

“What shall we do, Tiff?” asks Chelsea, plaiting Chardonnay’s fringe.

“Definitely an old movie,” I say. “Wizard of Oz?”

“Why, of course,” says Chelsea, in the American voice we sometimes use when we’re playing around. Then we move into action. First we pile the sofa high with cushions and duvets and put out loads of snacks in tiny bowls. Then we get all dressed up in two of Mum’s glittery dresses and put on our sparkly high-heeled ruby slippers that we bought for each other last Christmas. We put on loads of Mum’s make-up, tie up our hair and make two delicious Shirley Temple cocktails.

“Your mum’s so cool, Tiff,” says Chelsea. “Mine would go crazy if I even went anywhere near her make-up. If I used it, I think she’d just totally explode. And she’d never leave me in the house alone. My parents still think I’m about five years old, or something, and they act like they’re at least a hundred.”

“Mum likes me using her stuff,” I say. “We share everything. She trusts me and I trust her.” My voice wobbles a bit when I hear myself talking to Chels about trust. Because I think that my mum does trust me, but I’m not so sure that I completely trust her. “Come on,” I say, changing the subject, “let’s watch the movie.”

Chelsea and I love all the old-fashioned films. Things like the original Parent Trap and Whistle Down the Wind and Pollyanna with Hayley Mills in them. They’re so much better than new ones. The Wizard of Oz is our all-time favourite, with Judy Garland playing Dorothy.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s is my mum’s favourite and it’s where she got my name from. Tiffany’s is this amazing, expensive jewellery shop in New York, and there’s one in London too, and it was the first place Mum wanted to go to when she ran away from Sark.

Chels and I know all the words from all the movies off by heart because we’ve watched them so many times. And sometimes we even turn the sound right down and do the voice bits ourselves.

“Toto,” I say to Chelsea, messing about in my best American accent, handing her some Pringles, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more.”

“I know,” says Chels, giggling, “we must be over the rainbow.”

And then we just get the giggles and snorts big-time and turn off all the lights and snuggle down with Chardonnay to watch.

“What now?” asks Chels when the film has finished and we’re giving each other a proper face-mask pamper-treatment.

“How about a horror movie?” I say. “Something really spoooookey. Let’s see what’s on.” I start surfing through the channels. There’s loads of boring stuff on and just as we are about to give up I see Mikey’s face splashed all over Crimewatch. My heart drops into my tummy and starts churning around like a washing machine on full spin. This isn’t the kind of horror thing I was looking for.

“Er, Tiff,” says Chelsea. “Isn’t that your mum’s friend? And look, there’s that big red sports car that you and your mum had last week.”

I realise that I’m just sitting there staring at the screen. My mouth has turned into the Sahara Desert and my voice has done a runner. I stare and stare at Mikey’s face on the TV. It’s one of those police photos that makes him look all scary, like a murderer. I don’t want to watch, but my hands can’t make the remote work.

“Looks like he’s in big trouble,” says Chels, edging closer to the screen.

My chest has heavy birds flapping inside, and someone’s fist is in my tummy, squeezing it tight. I don’t really know what’s happening, but I know that something is very, very, very wrong. My hands are shaking and I spill lemonade all over the place while I make us more drinks.

The doorbell rings. I open it and Chelsea’s dad is standing there with a boiling-mad face.

“Where’s your mum, Tiff?” he gruffs.

I can’t speak.

“Grab your things, Chels,” he says, “you’re coming home with me.”

“But I’m sleeping over, Dad,” she argues, still covered in my mum’s expensive face cream.

“It’s not up for discussion, Chelsea,” he says. “You’re coming home now and that’s that. And you,” he says, staring goggle-eyed at me, “you tell your mum it’s not right to leave under-fourteens on their own in the house. Tell her it’s downright dangerous, got it?”

I nod, trying to keep control of my bottom lip. It’s gone all stupid and keeps twitching and trembling. Chelsea takes off Mum’s dress, pulls on her jeans and shoves her ruby slippers and sleepover stuff in her bag.

“You gonna be OK, Tiff?” she asks, squeezing my hand.

I squeeze her hand back and paint on a smile, then the door slams and I’m left alone with Chardonnay, wondering. My whole body follows my lip and turns to jelly. I’m freezing and shaking. I close the curtains and double-lock the door. Then I switch channels to a comedy thing, hide under the duvet with Chardonnay, and wait.

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