Chocolate Box Girls: Bittersweet by Cathy Cassidy Page A

said. ‘When would be a good time?’
    ‘We work Sundays,’ I told him. ‘My dad runs the sailing centre in the village, and Sunday is one of our busiest days …’
    ‘I’ll definitely need to speak to him,’ Curtis said.
    I sighed. ‘Well … our bookings don’t start until eleven on weekends, so if you called in around ten Dad should still be home …’
    ‘Cool,’ Curtis grinned.
    But it wasn’t cool at all, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
    ‘D’you think you’d better tell your dad first?’ my girlfriend Cherry said. ‘Just mention it, set the scene a bit. So it doesn’t come as too much of a shock?’
    ‘Maybe,’ I said.
    ‘I think you should,’ she persisted. ‘You know what he’s like. A bit cynical? You have to give himtime to get used to the idea, prepare him a bit, or else he’ll never even let Curtis over the doorstep!’
    I looked up at the moon, a crescent of silver in the dark September sky. I was looking for inspiration, ideas, but the moon just blinked back at me, impassive.
    ‘I’ll tell him first thing tomorrow,’ I promised Cherry.
    Let’s just say it didn’t go too well.
    I spilled the beans over breakfast – Dad’s favourite scrambled-egg feast. I even made him a banana smoothie with cinnamon sprinkles, but it was no use. He said no – actually, he yelled it, and there was a lot of swearing mixed in there too, so I knew he wasn’t about to change his mind. I texted Cherry to tell her, and she rang back right away, telling me not to give up.
    ‘Give him time to mull it over,’ she insisted. ‘You might be surprised.’
    ‘Doubt it,’ I huffed. ‘He won’t listen … He hates the whole idea. Hopeless.’
    ‘Nikki and Curtis can explain things better, though,’ Cherry pointed out. ‘The whole thing will have more weight, more gravity, coming from them. You’ve done the groundwork … relax, Shay. They’ll soon talk your dad round.’
    Ha. Pigs might fly.
    Now, half an hour later, I’m sitting on my bedroom window sill wishing I had never heard of Curtis Rawlins. I don’t think Dad has calmed down and started to accept the idea of me getting a record deal, not from the dark, brooding look on his face or the way he is stomping around the kitchen. Mum and Ben have made themselves scarce and headed down to the sailing centre to set up.
    ‘Not looking good, little brother,’ Ben said as he left. ‘Sorry.’
    I’m sorry too. I press my face against the bedroom window, watching the path, hoping to spot Curtis coming and head him off before Dad gets hold of him. Things could get messy. In the end, I am not fast enough – Dad whips the door open just as Curtis and Nikki are striding up the path, their faces bright with opportunity and hope.
    ‘Whatever you want from us, it’s not happening,’ Dad is roaring even before I can get down into the hallway. ‘I know your sort. Whatever kind of deal you are offering, forget it – my son wants nothing to do with you!’
    ‘Please, Mr Fletcher,’ Finch’s mum says. ‘Hear us out. I can assure you that Curtis is making a very genuine offer here –’
    ‘Not interested,’ Dad snaps, and my heart sinks. He is not going to budge, not even for a film producer and a London record company talentscout. Especially not for them.
    ‘I’m not sure if you realize,’ Curtis says, ‘but Shay here could really make his mark in the music business. Wrecked Rekords would nurture him, develop him, perfect the product and polish up his performance skills …’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ Dad says.
    ‘But, Mr Fletcher – Shay’s got it all. Looks, skill, a unique style …’
    Dad’s eyes skim over Curtis with his goatee beard and piercings and red trilby hat. He grits his teeth, struggling not to share his opinion of the talent scout’s own unique style.
    ‘Nothing doing,’ Dad repeats firmly. ‘The music business is all drink and drugs and debauchery. It’s corrupt, that’s what it is. No son of mine is