The Baking Life of Amelie Day by Vanessa Curtis Page A

that Mum bought me and pack a pair of leggings, a pair of jeans and a couple of vests and t-shirts. Then I put in a bottle of water and several packets of crisps and bars of chocolate. At the top I put a couple of my treacle tarts in a plastic box and at the very top I put my pink leather purse stuffed to the brim with money.
    Then I do the zip up with some effort and stuff the bag under my bed.
    I’m just in time. Mum comes in without knocking.
    â€˜Is Gemma’s mum feeding you?’ she says. ‘Or will you be back for supper?’
    â€˜Feeding me,’ I say. It’s frightening how good I’m getting at this lying business.
    Mum smiles. ‘It’s beans on toast and Coronation Street for me then,’ she says. ‘Hooray.’
    I wait until I hear her go into the bathroom and then I sneak downstairs with my rucksack and go out to the front garden. I hide the rucksack behind the green recycling bin and come back inside again.
    Mum comes downstairs with a pile of washing in her arms.
    â€˜Are you off, love?’ she says. ‘Don’t be late back. Remember we’re up early for hospital tomorrow.’
    â€˜Yeah, I just need to get my stuff,’ I say, bolting upstairs again. I go into Mum’s room and creep over to the bed. I get a letter out of my bag and put it on her pillow. Then I cover the pillow a bit with her duvet and creep out again.
    I pick up a small black leather bag from my room and grab a couple of school exercise books so that Mum can see them.
    Then I go downstairs to say goodbye.
    ***
    Mum gives me a big kiss.
    â€˜You’re being very brave about tomorrow,’ she says. ‘You must be a bit nervous. I know I am.’
    My heart gives a big pang. I don’t much like lying to Mum. Then again I wouldn’t know how to stop this now. It’s gone too far.
    I take a quick look at the cosy lounge, at the cream sofa where I lie when I’m not feeling well, at the TV I spend so many hours staring at and then over Mum’s shoulder to the kitchen where all my pans and trays and ingredients live.
    A pang of something horrid comes up into my throat and for once it’s not mucus.
    I force a smile onto my face.
    â€˜See you later, Mum,’ I say.
    Then I go outside, hide my exercise books behind the bin, grab my rucksack from the front garden and head off down the road.

Chapter Twelve
    I walk to the station.
    It takes about twenty minutes and all the time I’m looking around to see if any of Mum’s friends or neighbours are about to drive past and rumble me, but they don’t.
    It’s a steep walk up the hill as the road nears the station and I feel the familiar tightness in my chest so I sit down on a bench for a moment and catch my breath, take a deep puff on my inhaler. Then I hoist the rucksack onto my back, cross the busy main road and go into the station.
    The station is quite small and there aren’t many people around on Sunday evening. I approach the ticket desk feeling as if I’m on a secret spy mission or something.
    â€˜Ticket to London, please,’ I say, dropping the rucksack onto the ground. I forgot how heavy it was going to be with all my medicine in. At the last moment I put in some little bottles of high-calorie milk drinks but they’re really weighing me down.
    â€˜Single or return?’ says the guy behind the counter.
    I consider this for a moment.
    â€˜Don’t know yet,’ I say. It all depends whether I bomb out at the first stage of the quarter-finals on Monday or whether I go through to the semi-finals which are being filmed on Wednesday. ‘Single, I s’pose.’
    â€˜That’ll be forty-four pounds then,’ says the guy. A couple of little orange tickets whiz out of a machine and are slid under the glass towards me.
    I nearly pass out when he says this. Forty-four pounds!
    â€˜Is there a cheaper ticket?’ I say. ‘That’s kind of a lot.’
    The