Pick ‘n’ Mix

Dedication

For Rebecca Cross and Amy Saunders, who have been so helpful

Epigraph

I didn’t mean to cut a hole in my bedroom carpet…

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Also by Jean Ure

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

I didn’t mean to cut a hole in my bedroom carpet. Not that I’m claiming it was an accident, exactly, though it could have been. Like if I’d tripped over the edge of the bed, for instance, with Dad’s Stanley knife clutched in my hand, the blade might well have gone plunging into the carpet all by itself and carved a huge great chunk out of it. I mean, that is what could quite easily have happened. I’m not saying that it did; just that it could have.

All I’m saying is, I didn’t set out to cut a hole. It wasn’t like I woke up in the morning and thought, “Today I shall cut a hole in my carpet.” It just seemed like a good idea at the time, as things so often do. Then afterwards you wonder why, only by then it’s too late. This is something that happens to me rather a lot. I am quite unfortunate in that way.

What I was doing, in actual fact, wasn’t thinking about cutting holes so much as trying to find a way of fitting my corner cabinet into a corner. Gran had given me the cabinet when she moved out of her house into a flat. It’s really cute! Very small and painted white, with pink and blue flowers all running round the edge, and tiny glass-panelled doors. Gran used to keep china ornaments in there. Shepherdesses and milkmaids and old-fashioned ladies selling balloons. I keep my collection of shells and fossils and interesting stones with holes in them. Gran knew I’d always loved her corner cabinet. I was so excited when she gave it to me! But the thing is, it is a corner cabinet. That is why it is shaped like a triangle. It has to stand in a corner.

I’ve only got two corners in my bedroom. This is because it’s the smallest room in the house, tucked away under the roof, and is shaped like a wedge of cheese. The big front bedroom is Mum and Dad’s; the one at the back is Angel’s; the little one over the garage is Tom’s; and the one the size of a broom cupboard belongs to me. Mum says that when Angel goes to Uni, Tom can have her room and I can have his. And when Tom goes to Uni, I can take my pick. But since Angel is only fifteen, it seems to me I’m going to be stuck in my broom cupboard for years to come.

I don’t really mind; I quite like my little bedroom. It’s cosy, like a nest. And I love the way the roof slopes down, and the way the window is at floor level. The only problem is, the lack of corners! My bed is in one, and my wardrobe in the other. I’d tried fitting Gran’s cabinet into the angle between the roof and the floor, but it was just the tiniest little bit too tall. If I could only slice a couple of centimetres off the bottom of it…

That was when it came to me. If I couldn’t slice anything off Gran’s cabinet, how about cutting a hole in the carpet? It just seemed like the obvious solution. What Dad calls lateral thinking. I reckoned he would be quite pleased with me. He is always telling us to “think outside the box” and “use your imagination”. That was exactly what I was doing!

I left Rags on the bed – Rags is our dog, though mostly he belongs to me – and went rushing downstairs to fetch Dad’s carpet-cutting knife from the kitchen drawer. It was Sunday morning, which meant everyone was at home, but fortunately neither Mum nor Dad seemed to be about. I say fortunately as they both (though ’specially Mum) have this inconvenient habit of demanding to know why you want things. Angel is bad enough. She was in the kitchen eating yoghurt and painting her toenails. She looked at me like I was some kind of criminal.

“What are you doing with that knife?” she said.

I said, “What knife?”

“That knife you’ve put up your sleeve.”

“Oh!” I said. “That.” And I gave this little laugh, to show that I was amused.

“That’s Dad’s Stanley knife, that is. You’re not supposed to play with it.”

“For your information,” I said, loftily, “I am not playing with it.”

“So what d’you want it for?”

“Ha!” I said. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Angel looked at me with narrowed eyes. “You’d better not be getting up to anything,” she said.

I gave this manic laugh. She gets me like that at times. Always so bossy. So interfering. What was it to her, what I got up to?

As I left the kitchen, I bumped into Tom on his way in.

“She’s got Dad’s Stanley knife,” said Angel.

Tom grunted. It is his way of carrying on a “Uh?” conversation.

He has upward grunts, like “Uh.” and downward grunts, like “Uh.”

“I want to cut something,” I said.

Tom said, “Uh.”

I do occasionally wonder whether Tom might be some kind of alien from outer space, but at least he is not bossy and he never, ever interferes. Mum says he is the strong and silent type. I wish my sister was the silent type! She is one of those people, she just can’t stop her tongue from clacking.

“On your own head be it!” she yelled, as I went back up the hall.

Dunno what she meant by that. Mostly, I take no notice of her.

I made a really good job of cutting a hole. I cut it triangular, to fit the cabinet. What I did, I stood the cabinet on a sheet of newspaper, then I marked all the way round with a felt tip pen, so I had a pattern, then I cut out the pattern and put it on the carpet and cut round the edge of it with Dad’s knife. I know it is wrong to boast, but I couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride. Mum always accuses me of being slapdash.

“You don’t take enough care, Frankie!”

But I took care of my hole! It worked like a dream; Gran’s cabinet was a perfect fit. Nobody would ever know I’d had to take a bit out of the carpet. There was only one slight problem, and that wasn’t my fault: the carpet seemed to be fraying, and coming apart where I’d cut it. Long fronds of nylon had started waving about.

Rags, who’d been lying on my bed watching me work, came bounding over to have a look. I told him to go away. I didn’t want his big furry head pushing itself in while I chopped off the fronds.

“Here,” I said. “Have this!”

I gave him the triangle of carpet to chew, and he jumped back happily on the bed with it.

“Good boy,” I said.

He is a good boy. Angel complains that he is too big and clumping, and that he smells when he gets wet, but she is only miffed cos she wanted a rabbit.

I’d just started to snip off some of the fronds when there was a knock at the door and Tom’s head appeared.

“Gotta come downstairs,” he said.

I was immediately suspicious. I said, “Why?”

“Mum wants you.”

“What for?” What had I done now? Honestly, I get the blame for everything in our house. Only the other day Mum accused me of breaking her flour sifter, just because I’d borrowed it to sift some earth for my wormery that I was making. All I can say is, it wasn’t broken when I put it back in the cupboard. I’m sure it wasn’t. But just, like, automatically, it has to be my fault.

“Is she cross?” I said.

Tom said, “Uh?”

“Cos I haven’t done anything!”

“Uh.”

Unless Angel had gone and told her about the knife?

Mum, Frankie’s gone off with Dad’s knife! She says she’s going to cut something.

Mum gets really fussed about stuff like that. Stuff you read about in the papers. People being stabbed and everything. But I wouldn’t ever, ever, take a knife out of the house. I know better than that! I’m not stupid. I just needed it to cut a hole in my carpet. “You coming, or what?” said Tom.

I clumped reluctantly behind him down the stairs. It was slowly occurring to me that maybe Mum wasn’t going to be too happy when she discovered what I’d done. If Angel hadn’t gone and told her about the knife, she wouldn’t ever have had to know. It wasn’t like it was obvious. Nobody was going to go into my bedroom and cry, “Ooh, look, there’s a hole in the carpet!” But if Angel had gone and opened her big clattering mouth…

Mum was in the kitchen, sitting at the table. Dad was also there. Angel was there. This looked serious.

“I haven’t done anything,” I said.

Angel gave a short screech of laughter. She sounds quite mad when she does that. I think, actually, she is a bit mad. (I mean mad loopy, not mad angry, though she’s usually that as well.)

“Take a seat,” said Mum. “And don’t look so worried! This isn’t about anything you may or may not have done. It’s a family conference. Tom, come and sit down! Don’t drape yourself over the sink. Right. OK! Now, then… you know my lady Mrs Duffy?”

I knew Mrs Duffy; she was one of Mum’s customers. Mum always refers to them as her ladies. They come to have hems taken up, and dresses made, and zips put in. Tom was looking blank. He never really notices people; only stuff that’s on his computer screen.

“Mrs Duffy’s the big lady,” I said.

Angel sucked in her breath. “That is so not the sort of thing to say!”

I didn’t see why. Mrs Duffy is big. Like Angel is thin as a pin. But it didn’t seem quite the right moment for starting an argument, so I ignored her and informed Tom that, “She has a daughter called Emilia.”

Tom said, “Uh?”

“Mum made her a special dewdrop outfit for her school’s dressing up day. She looked really sweet! Didn’t she, Mum?”

“She did,” said Mum. “And in fact it’s Emilia we have to talk about.”

I sat up straight and arranged my face into its listening shape. It’s the face I use in class when I want a teacher to know that I am paying attention and taking everything in. I liked the idea of talking about Emilia. Far better than talking about me and something I might or might not have done.

Mum explained how Mrs Duffy was going to have to go into hospital for an operation.

“She’ll be in for about two weeks, then she’ll need at least another two to get her strength back. She’s really worried about what’s going to happen to Emilia. She’d normally go to her nan’s, but her nan’s had a stroke and has had to go into a home, and her dad’s no longer on the scene, so that means she’s going to have to be fostered, which for a girl like poor little Emilia is really problematic.”

Tom said, “Uh?”

“She has learning difficulties,” said Mum. “And she’s never been away from home before, except to stay with her nan. Her mum’s in quite a state about it. So, I was wondering… how would you feel about Emilia coming to us? At least that way she’d be with people she knows. Well, she knows me, and she knows Frankie. It would really set Mrs Duffy’s mind at rest. On the other hand…” Mum paused. “I have to say that your dad is a bit dubious about it, but I need to know how you three feel. Angel?”

Angel shrugged. “I guess it’d be OK. So long as I’m not expected to do anything. I mean, how old is she?”

“She’s thirteen,” said Mum. “But she’s very young for her age. More like an eight-year-old. Tom? How about you?”

Tom said, “Uh?” And then, “Yeah. Fine.”

“Frankie?”

“I think she should definitely come,” I said.

“There is just one thing,” said Mum. “How would you and Angel feel about sharing a bedroom?”

I don’t know who was more appalled, me or Angel.

“You’ve got to be joking!” shrieked Angel.

“They’d end up throttling each other,” said Dad.

“I’d throttle her,” said Angel, casting me a venomous look. “Mum, please! I can’t have her coming and messing up my bedroom!”

Mum sighed. “I thought you’d say that.”

“Well, honestly! You know what she’s like.”

I might have retorted that I knew what she was like, screaming blue murder if anyone just dared to even breathe on any of her precious bits and pieces, but an idea had come whizzing into my brain.

“If Angel moved into my room,” I said, “me and Emilia could share hers!”

“You’d still mess things up,” snapped Angel.

“No, I wouldn’t, cos you could take everything out so’s I couldn’t contaminate it.”

Angel said, “Huh!” Mum looked at me, doubtfully.

“Frankie, are you sure?”

“I don’t mind sharing,” I said. “Just so long as it’s not with her.”

Angel stuck up a finger. This is such a rude thing to do. And Mum let her get away with it! I bet she wouldn’t have let me.

“Angel, could you bear to move into Frankie’s room?” she said. “Just for a few weeks? I know it’s asking a lot of you, but…”

We all waited. I could see the struggle going on inside Angel’s head. She hated the thought of me being in possession of her room while she was banished to my humble broom cupboard, but she obviously didn’t want to be thought mean or uncharitable. In the end, rather grumpily, she said, “I s’ppose I wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s really good of you,” said Mum. “I really appreciate that! Mrs Duffy will be so relieved.”

“Can I go now?” said Angel.

“Yes, yes! Off you go.”

Angel and Tom disappeared upstairs, Dad went off to his shed.

“So when will Emilia be coming?” I said.

“Some time in the week; Tuesday or Wednesday, I think. I won’t move you into Angel’s room until the last minute. But Frankie, I have to ask, are you really quite certain about this? Emilia’s a sweet girl, but it’s not going to be easy. She’s not like an ordinary thirteen-year-old.”

“No problem,” I said. “I’ll look after her. It’ll be good training!” I plan to be a social worker when I leave school. Either that or an aromatherapist. At any rate, something to do with helping people. Mum knows this. “I reckon the sooner I get started,” I said, “the better.”

“Well… so long as you’re sure.”

I told Mum that I was absolutely positive and went galloping back upstairs to admire my corner cabinet standing in its corner. It was a pity I wasn’t going to get the benefit of it for the next few weeks, but Angel needn’t think she was putting her stuff in there. I wasn’t turning out my fossil collection just for her.

I got a bit of a shock when I went into my room: a long bald strip of carpet had appeared between the cabinet and the bed. It was Rags! He’d discovered the loose fronds and was joyously tugging at them, making happy little growly noises, his bum stuck up in the air.

“What are you doing?” I shrieked. Rags started, guiltily. “Bad!” I said. “Bad!”

Rags rolled an eye, and grinned, then collapsed on to his back and frantically waved his paws at me. Poor little man! How could I be cross with him? It wasn’t his fault. All the same, it was a nasty moment. Mum could hardly be expected to miss a long bald strip in the middle of my carpet. I didn’t even have a rug I could use for covering it up. In the end, in desperation, I grabbed a pile of clothes and chucked them on the floor. I knew Mum wouldn’t clear them away cos she’d told me only last week she wasn’t going to tidy up after me any more.

“You must learn to be a bit more responsible. I’m not here to act as your servant.”

I was safe for the moment, but I knew it couldn’t last. Sooner or later I was going to be moved into Angel’s room and Angel was going to be moved into mine, and then the baldness would be revealed in all its horror. And the hole in the carpet. It was fraying fast, all round the edge, and was ballooning out where Rags had tugged.

There was only one thing to do. I raced back downstairs and into the kitchen.

“Mum?”

Where was she? I had to get to her before she rang Mrs Duffy.

“Mum!” I ran, panting, up the hall.

“What is it?” said Mum, coming out of the front room. “Is the house on fire?”

I said, “No, but I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s not fair on Angel, me moving into her room. You know how she hates people touching her things.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Mum. “Don’t touch them.”

“But she hates me even just looking at them. Just breathing on them. It might give her a nervous breakdown!”

“She’ll get over it,” said Mum.

“But it could be fatal!”

“I doubt it.”

I was really surprised at Mum. Who would have thought she could be so heartless?

I said, “Mu-u-um!”

“It’s no big deal,” said Mum. “So she’s sacrificing her bedroom for four weeks. It won’t do her any harm. I’m more concerned about you; Emilia can be quite clingy. I just hope you’re not biting off more than you can chew.”

“I’m not,” I said. “It’s Angel I’m worried about.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” said Mum, “but really quite unnecessary. In any case, it’s too late now, I’ve already rung Mrs Duffy. Emilia’s coming on Tuesday.”

I said, “Oh.”

“We’ll do the move tomorrow evening.”

“OK.” I trailed to the door, then suddenly turned back. “Maybe Emilia could sleep in my room, with me?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mum. “We couldn’t get a second bed in your room.”

“I could always sleep downstairs,” I said. Emilia by herself probably wouldn’t even notice a hole in the carpet. “I could sleep on the sofa!”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” said Mum.

“But, M—”

“You’re both sleeping in Angel’s room! That’s it, it’s all sorted.”

“B—”

“Frankie!”

I was doomed.

Chapter Two

“So then Mum said how would we feel if she came to live with us for a bit, and I said I wouldn’t mind, except if it meant sharing a bedroom with Angel, cos you know what she’s like.”

Jemma said, “Yuck, yes!”

Skye nodded, wisely. “Wouldn’t work.”

“Well, this is it,” I said. “I mean, imagine.”

It was Monday afternoon and we were walking back from school. Skye and Jem are my best mates. I’d been bursting all day to tell them about what had happened to my carpet and the terrible trouble I was going to be in, but what with one thing and another this was the first chance I’d had.

“Anyway,” I said, “I got this bright idea? I said if Angel moved into my room, me and her could share Angel’s room—”

“You and this girl?”

“Emilia. Yes! But—”

“What’s she like?”

“Oh –” I waved a hand. “She’s all right.” Emilia wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. What I wanted to talk about was this fearsome thing that was hanging over me. The hole in my carpet… “I don’t actually know her very well. The thing is—”

“Suppose you don’t get on?” said Jem.

“We’ll get on! It’s only for a few weeks.” I’m not like Angel, I don’t get all fussed and bothered about stuff. Angel is always on about her ‘stuff’ and how no one’s got to touch it. “The thing is—”

“Could seem like for ever,” said Skye.

“Well, it won’t, cos it’s not! The awfulthing is she’s coming tomorrow and tonight we’re going to swap bedrooms and Mum’s going to discover there’s a hole in my carpet!”

The words wailed out of me. There was a silence. Then Skye, very solemnly, said, “A hole.”

“In my carpet!”

They looked at each other. “You mean it’s, like, threadbare?” said Jem. “No! I cut it.”

“You what?” said Skye.

“I cut it!”

“Cut your carpet?”

Honestly! It is so annoying when people keep repeating everything you say.

“Yes,” I snapped. “I cut my carpet!”

“But why?”

“Cos I wanted Gran’s cabinet to fit in the corner and the ceiling wasn’t high enough!”

“So you cut the carpet.”

Really, for someone who is supposed to have this immense great brain, always getting A pluses and coming top of everything, Skye can be incredibly slow on the uptake. How many more times did I have to tell her? Yes, I cut the carpet!

“It would have been all right,” I said, “if it hadn’t gone and frayed round the edges. Nobody would have noticed. It was Rags that messed things up. He tugged at it. He’s made a bald patch!”

“Dunno what to say,” said Skye.

Jem sniggered. “Bet her mum’ll find something!”

She thought that was funny? One of my best friends thought it was funny that Mum was going to be mad at me? I glared at her.

“Well, sorry,” said Jem, “but really! You do the stupidest things.”

I resented that. “It wasn’t stupid,” I said, “it was the logical solution. If you can’t make the ceiling higher, you make the floor lower. I was just being practical! You can’t have a corner cabinet not standing in a corner.”

“Of course you can’t,” said Skye, soothingly. “You did what anyone would have done… you cut a hole in your carpet!”

She and Jem both fell about.

“It was only small,” I pleaded.

“Only small!” shrieked Jem, clutching herself round the middle.

“Now it’s this size –” Skye held her arms out in a circle. They collapsed on each other, helpless with foolish giggles.

Crossly, I said, “How was I to know it would start unravelling?”

“Unravelling!” squeaked Jem.

Screech. Hoot. These were supposed to be my friends.

Skye wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “Maybe you could say it was Rags that made the hole.”

“And get a poor little innocent dog into trouble? I couldn’t do that! In any case,” I said, “you can tell it’s been cut.” Not meaning to boast, I added that I had made a proper pattern. “I cut right round the edge of it with Dad’s knife. The one he uses for carpets. It’s really sharp! I was ever so careful, cos I didn’t want to cut myself. I just wanted my cabinet to go in a corner!”

“And now it’s in one,” said Skye, soothingly.

“Yes, but there’s a great bald patch!” I explained how for the moment I’d hidden the bald patch beneath a pile of clothes. “But Angel’s like this real tidiness freak? She’ll want it all cleared up. I tried suggesting me and Emilia share my room, I even offered to sleep downstairs, like on the sofa or something, so’s Emilia could have the room to herself, cos she probably wouldn’t mind a few clothes lying about the floor, but M—”

“How old is this girl?” said Jem.

I looked at her, annoyed. I felt like saying, “Pardon me, but I was in the middle of speaking.” It is really bad manners to interrupt a person.

“Emilia,” said Jem. “How old is she?”

“She’s thirteen, but—”

“Thirteen? You mean she’s Year 9?” Skye pulled a face. We were only Year 7 and most Year 9s, at our school at any rate, treated us like snot.

“I dunno what year she’s in. She has learning difficulties so she’s more like an eight year old? She goes to St Giles.” St Giles is the special school just a bit further down the road from where we go. “I expect probably she’ll need a bit of looking after.”

Skye said, “What kind of looking after?”

“Well – you know! Just making sure she’s OK. I promised Mum we’d be responsible for her.”

“Us?” Skye was starting to sound a bit alarmed.

“She’s ever so sweet,” I said. “She won’t be any trouble.”

“You reckon?”

“It’ll just be, like, seeing her to school and picking her up again, checking she doesn’t get lost. That kind of thing. Actually,” I said, “I’m quite looking forward to it.” Well, I had been.

Just at the moment all I could think of was what Mum was going to say.

Jem put her arm through mine. “I don’t mind helping look after her,” she said.

I beamed at her, gratefully; at least I had the support of one of my friends. Skye was gnawing at her lip, her forehead all crinkled. She is such a pessimist! If I listened to what she had to say I would never go anywhere or do anything. I suppose it is what comes of having this massive great brain, like a computer. Instead of just looking straight ahead, she whizzes frantically about, all up and down the side roads, in and out of blind alleys, searching for things that could go wrong. A bit too complicated for my liking. I think I am quite a straightforward type, though Mum would probably say I tend to act without thinking, which is what she said when I accidentally set fire to Dad’s garden shed and almost certainly what she was going to say when I tried to explain why I’d cut a hole in my carpet…

I gulped as we reached Sunnybrook Gardens, which is where the three of us go our different ways.

“Wish me luck,” I said.

“What for?” said Jem. “Oh! Yes. Your carpet.” She giggled. “Hope your mum doesn’t get too mad!”

“Blame it on Rags,” urged Skye.

Maybe I could. After all, it was sort of his fault. If he hadn’t chewed the fronds I could have snipped them off and nobody would ever have known. I could tell Mum that I’d cut the hole after he’d done his chewing. I could say I’d been trying to tidy things up and the knife had slipped, so then I’d thought I might as well make the hole triangle-shaped and put the cabinet on top of it. Yes! That would work.

I crashed through the front door, all prepared with my story (in case Mum had already made the dreaded discovery and was waiting for me like a great hovering cloud at the top of the stairs). But then Rags came bounding down the hall, full of his usual doggy ecstasy at seeing me again, and I knew that I just couldn’t do it.

“It’s all right,” I whispered. “I won’t blame you!”

While me and Rags were having a hug-in, the door of the front room opened and Mum looked out.

“Oh, Frankie, there you are. I’ll be with you in a minute, I’m just seeing one of my ladies. You and Angel go and make a start on your bedrooms. Tell Angel she doesn’t have to move every last item… concentrate on clothes.”

I said, “OK.” Trying to make like it was no big deal and that my heart wasn’t already starting to sink like a lead balloon.

Angel was in the kitchen, texting someone. She is always texting. I said, “Mum wants us to get on with moving things.”

Angel pulled a face.

“She says not every last item. Just clothes, mainly.”

Angel said, “If you think I’m leaving all my stuff for you to get your grubby hands on—”

There was a pause, while she went on texting.

I said, “What if I do?”

Irritably, she said, “Do what?”

“Think what you just said.”

“Then you’d better think again!” Angel snapped her phone shut and went flouncing ahead of me, up the hall. “Let’s get this over with. And you can clear up all your mess,” she added.

I said, “What mess?”

“The mess in your room.”

“How do you know there’s any mess in my room?”

“Cos there always is. Just because I have to exist in a cupboard for the next few weeks doesn’t mean I have to live in a tip.”

I sniffed as I went up the extra little flight of stairs to my room. The clothes were still on the floor, where I’d left them. I was about to pick them up when I had another of my bright ideas. It just struck me suddenly, as these things do. I think I must have a very active sort of brain.

I left the clothes where they were, seized an armful of stuff from the wardrobe and went plunging down to Angel’s room, crossing paths with Angel on the way back up.

“Mess,” she said, as she came back down. “What are you doing with that rug?”

“I thought you ought to take it with you. Cos, you know, I might spill stuff on it or something.”

“Good thinking,” said Angel.

I galloped back up, kicked the clothes out of the way, and carefully laid the rug on top of the bald patch. It looked a bit odd, cos of sticking out at an angle, but at least it covered things up. It would have been perfectly all right if Angel hadn’t gone and interfered. She came in with another load of clothes, took one look at the rug and said, “It’s supposed to go here, by the side of the bed.”

“That’s boring,” I said. “That’s where everybody has them.”

“Yes, for a reason,” said Angel. “It’s where they go.”

“Not if you’re being creative.”

She isn’t creative; that is the problem. I don’t think she has very much in the way of imagination. Before I could stop her she’d snatched up the rug, revealing the bald patch in all its horror. I cringed. I’d been secretly hoping that by some miracle it might have shrunk a bit during the day, but if anything it seemed to have grown even worse.

Angel shrieked, “Oh my God!”

That was the moment when Mum appeared in the doorway.

“Now what?” she said. There was a distinct note of tetchiness in her voice – and that was before she’d seen the bald patch. It didn’t bode well. “Don’t tell me you two are at it already?”