by Sarah Webb
Hello and welcome to Love and Other Drama-Ramas!
This book features a very special boy — Bailey Otis. Readers often ask me whether any of the “Ask Amy Green” characters are based on real people, and in Bailey’s case the answer is yes. When I was thirteen, a dark-haired boy used to follow me home from school. He never said a word, just walked a few steps behind me — which was a little unnerving.
One day I’d had enough of this creepy behavior, so I spun around and asked him what he was playing at. He shrugged and said that I looked nice and he just wanted to talk to me. Then he gave me this lovely shy smile from under his floppy fringe.
So we talked.
It turned out we had a lot in common — we were both big readers and loved old movies — and we quickly became friends. He told me his mum had died recently, and he was having a tough time dealing with it. A few months after we first spoke, he and his dad moved away and we lost contact, but I’ve always wondered what happened to him. I hope he’s happy.
Bailey Otis was inspired by my lost friend. I hope you enjoy Amy, Clover, and Bailey’s story.
Best,
Sarah XXX
“Adults are crazy,” I moan to my best friend, Mills, as we trudge through mounds of soggy autumn leaves, sending a musty smell into the air, on our way to school. “Dave’s convinced Mum’s going to elope with the Irish Surfing Chef. He’s completely delusional.” (Dave is Mum’s much-put-upon fiancé.)
Mills’s eyes widen, and she gives a little shiver. “You mean Finn Hunter? Holy moly, Amy, I’d elope with him! He’s gorgeous. Those smoldering green eyes. Those abs.” She pauses and looks at me. “Did Dave catch your mum kissing the telly while Finn was on?”
I smile. “Nope, she’s only ghostwriting Finn’s book for him — which means they’ll be working up close and personal. That’s why Dave is so worried.”
“Ghostwriting?” She frowns. “Your mum and Finn Hunter are writing a horror story together? Haunted houses, vampires, that sort of thing?”
I laugh. “Nothing to do with spooks or werewolves or ax-wielding maniacs. Mum’s going to help him write his book. Finn will tell her what he’d like in the book — characters, plot, that kind of stuff — she’ll make notes and then write it for him. All the stars have ghostwriters, apparently — Katie Price, Madonna. Sounds pretty lazy, if you ask me, but if it pulls Mum out of the Mama Doldrums, then hallelujah.”
“Is she still in one of her funny moods?” (Mills knows Mum only too well.)
“Yep. Gothic glum for days now. Anyone would think she’d morphed into Bella Swan. But working with Finn is bound to cheer her up. She’ll be spending hours and hours with him, and some of the meetings will be in our house.” I wiggle my eyebrows at Mills. “Imagine — just the two of them, huddled over Mum’s laptop.”
Mills squeals. She jumps up and down on the spot and clutches my arm. “Can I meet him, Ames?” she begs. “Please, please, pleeeease?”
“Of course. But keep it to yourself. No one’s supposed to know that Finn has a ghostwriter. I wish we could tell the D4s, though. They’d be so envious.” (The D4s are the mean girls at our school, Saint John’s.)
“It’s a shame, all right. But forget the D4s — I want details, girl, details. What’s Finn like in real life? And if the book’s not a gory bloodfest, is it one of those swoony romance novels my mum reads? The ones with gorgeous millionaires and champagne and, you know, kissing and stuff?” Mills’s face goes a little pink.
I laugh. “Not exactly.”
And I tell her the whole story. . . .
It all started yesterday late afternoon, when Mum made a rather startling announcement in the kitchen. “Remember the book I was hired to ghostwrite?” she said, looking at me and Dave smugly. (Mum’s a television scriptwriter, but she hasn’t worked since my baby sister, Evie, was born eight months ago.) “Well, I have news,” she continued, ignoring Evie, who was squirming in her high chair and throwing mushed-up food around as usual. “I’m starting work on it next week. Would you like to know the title?”
“The suspense is killing me,” I said with a bored sigh.
“Less of the Miss Snark, Amy Green,” Mum said. “The book — my very first proper published novel — is called Hot Love.” Her eyes were glistening. She was clearly very excited about the whole thing.
Dave grinned at her. “Hot Love? Bring it on, Sylvie.” He gave a saucy wink.
I scrunched up my nose. “Eeeuw, please. I’m only thirteen, people. Remember?”
“Amy’s right, Dave!” Mum flicked a tea towel at him, hitting him on the head. “There are quite enough children in this house already, thank you very much.” She tightened the belt of her waffle-cotton bathrobe, which she was wearing over her smart black trousers and white shirt. It looked pretty odd.
“What’s it about, then, Mum?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. (My parental types can be so embarrassing sometimes.)
“I’m not sure exactly. The line was pretty bad, and I couldn’t really hear what Britta — she’s the celebrity’s agent — was saying. But from the title, I guess it’s chick lit. Maybe set in the Caribbean or something. Lots of sun, and hunky men and bed-hopping.”
“Mum!” I could feel my face reddening.
Dave smiled. “Sex is a part of life, Amy. Better get used to it.” He started to sing “Circle of Life” from The Lion King.
I cringed. They’re both mortifying. Don’t they get it — I don’t want to talk about hot love, bed-hopping, or S-E-X with grown-up-ians. Not now, not ever.
“In fact, Britta will be here soon,” Mum said. “I hope you’ll keep Evie and Alex well away from the living room, Dave. It’s an important meeting.”
I stared at her. It’s official: adults are certifiably crazy. Why would you hold an important meeting in our living room? It’s full of Thomas the Tank Engine toys and smells of Evie’s poopy nappies.
“Why didn’t you suggest somewhere glam like a posh hotel or something, Mum?” I asked. “The living room’s a state.”
“Britta said it was easier to meet here since she was in the area anyway. She’s bringing her celebrity client with her.”
Dave was also staring at her. “Hang on a sec. That meeting is now? I have to cover for someone at work today. I told you that earlier.”
“Dave! You absolutely did not.”
Dave ran his hand over his shorn head. “I did. You must have forgotten. Your brain’s like mush these days.”
“How dare you? And what on earth am I going to do now? Britta will be here any second. I can’t have Alex running around my feet; it’ll look so unprofessional.” (She had a point — Alex is a toddler terrorist.)
Dave and Mum’s eyes swiveled in my direction at exactly the same time.
I screwed up my face. “Please, no. Not the babies. Anything but the babies.” I was only half joking.
Dave put his hand in the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a crumpled ten-euro note. “Please, Amy,” he begged.
“Fine. As usual I’m just the resident house elf at Fifteen Sycamore Park. But if Alex bites me again, I’m biting back.”
To be honest, I wasn’t all that bothered. Anything’s better than homework — even babysitting — and if it saved Dave’s bacon, I was happy to help. After a rather shaky start, I’ve started to really like Dave. He’s kind and he cares about Mum and the babies, and me, I guess — more than he cares about himself sometimes, I think.
He and Mum are getting married on New Year’s Eve, if they ever get around to organizing it, that is. Dave used to be a musician, but now he’s a nurse at Saint Vincent’s Hospital, and his work shifts are all over the place, so he gets very little time at home. Mum never stops moaning abo
ut it and the fact that when he is at home, he spends all his time on his Dinoduck songs. He’s hoping to be the next big thing in toddler rock. It’ll never, ever happen, though. Trust me, I’ve heard the songs. And since Mum is so busy with the babies, the wedding plans are moving very slowly. At least the bachelorette party is sorted out — my crazy seventeen-year-old aunt Clover, me, and Monique, Mum’s best friend, are planning that!
“Better get going,” Dave said. He held Mum’s head and kissed her on both cheeks. “Best of luck with Britta and her star. I’m dying to hear who it is. Chin up, and remember to smile.”
Mum just nodded, her lower lip wobbling as she watched Dave leave. I think she was wishing she could go with him. (She can be a bit emotionally fragile sometimes.)
Evie swung her spoon while Mum was distracted, and a lump of puréed apple caught Mum’s shoulder and then splattered to the floor. Ah, the bathrobe did have a point!
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right with the babies, Amy?” Mum asked, wiping the splodge away with some damp paper towels. “Maybe I should ask Gramps or Clover to help.”
Clover — now there was an idea. I hadn’t seen her for days, and I was starting to have withdrawal symptoms. Life’s always much more fun with Clover around to shake, rattle, and roll things up. Besides, we had stuff to talk about — Mum’s fab bachelorette party for one!
After settling Evie on a rug in the backyard and handing Alex his favorite fire engine, I threw Clover a quick text.
The doorbell rang, and I peered in through the kitchen window. Mum was scrabbling to untie her bathrobe and brushing her hair off her face with her hands, all seemingly at the same time — and she was practically hyperventilating.
“I’ll get it, Mum,” I said, coming back inside. I figured she needed a few minutes to gather her wits (what she had left of them).
She smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Amy. That must be Britta. Show her into the living room, will you? I’ll be there in a second.” She took several deep breaths and wiped her palms on the front of her trousers.
I walked into the hall and swung the front door open, expecting to see a woman standing there. But instead, it was Finn Hunter, the Irish Surfing Chef from the telly! What on earth was he doing on our doorstep? I could feel my blood thumping in my chest, and I couldn’t say a thing, I just froze, gawking at him.
“Hiya,” he said, giving me a warm smile. His silver thumb ring winked in the light as he pushed his sun-bleached fringe out of his green eyes. He had a distinctive face, long and angular, with a nutty-brown surfer’s tan. In fact, his features were so loaded with sharp edges, you could cut yourself on them. He shouldn’t be good-looking but, boy, is he!
“I’m here to see Sylvie,” he said, which was just as well since I was still standing in dumbfounded silence and the atmosphere was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. “I’m Finn. Finn Hunter. I’m here about the book. Britta sent me. Can I come in?”
Holy moly, as Mills would say. Finn Hunter was Mum’s celebrity. She was going to freak out. The Irish Surfing Chef!
“Sorry, yes, of course.” I stood back.
As he brushed past me, I got a waft of old leather and the sea. He was wearing a beaten-up brown leather jacket and an old Guns n’ Roses T-shirt over baggy combat shorts and black flip-flops. Cuter and cuter.
“Mum, your guest is here,” I shouted into the kitchen, and then showed him into the living room, kicking Alex’s wooden train set under the sofa as I went. “Sorry about the mess.”
He gave a laugh. “No worries. You should see my place.”
Mum walked in the door straightening her shirt. She stopped dead and stared when she saw Finn, her jaw dropping caveman low.
“Ugghhh,” she managed eventually, adding to the caveman impression. Her face had gone Barbie pink.
Mum’s mad about Finn Hunter. She thinks he’s much hotter than Jamie Oliver, and that’s saying a lot. I bet Mum never expected him to turn up in her living room!
“You’re the . . . celebrity?” she said, spluttering only slightly.
Finn smiled. “You know who I am, then?”
Mum nodded wordlessly.
“And you’re Sylvie, right?”
She nodded again.
“Britta sends her apologies,” he went on. “Had to fly out to Portugal at the last minute to rescue one of her clients. Said to go ahead without her. To talk about the book and stuff.”
Mum’s eyes goggled. “I’m going to be ghostwriting your book?”
He shrugged. “I guess. If you’ll have me.”
“Of course I’ll have you.” And Mum’s face colored even deeper. She shook her head and giggled. “I’m sorry. It’s just so weird seeing you in the flesh. And close enough to touch. Not that I would, of course.” She colored still more.
“Cool,” Finn said, grinning at her. “In that case, welcome to Team Hunter. I’ve heard great things about you from Britta. You used to write for Fair City, yeah?”
“Senior scriptwriter,” Mum said proudly. “I’ve been trying to get a book published for years. This is a really exciting opportunity for me. Have you started plotting it out yet?”
“I tried bashing out a few pages, but I didn’t have much luck. It was all over the place. I’m dyslexic, you see, and I can only type with two fingers. That’s why Britta suggested getting professional help.”
“Dyslexic?” I piped up with interest. (Seth, my boyfriend, is dyslexic. He hates showing anyone his handwriting, and he’s pretty sensitive about his spelling too.)
“Yeah,” Finn said. “Failed all my school exams. Could barely string a sentence together on paper. And we had no special teachers or anything like that in my day. They just thought I was thick. I spent nearly every afternoon in detention for giving cheek in class, but I only talked back ’cause I was so frustrated. The school pretty much wrote me off. Pack of kooks.” He broke off. “Sorry, it still gets to me. Look, that’s one of the reasons I want to do this book — to show kids you don’t have to ace your exams to be successful. You can do anything if you set your mind to it and work hard. The most important thing is to find your passion in life. The thing that makes life spark for you, you know? Mine’s cooking.” He grinned and ran his hands through his hair. “Sorry, end of lecture. Oh, and Britta says the book will be good for my profile — all the other celebrity chefs have memoirs.”
“Finn, did you just say memoir?” Mum asked quietly.
“Sure. I’m a chef. I’d hardly be trying to write the next great Irish novel. The publishers want to throw in some nonsense about my food philosophy. I don’t really have one, other than using fresh ingredients, so you can just make that bit up. You’re used to inventing things, Sylvie, right? And we can throw in a few of my fave recipes for good measure. Britta suggested calling it Pot Luck: The Finn Hunter Story. What do you think?”
“Pot Luck?” Mum whispered to herself, her face pale.
“You OK, Mum?” I asked.
She nodded, although she looked flabbergasted — so much for her being the next Marian Keyes or Cecelia Ahern. And she hates cooking. She’s always complaining about having to cook for us every night. The problem is I happen to know she’s in debt and already counting on the book money to pay for some of the wedding expenses. Oops. It looked like Mum was in serious trouble.
“Do you like cooking, Sylvie?” Finn asked her.
I tried to think sad “pet dying” thoughts to stop myself from laughing hysterically.
Mum looked at Finn for a moment, as though considering his question. “I used to. Before I had children. These days my favorite kind of food is food cooked by somebody else.”
Finn gave a deep chuckle. “I hear you. Me too.”
The doorbell rang again, so I excused myself to answer it. I was hoping it was Clover — she’d die when she saw Finn. I swung open the door and grinned. My wish had been granted.
“Clover, you’ll never guess who’s sitting on our sofa,” I hissed before she’d even had a cha
nce to step inside the door. “Only the Irish Surfing Chef!”
Clover gasped. “What? No way, dude. That’s awesome,” she said, imitating his accent. (Although Finn’s originally from Northern Ireland, on his show he sometimes sounds more like an Aussie surfer than an Irish guy.) “What’s he doing here?”
“Remember that novel Mum thought she was writing, Hot Love? It’s actually his memoir. Pot Luck.”
Clover winced. “Poor Sylvie. She must be crushed — she thought this was going to be her big break. But she’s got to be psyched about spending time with Finn. I wonder what Dave will make of it. He’s not exactly a Finn Hunter fan. Tell me, is Mr. Awesome as showstopping in the flesh?”
I grinned. “Affirmative. I think Mum’s still in shock.”
Clover crossed herself. “Bless me, Beanie, I’m going in. Watch my back in case I faint.”
And with that, she bounded into the living room. She stopped dead in front of Finn to gawk at him. “Amy’s right,” she said. “You’re stunning in real life.”
My cheeks danced with embarrassment. “Clover!”
Luckily Alex started yelling ultra loudly. Saved by the baby!
“I’ll get him, Mum,” I said, “and leave you guys to talk business. Come on, Clover.”
“Thanks, Amy.” Mum cleared her throat and glared at Clover, who wasn’t budging. Clover’s eyes were glued to Finn’s cheekbones, so I grabbed her arm and pulled. She was still tinkling her fingers at him as I yanked her out the door. “Bye, Finn,” she said. “It was epic meeting you. Back to the groms now.”
I closed the door firmly behind her. “Groms?” I asked her.
“Grommets. Little baby surfers. You need to watch Finn’s show more, Beanie. And did you check out that face? Smokin’.” She licked her finger, pressed it against my arm, and made a sizzling noise. “Pity he’s such an oldie. He’s at least twenty-seven. But I wonder if Saffy would go for a Goss piece on cute Irish teen surfers. What do you think, teen journo guru?”
Clover’s the agony aunt for a teen magazine called the Goss, and I help her solve all the readers’ problem letters. Clover also writes features and sometimes gets to interview Hollywood movie stars, like Matt Munroe and Efa Valentine, which is très cool. Clover was starting college the following week, so I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. Sometimes I daydream about taking over for her and calling the problem page “Ask Amy Green,” with a pic of me at the top and my own special logo — but I know that’s not going to happen. Saffy, Clover’s editor, is hardly going to employ a thirteen-year-old. So for the moment I’m just Clover’s helper — which is still a lot of fun!