Cathy Hopkins lives in London with her husband and two cats, Emmylou and Otis. The cats appear to be slightly insane. Their favourite game is to run from one side of the house to the other as fast as possible, then see if they can fly if they leap high enough off the furniture. This is usually at three o’clock in the morning and they land on anyone who happens to be asleep at the time.
Cathy spends most of her time locked in a shed at the bottom of the garden pretending to write books but is actually in there listening to music, hippie dancing and checking her Facebook page.
Apart from that, Cathy has joined the gym and spends more time than is good for her making up excuses as to why she hasn’t got time to go.
Big thanks to Brenda Gardner, Melissa Patey and all the fab team at Piccadilly. And thanks as always to Steve Lovering for all his support and help, especially in accompanying me to all the locations in the books and taking photos of them.
First published in Great Britain in 2006
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
This edition published 2008
Text copyright © Cathy Hopkins, 2006
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The right of Cathy Hopkins to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 85340 973 8 (paperback)
eISBN: 978 1 84812 305 2
3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD
Typeset by M Rules, London
Set in Garamond and Fineprint
Cover design by Simon Davis
Cover illustration by Susan Hellard
Contents
1. All Hail My Fellow Nutters
2. Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise
3. Holy Crapoly
4. Revenge
5. Prague
6. Homeward Bound
7. Heartbreak
8. Blair Twitch Project
9. The Fab Four
10. Sleepover
11. Past Times
12. Double Vision
13. Get Him, Rover
14. Maker Festival
15. Mud City
‘SCHOOL’S OUT FOR SUMMER!’ I sang from the aisle at the front of the bus while waving my arms up in the air à la rock-concert style.
‘Schooooool’s out for summer!’ echoed half the bus, including my mates Lia, Cat, Squidge and Mac who were sitting in a line on the back row. Even Mr McKee, the bus driver, joined in with gusto. Usually he’s Mr Grumpypoo and would have asked me to sit down and shut up ages ago. He clearly welcomed the upcoming break as much as the rest of us. The non-singers were mainly old-age pensioners travelling back from shopping in Torpoint. Most of them smiled meekly and did that rolling-the-eyes thing to each other, meaning, Ohhhhhhh, the youth of today! What are they like?! And don’t you wish they’d shut up?
Squidge and Mac had actually broken up a couple of weeks earlier than the rest of us as they were both in Year Eleven and had been doing their GSCEs whereas Cat, Lia and I have just finished Year Nine. We were all in today, though, because our headmistress, Mrs Peterson, had insisted that everyone attended the last day to tidy up, return library books and so on.
‘Six whole weeks without lessons,’ Cat said, grinning as I made my way down the aisle to the back and swung in to sit next to her when the singing session had ended. ‘Without homework. Without having to get up in the morning. Yippity-doo-daa-yippity-ay. Life doesn’t get much better than this.’
‘Six whole weeks to hang out at Whitsand Beach with you guys,’ I said, ‘checking out the tourist talent. We’ve got the Maker Festival at the end of July so loads of people will come for that, but before then it’s going to be sun, sea and shopping. I have to look my tip-top best for the festival so I’ll have to find an outfit.’
Musicians come from all over the country to play at the Maker Festival and this year I was going to be one of the featured artists. I couldn’t wait. It was going to be the highlight of the summer for me because although yes, I was glad to be on holiday, another part of me was dreading the coming weeks. I planned to spend as much time as possible outdoors, away from home and away from the uncomfortable atmosphere that there had been between my parents lately. Their constant bickering was doing my head in. I figured it shouldn’t be difficult getting out a lot as most people down here do exactly that in the summer – boating, swimming, sunbathing, surfing, hiking, picnicking. The area where we live is called the Rame Peninsula; it’s in Cornwall and from May to September it is flooded with tourists. It makes a refreshing change for us locals as, the rest of the year, the place is like ghost town. Pretty and quaint, but quiet. Everyone knows everyone else’s business and passes it round, as there’s nothing else to do. Summer means new blood passing through. New faces. And hopefully lots of new boys.
‘And let the celebrations start this evening,’ said Squidge from my left where he was sitting next to Lia. ‘All hail, my fellow nutters. As self-appointed King of Rame this is my decree. Get home. Dispose of thy rucksacks, school bags, etc, etc. Bunging them under the bed where they can gather dust until September is heartily recommended. Wash away all traces of the classroom and be in my back garden for the first barbie of the hols, followed by a DVD. I’ve got The Blair Witch Project—’
‘Brill,’ Mac interrupted. ‘I’ve seen it, but I don’t mind watching it again. It’s a good spooky film about a bunch of kids who stay out in the woods one night and then woohooohooooo . . . disappear one by one . . .’
‘Oh no,’ groaned Lia, ‘I hate horror films.’
‘So do I,’ said Cat. ‘Becca, you could try out your number for the festival on us instead. Do you know what you’re going to sing yet?’
‘Not sure. I’ve been practising a few different songs, but I might sing one of my own,’ I replied.
Everyone went quiet for a few moments. I know my mates all think I have a good voice, but they don’t rate my songwriting, I know they don’t. Maybe in the past I have written some duds, but I’ll show them. One day I’ll write something totally mind-bogglingly brill.
‘Yeah . . . er . . . that would be great,’ said Cat. ‘But maybe keep an open mind at this stage, hey? We’d love to hear what you’ve done though.’
‘And then can we watch Blair Witch?’ asked Mac.
‘Oh noooooo,’ said Lia. ‘Let’s just listen to Becca sing. So much nicer.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Squidge. ‘I’ll hold your hand. It will be great. A bit of nosh, a few songs from our local star singer and then the movie. Heaven. The proprietor – that’s me – will be serving sausages, beans and er . . . sausages and beans. And possibly a burger if you’re lucky. And actually it might be my dad who does the barbie, seeing as I am still somewhat out of action, but I shall be there handing the nosh out and you can’t ask for more than that.’
Squidge had an accident at the beginning of June in which he was knocked off his bike and he hurt his arm and broke his leg. He’s going to be OK, but he’s still on crutches until the cast comes off his leg.
‘I’ll bring fizz and crisps,’ said Cat. ‘Dad said he’d let me have some from the shop.’
Cat’s dad runs the local convenience store and sells just about anything and everything. He started off as a grocer and then the post office closed down, so he started selling stamps. And then the flower shop closed, so he started selling a few plants, packets of
seeds and flowers. And then the health shop closed, so he started selling organic and healthy produce. If he hasn’t got something, all you have to do is ask for it and it will be on sale a few days later. We tease him, saying that he’s slowly taking over the world – building up his empire.
‘And I will bring the royal pud,’ said Lia. ‘Meena is making one up for us as we speak. Banoffee pie. Yum.’
Meena is the Axfords’ housekeeper. Lia’s dad is Zac Axford, a rich and famous rock star – or at least he was back in the eighties, but he still has a huge following. Their house is awesome. In fact it’s not a house – it’s called Barton Hall and is so big, it’s more like a hotel. The family caused quite a stir when they first arrived in the area a few years ago and I think loads of locals were worried that their peaceful life was to be ruined and that the Axfords would be really annoying and throw wild parties every week with naked girls jumping in swimming pools, drugs and general ‘carrying on like maniacs’ as Mrs Edwards from the chippie put it. They’re not like that at all. In fact, they’re very normal apart from the occasional fab party.
‘And I shall bring my gorgeous self,’ said Mac. ‘And Mum promised she’d bake us a double-choc layer cake. My favourite.’
Mac is the newcomer to the area. He’s been here just over a year and moved down with his mum and his sister, Jade, when his parents split up. They live with his gran and his mum now runs the house as a bed and breakfast. She has fabtastic taste. Very Elle Decoration. When they lived in London, she used to be a successful caterer to the rich and famous and she still does a bit of cooking, although, apart from the Axfords, people down here aren’t really the sort to have posh private dinner parties. She bakes the most scrumptious cakes in the whole world. I wish my mum was a good cook. I can’t remember the last time she baked a cake. I think it was for my ninth birthday. Since then she’s bought ready-made ones from the supermarket which I guess is OK. It’s just that sometimes I miss those times when we’d make up the cake mixture together and she’d let me lick the bowl and then put smarties on the icing.
‘I shall bring . . . whatever I can find in the fridge,’ I said.
And that won’t be much, I thought as I envisaged the contents of our kitchen. Mum’s the breadwinner in our family, so lately it’s been left to Dad to do the shopping and housework. And it’s not exactly something he shows much talent for. Not that he doesn’t work – he does. He just doesn’t have a proper job or earn much money. He’s writing a novel, so I hope it sells and we’ll be stonking rich one day, but for the time being, ‘times is ’ard’ as Dad says in a put-on country-yokel voice. He brings in a tiny amount from selling the organic vegetables he grows at the back of our garden, but otherwise all the money that comes in is from Mum’s job, which is teaching English as a foreign language over in Plymouth. Dad’s idea of shopping and cooking is takeaway with boiled veg from the garden thrown in. The takeaway is one of the things that makes Mum cross, as she says it’s expensive. Dad says at least the vegetables don’t cost anything. We’re forever running out of things like loo paper and light bulbs – another thing that makes Mum cross, but then she seems to be cross about everything these days. One of my resolutions for the holidays was to go through all the kitchen cupboards, make lists and help get Dad organised. Personally I think Mum could have been more helpful in that area, but it was as if she was scoring points against him by letting him fail. They think I don’t know they haven’t been getting on, but I’m not stupid. Or deaf. I never hear them laughing anymore. And they rarely sit and snuggle up on the sofa the way they used to when we first moved here. Secretly I’m worried that they might be thinking of splitting up. Nothing has been said as far as I know, but I’ve seen the soaps on telly. I know the signs.
I glanced over at Lia who was laughing with Squidge about something. Sometimes I couldn’t help but feel envious of her even though she is one of my best friends. She has it all. She is the most stunning girl I have ever seen. Tall and slim with long white-blond hair and silver-blue eyes. Cat calls Lia and me Rose White and Rose Red because I am also tall but my hair is long and red. Titian red, Mac says. Strawberry blond, I say. Mac says that my hair is my best feature, like silk. I get it from my mum. I think it’s probably the only thing we have in common besides the fact that we both live with Dad. I’m much more like Dad in looks as we’re both tall and have blue-green eyes and the same wide mouth. Lia’s whole family is good-looking. Her mum was a model. Her big sister Star is a model in London. Her brother, Ollie, has Zac’s dark hair and he’s a looker too. And her parents get on so well. I sooo wish mine still did. It worries me a lot, and sometimes lately I don’t like going home because of the arguing or, even worse, that awful silence between them that is louder than any angry words. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t an only child so I could talk it all over with a brother or sister. I also wish we had a housekeeper like the Axfords do. It would be so brilliant to come home to a cooked supper every night and it might stop some of the stupid rows . . . Yes, that’s it. We need a housekeeper to look after us all. I shall tell Dad as soon as I get home.
‘So what’s everyone doing tomorrow?’ I asked.
Mac pulled a face. ‘Mum’s roped me in for cleaning the rooms we use for bed and breakfast. That crowd are coming down from London.’
Cat’s face lit up. ‘Really? Brill. I didn’t realise they were coming so soon. TJ and her family aren’t arriving until Monday. Can’t wait, as we’ll get to hang out with them too.’
‘Oh yeah. Them,’ I said. Cat hadn’t stopped talking about this new crowd for weeks. I don’t know why she’s so enthusiastic about their group as she’s only met one of them so far – a girl called TJ. She was down here from London in the half-term with her mum and dad and she and Cat got talking on the beach. It turned out that, unaware of each other, both of them had been seeing Lia’s brother, Ollie. It backfired on poor Ollie, as the girls became friends and he got the old heave-ho. Still, serves him right and I bet he’s not that bothered because, being a major cutie, he probably has hundreds of girls falling over him.
Since then, TJ’s dad has bought Rose Harbour Cottage near Cremyl to keep as a holiday home, so it looks like they’re going to be down here a lot. Cat and TJ have been e-mailing and talking on the phone. I’m not sure how I feel about it as Cat is my friend and, although I have Lia, she’s always with Squidge these days and I don’t want Cat stolen from me. She seems overly-impressed with TJ and can’t wait to meet her other mates, Lucy, Izzie and Nesta. They’re a year older than us and they sound sophisticated. Being from London, they’re probably really with it, but I do think that Cat is acting a bit like a kid with a crush. Apparently TJ has long dark hair and Cat’s started growing her short, dark hair so that she can look like TJ. Personally, I think a person needs to find their own individual style.
‘They’re arriving in the morning,’ said Mac. ‘The Lovering family. Mr and Mrs, two boys and a girl – Lucy. One of the boys is coming with them tomorrow and another coming later.’
‘And Lucy’s already taken,’ said Cat. ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking, Mac.’
‘Oh you do, do you? So what am I thinking, Miss Know-It-All?’
‘You’re thinking: new girl. Wahey.’
Mac laughed. ‘You got me. How did you know?’
You’re transparent.’
‘No. How do you know that she’s taken?’ Mac asked.
‘Oh. TJ told me. Lucy has a thing with Nesta’s elder brother. It’s a lurve thing. I told you, Mac. It’s Izzie who’s single.’
Mac shrugged his shoulders. ‘Forgot. I knew it was one of them. Anyway, whatever. As long as one of them is free for the Macster to try his charms out on.’
Cat and I rolled our eyes. It’s not that Mac isn’t fit – he is. So’s Squidge for that matter. Girls always check both of them out wherever they go. Squidge is tall and dark and has a lovely open face and Mac is shorter with straw-blond hair and finer features, but he’s not the Casanova he likes to thi
nk he is. He’s too much of a sweetie and I should know, as he was my boyfriend for a while. We called it a day after Easter this year, as both of us felt that we didn’t want to be too tied down yet. Since then Mac has fancied himself as a player, but he couldn’t be an Ollie Axford if he tried.
As the bus turned the corner, my stop came into view.
‘Later,’ I said as I got up to get off.
There was the most wonderful smell of baking wafting through the house when I opened the front door.
‘I’m home,’ I called.
‘In the kitchen, Duchess,’ Dad called back. When I was little, Dad used to call me princess, but he changed it to Duchess earlier this year when I entered a nationwide singing competition called Pop Princess. I came third, so Dad jokes that, as I didn’t win the title of princess, it makes me a duchess.
I made my way through and was met by the unexpected sight of Dad wearing a striped blue-and-white apron in a sparkling clean kitchen.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked as I took in the gleaming surfaces and Dad’s appearance. Even his hair, which he likes to wear down to his shoulders these days (in an attempt to look rock-starish like Zac Axford, I think) and which he frequently forgets to comb, was looking neat and pushed back from his face.
Dad grinned. ‘Been doing a bit of housework. I wanted to surprise your mother. And you.’
‘I’ll say,’ I said as I looked around. There were even fresh flowers on the kitchen table. Pink roses. And he’d set the table for supper.
‘Hey, you know that I’m out this evening, don’t you?’
Dad pointed at the oven. ‘End of term barbie at Squidge’s. Yes, I remembered and that is why, ta-daaa,’ he opened the oven with a flourish. ‘I have baked you some scones to take.’
‘But Dad . . . I never . . .You can’t cook!’
Dad put the baking tray on the cooker top. The scones looked perfect. ‘No such word as “can’t”. I got a recipe, got the ingredients. Bingo. I think they’re going to be all right.’
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