Love Lottery

by Cathy Hopkins

  First thing on Monday, we did the Whitsand side of the peninsula. We started out at The View Café at the top of the cliff, where I almost had to drag one of the waitresses off him. Her name’s Shazza and she’s blonde with big boobs that she has no inhibitions about showing off. Lal’s eyes were out on stalks when she leaned over our table to pass him the menu. She’s actually really nice and a laugh, but she’s such a flirt when boys are around. She’s one of those girls who doesn’t have many female friends because she prefers the company of boys. Squidge calls her HHH – Hot Hormones on Heels. I’d gone off to the Ladies for a moment and when I came back, she’d almost wrapped herself round Lal. I soon saw her off, but I could see that Lal was well flattered and, if I was honest, it was cool to know that the boy I was with was on the Cornish Wanted List because he was so fanciable.

  After juice at the café and a long snog to make sure that Shazza got the picture, we climbed down the cliff path to join Lia, Squidge, Cat and Mac to go swimming on one of the more remote beaches at Whitsand (which is where Lal tried to get inside my T-shirt when he thought the others weren’t looking). Later, we walked through the waves in our bare feet, holding hands, and I felt like I was in a romantic movie. That is, until he picked me up and threatened to throw me in to the sea with all my clothes on. But even that felt romantic – although I have a sneaking suspicion that what he really wanted was to see what I looked like in a wet T-shirt. He’s that kind of boy. Walking testosterone, Cat would say. Come to think of it, he and Shazza would probably make the perfect couple. I don’t mind Lal being a Randy Andy, though, because he soon stops the funny business if I say ‘NoooooOO’. And if that didn’t ever work, I could always try my back-up method, which is a quick knee in the goolies. I reckon that should work if a boy gets overexcited. Luckily I haven’t had to do it to anyone yet.

  This morning, we got up really early and went up to Squidge’s favourite place to watch the sunrise. It’s a ruined church on top of a hill out at Rame Head and the view from there is spectacular. Sea, sky and miles and miles of unspoiled coastline. It’s stunning at the best of times, but so early in the morning it was amazingly peaceful, like the whole world was sleeping except for Lal and me. We sat for ages snuggled up in our fleeces, him behind me and me leaning back between his knees.

  I was looking forward to spending the rest of his holiday with him. I had a whole itinerary mapped out. The last thing I needed was to be dragged away on some history tour of a strange foreign city. Urgy lurgies. No thanks.

  ‘That boy from London who keeps calling,’ said Mum. ‘Lal, isn’t it?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t want to discuss it with them. He was my secret. My escape. My proof to myself that it was possible to have a good fun relationship. ‘I’m just showing him around,’ I said. ‘As a favour.’

  ‘Favour to whom?’ asked Mum. ‘Don’t his family mind? I’d have thought they would want to spend time with him, seeing as it’s their family holiday.’

  I shrugged. ‘No one’s objected so far. Cat’s been showing his sister, Lucy, round, and his mum and dad like going for long walks. So everyone’s happy. Anyway, some of their other friends arrived yesterday and more are coming next week.’

  ‘Oh yes, I heard. The people who bought Rose Cottage. The doctors?’ asked Mum.

  I nodded. ‘Yeah. And their daughter, TJ, and a couple of her friends.’

  I knew all about them from Lal and also from Cat, who didn’t seem to able to talk about anyone else these days.

  Dad sat down and looked at me pleadingly. ‘You’ll love Prague, Bec, so no more of this nonsense about not wanting to go. And we are still being sensible. I went into a travel agent’s yesterday to see what was on offer and he had a fantastic deal going. A last-minute thing, so we’re going to be staying at one of the best hotels for next to nothing and the flights are all included. Can’t go wrong.’

  ‘How long for?’ I asked.

  ‘Friday to Monday. We leave this Friday. Luckily there’s a direct flight from Bristol, so we just have to get there and off we go. Back Monday.’

  ‘This Friday?’ I asked.

  Dad nodded. ‘Think you can bear to be parted from loverboy for that long?’

  ‘Loverboy?’ asked Mum. ‘She’s only just met him! Of course she can bear to be parted.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I said. ‘I have to practise for the Maker Festival. I have to sing every day to keep my voice at its peak.’ It was partly true. It was something that I had learned when I entered the Pop Princess competition. The singing coaches had made us practise and practise, vocal exercise after vocal exercise. And it worked. If I did the exercises regularly, my range was much wider and I could sing with more ease than if I neglected to do them.

  ‘You can sing anywhere,’ said Dad. ‘You can sing in your hotel room.’

  ‘I guess.’

  I tried persuading them that a weekend away alone was what they needed, but they weren’t having that for a moment.

  ‘We wouldn’t dream of leaving you by yourself,’ said Dad in horror. ‘And anyway, this is a treat to be shared by all of us.’

  I tried asking them to put it off until the end of the summer hols (when Lal and his family would have gone).

  ‘Can’t do later,’ said Mum. ‘It’s booked and I have leave to take right now, which is why it’s all worked out so perfectly.’

  I tried telling them that I secretly had a condition that makes your blood clot on long plane journeys and that it would be dangerous to travel. I explained that I hadn’t told them about it before because I didn’t want to worry them.

  And then they started laughing.

  I could see that I wasn’t going to win and Dad was being so enthusiastic that I felt I couldn’t spoil things by being too difficult. It wouldn’t be fair on him.

  So that was that. My fate was decided. Snatched from the good times just as they were starting to get interesting.

  Sometimes life can be oh so cruel.

  ‘IT’S GOING TO BE AWFUL being away from you,’ I told Lal when we came up from our goodbye snogathon on Friday morning. He’d been such a sweetie and had turned up not long after breakfast with a gorgeous bunch of roses. The sensible part of me thought, What a stupid prezzie, seeing as I’m going to be away for three days. They will probably be dead by the time I get back. But another part was touched. I’m a sucker for flowers.

  ‘Just try to enjoy yourself,’ said Lal wistfully as we sat on the wall outside my house where we were screened from my nosy parents by a large rhododendron bush. ‘Do it for me. I couldn’t bear to think of you being unhappy.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said and attempted to look brave. ‘But it’s going to be hard. And I guess I’d better go in now and finish packing. Although I don’t really care what I take or what I look like because you’re not going to be with me.’

  Lal nodded and stared sadly at his feet. ‘Ditto.’

  ‘Bye then,’ I sighed.

  ‘Bye,’ he sighed.

  He stood up, gave me a last lingering look, then turned and walked away. I felt so miserable. And so did he. I could tell by his slumped shoulders.

  I couldn’t stand it. Three whole days without him.

  ‘Laaaaal,’ I called.

  He turned and we ran into each other’s arm for a final, final snog. Soooo romantic, in a chick-flick kind of way. Then he kissed my forehead, turned and slouched off again. And he really did go this time.

  Down the road. Round the corner.

  I waited for five minutes for him to come back again for another passionate parting. But he didn’t. Huh . . . Oh well.

  I think it was in Romeo and Juliet that there was that line: Parting is such sweet sorrow. It was sad, yeah, but also quite enjoyable in a weird way. Better than feeling nothing.

  On the car journey to Bristol, Lal and I texted back and forth about how bad we felt but after that, although I tried my best, it was hard to stay feeling tragic for long. I love travelling and the hustle a
nd bustle of getting to the airport, doing the shops in the departure area, trying on sunglasses, sampling all the perfumes, boarding the plane and flying off into the clouds. It took my mind off Lal and the pain of being separated from him.

  As the plane began its descent into Prague, I looked over at Dad and gave him a big smile. It was only for a weekend, and even Mum was making an effort to be in a good mood.

  The weather was warm and our hotel was utterly, butterly fab. I knew I was going to love it there the moment we stepped into the vast, marble-floored reception area. It was well posh, with ginormous vases full of white lilies that smelled heavenly.

  ‘Five stars,’ Mum said with a grin and gave me a wink.

  After we checked in, the man at reception asked if we’d like to eat there that evening and invited us to take a look at the dining room. It was spectacular. Wood-panelled walls, linen table clothes and more flowers – orchids on each table and, in the centre of the room, a huge, round glass vase stuffed with about fifty white orchids. They must have cost a fortune. It looked so sophisticated and so did the people sitting there. Not like Cornish tourists dressed in T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. These people were dressed in their best going-out clothes and it was only four o’clock in the afternoon. I was glad that despite what I’d said to Lal about not caring what I looked like, I had actually packed some decent clothes.

  We went out on to the terrace at the back to take in the view. The hotel was on the river and to our right, we could see an old grey stone bridge lined with statues. Behind that, in the distance on a hill, stood a castle that looked like it was straight out of a Disney movie, with turrets reaching up to the sky.

  ‘That’s the famous Charles Bridge,’ said Dad, pointing towards the bridge, ‘and beyond that is Prague Castle.’

  It looked wonderful – so old and yet still standing. The trip was getting better by the hour.

  ‘Quite a contrast to the open fields and beaches of Cornwall,’ said Mum as we went back inside to take the lift up to the first floor.

  A boy in a red uniform took our cases, accompanied us in the lift and along a corridor, then unlocked our rooms and gave us our key cards.

  ‘Wow,’ I said after he’d gone. ‘Cool.’

  My room was gorgeous. It had a massive bed, big enough for three people, with a maroon silk bedspread and six plump pillows, a telly, mini bar, writing desk, comfy maroon chair, matching curtains, pale honey-coloured walls and an immaculate deep cream carpet that made you feel sinful to step on it.

  Dad grinned. ‘And you get your own bathroom. Look, Becca,’ he said, gesturing towards the bathroom door.

  ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ said Mum. ‘Just knock if you need anything, as we’re only next door. Meet you in an hour and we’ll start exploring.’

  I nodded. It was good to see Mum smiling again.

  As soon as I was alone, I went into the bathroom. It was huge. Almost as big as my bedroom at home, with marbled floors and surfaces, a double sink with wall-to-wall mirror, and an enormous bath with gold taps. I began to run water into it, to which I added a liberal splosh of the bath gel that had been laid out on the edge, along with shampoo and conditioner. It smelled divine – of orange and spices. And then I sang my head off as I had my bath. First, my vocal exercises, and then all the happy songs I knew to reflect my mood.

  Twenty minutes later, I was wrapped in the fluffy white towelling bathrobe, lying against the pillows on the vast bed whilst flicking channels on my TV. I had a bar of chocolate and packet of nuts in hand from the minibar. It was bliss. I felt like a princess.

  When I got my phone out to text Cat and Lia, it bleeped to tell me I had a message waiting.

  MISS U, LAL XXXX, it said.

  I quickly texted back. I MISS U 2. X

  But oops – I didn’t miss him. In fact, I’d forgotten all about him. There was far too much groovy stuff happening where I was to be moping over someone a million miles away.

  We spent the first evening having a walk around the Old Town Square. It was a shock at first after the haven of our hotel, as it was packed with about a billion people and at least half of them were Italians travelling in large groups of twenty or thirty. But the square was very picturesque, lined with old buildings and churches that looked about a squillion years old. Dad explained that the architecture was a mix of styles – baroque, art nouveau, Gothic, Renaissance . . . I didn’t care. I wanted to get back to the hotel, as I found the number of people milling about overwhelming. Even more so than when I’d been up to London and gone shopping along Oxford Street.

  Saturday got off to a fab start. We were treated like royalty at breakfast. Everything was on offer: croissants, fruits, cereals, yogurt, bacon, eggs, mushrooms – whatever you wanted. I had muffins and apricot jam, hot chocolate, coffee brought to me in my own silver pot and another pot of hot milk. And the waiter was so cute, with dark hair to his shoulders and smouldering dark brown eyes. He looked about nineteen and was every bit my idea of a Czech prince. If I hadn’t been with Mum and Dad I would have been more flirty but I wasn’t going to do it in front of them in case they noticed and started teasing me. I almost texted Cat to tell her about him, but thought I’d better not; she might tell her new friend Lucy and she might tell Lal.

  It was lovely and sunny and we spent the rest of the day exploring. I was glad I had taken my trainers, because boy did we walk. And walk. And walk. Church after church. Church of St Nicholas. St Peter. St Vitus. Seemed like everyone had a church named after them. Old building after old building. Museum after museum. It was a nice city. Old and pretty with a fairy-tale look in some parts, but after a few hours, I began to get bored. I mean, how many churches did we need to go into? They all looked similar after the first five.

  The Charles Bridge was more interesting.

  Dad looked at his book as we approached one of the huge towers looming over one end of it. ‘The bridge is built in Gothic style and the statues lining the sides are baroque.’

  I tried to look interested, but history isn’t really my thing. I was more intrigued by the souvenir stalls lining the sides, the musicians playing and artists drawing portraits of tourists. At least they were alive, unlike the spooky black statues towering over us as we walked across to the other side.

  ‘The most famous of the statues,’ Dad continued as we walked on, ‘is St John of Nepomuk, a Czech martyr who was thrown to his death off the bridge.’

  ‘That wasn’t very nice,’ I said as I stood on my tiptoes and looked over the wall into the river flowing beneath us.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Dad. ‘All the same, apparently tourists touch his statue for good luck.’

  When we found St John, Mum and Dad went to touch him, but I didn’t. I reckoned that if he was thrown off the bridge to his death, he hadn’t had a lot of luck himself, never mind a surplus to pass on to a bunch of people he didn’t know.

  Once over the bridge, I found what soon became my favourite part of Prague. On the cobbled streets that led up to the castle, there were loads of little shops selling nick-nacks, paintings and all sorts of interesting stuff. I bought Cat and Lia presents there: tiny blue glass perfume bottles covered in silver mesh, one with the initial C on it and one with the initial L. Dad bought me one too with the initial R for Rebecca on it, as he said that I shouldn’t be left out and it could be my souvenir of Prague.

  We bought slices of pizza from a stall and ate them as we walked along in the sunshine. At last, it felt like we were a happy family again.

  After the shops, it was up to the castle and more big halls, more churches, statues and paintings of a load of dead people with miserable faces. It was OK for a while, but what I really wanted to do was to get back to our fab hotel where I could take another luxury bath, listen to some music on my iPod and maybe order something from room service, which would hopefully be brought to me by the Czech prince waiter. In my mind, he would fall on to one knee and tell me that he had been waiting for me all his life and had found me
at last. He might even burst into song. We might even do a duet. We would then have a great snogging session on the bed and then eat the rest of the chocolate from the minibar . . . or something like that.

  But no such luck. Mum and Dad wanted to walk round some more, so I trailed after them whilst texting Cat, Lia and Lal, being careful not to say anything about the Czech prince . . .

  At about four, at last we appeared to be heading back to the hotel.

  ‘So where shall we eat this evening?’ asked Mum as we waited for a tram to pass so that we could cross the road.

  ‘Oh, let’s eat at the hotel again,’ I said. Last night’s meal there had been delicious. Pumpkin risotto with cheese and pistachio crème brulée that was out of this world scrumbocious.

  Mum shook her head. ‘We only have the bed-and-breakfast package on the deal that your dad got,’ she said, ‘so we had to pay for dinner last night on top and, seeing as it’s probably the best hotel in Prague, it wasn’t cheap.’

  ‘Actually, I booked somewhere special for tonight,’ said Dad. ‘It was going to be a surprise. I read about it in one of my travel guides. It’s supposed to be wonderful; a genuine Bohemian experience.’

  I noticed Mum’s back stiffen as he got his book out of his rucksack and showed us the review and picture.

  I thought it looked really glam, but Mum shook her head. ‘No. We can’t eat there. It’s way too expensive.’

  ‘Once in a lifetime,’ said Dad. ‘Come on. When will we be here again?’

  I could see that Mum was struggling to share his enthusiasm but was finding it difficult. Oh, please don’t start rowing, I thought. Not after such a lovely day.

  ‘There were so many places in the square that looked just fine,’ said Mum. ‘We could eat there and I’m sure the food will be just as good and much cheaper.’