The Real Rebecca Read Free

has been out for months and her agent Jocasta always says that she should start her next book before the new book comes out, because once the new book is out there’ll be so much fuss and interviews and stuff it’ll be harder toget started on a new story. And usually Mum starts writing the next book practically the day after she’s finished the last one. But I don’t think my mum has started a new project yet, because whenever she starts something new she always goes on and on about her new plot ideas and sometimes she tests them out on me and Rachel by telling us about them while we’re making the dinner. But she hasn’t mentioned any new story ideas since she finished going through the Braddon Hall proofs months and months ago. I pointed this out to her and she just laughed and said there was nothing to worry about.
    ‘I hope that wasn’t a drunken laugh,’ I said, and left her to her lonely alcoholic revels. I met Dad on my way out of the kitchen. He was brandishing a wine glass of his own. Drinking on a Thursday night! At their age! Sometimes I think I’m the only sensible person in this house.
FRIDAY 
    Brilliant day! First of all, school was okay – Mrs Harrington only mentioned my ‘mammy’ once, and only briefly.We were hanging around with Ellie and Emma at lunch and Ellie was saying how much she hated Mrs Harrington, and it wasn’t just because she’d found Ellie and Emma having a nice quiet game of Hangman when they were meant to be listening to the worst teacher ever waffle on about Wordsworth and his crazed daffodil obsession. It was also because Mrs Harrington was making my life a misery with her constant ‘mammy’-ing. So I suppose Ellie isn’t my enemy after all.
    Then after school Alice and Cass came over to eat Chinese food from the De-Luxe takeaway and then stay the night. Mum and Dad left the house really early because they were going out for dinner somewhere in Meath, so we had the house to ourselves. Well, except for Rachel, who was there until seven and was then going out with Tom, the boyfriend she nearly went to Glastonbury with until my parents put their foot down and said she was far too young to go off to a festival in another country with just her eighteen-year-old boyfriend for company. For someone who nearly did all that, Rachel is very straightlaced when it comes to my welfare. She gave us this big lecture on ‘not taking advantage of the free gaff’ and how weweren’t ‘to throw a big party and drain Mum and Dad’s drinks’ cabinet’.
    I said, ‘Come on, Rachel, they’re coming back at midnight , we’re hardly going to have a big party.’
    ‘Then why are you all dressed up, then?’ said Rachel. She’s so suspicious. She’s worse than our parents, and she’s only sixteen.
    ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I suppose we should wear our school uniforms even when we’re not in school, should we? Or sacks?’
    Rachel sighed, in an annoying way. ‘Don’t break anything ,’ she said, and then she went off to meet Tom.
    She’s such a cow. We weren’t dressed up at all. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and my favourite pink Converse , which is hardly fancy. Although I had put on some mascara and nicked some of Rachel’s nice new lipgloss before she put her make-up bag in her handbag. . And it’s not as if we could have had a proper party anyway, we don’t know any boys and I can’t imagine any of our school friends would be able to just come round to my house at the last minute. Anyway, we ordered a lovely feast from the takeaway and when the doorbell rang about twentyminutes later we were sure it was the food so I ran out to get it.
    And standing on our doorstep was the best-looking boy I HAVE EVER SEEN IN REAL LIFE. I was so astounded I couldn’t even speak. I just stared at him for what seemed like about ten years. The poor boy seemed slightly unsettled by this and we kind of stared at each other for a bit longer, until he said, ‘Um, I’m from Smyth’s