The Real Rebecca Read Free Page B

and it almost made me wish that I lived out among the wonders of nature instead of among three- and four-bedroom semi-detatcheds. We walked through this little bit of wood and it was all very pretty and peaceful. Alice isn’t veryobservant, though. I kept seeing rabbits and squirrels and things, but every time Alice turned to look at them they had disappeared. Eventually she got cross (for Alice) and told me that she’d seen plenty of rabbits before and I didn’t have to shriek like a banshee every time I saw one. I think she’s just jealous because she lives out there right among the rural wildlife and keeps missing them when they emerge from their burrows, whereas I, the city slicker, could see them straight away. Maybe I will be a famous zoologist instead of a famous artist. I can present programmes on TV like David Attenborough, except younger. And a girl.
LATER
    It just dawned on me now (because my mind is addled with love) that Paperboy must have actually delivered the papers to my house yesterday and this morning! How could we have been so stupid as to forget that important part of his job?! The very essence of his job, really. I can’t believe he was actually on my doorstep again and I didn’t … well, actually, I suppose I couldn’t have done anything.It would have been a bit weird if I’d, like, suddenly opened the door as he was putting the papers in the letter box. Or even looked out at him through the letter box. Also, the papers are usually delivered before I wake up. But still. I could have looked out of Rachel’s bedroom window.
MONDAY
    I am worried about my mother. I really, really don’t think she’s followed Jocasta’s advice about starting a new book before the previous one is published. I mean, it’s been months and months since the last one came out and every time I ask her whether she’s started the new one she just gets a funny look on her face and says that ‘everything’s fine’. Which could mean anything! It could mean that she has writer’s block and will never write again, which would make my life easier but not hers, and really, although Mum being a famous writer has a detrimental effect on my life (Mrs Harrington was in fine form today, I must say. She was ‘mammy’-ing all over the place), she really does love writing and I don’t want her to stop doing it. I know itsounds like I’m making a big deal over nothing but normally she likes going on about whatever she’s writing at the moment. I’ve read that most writers hate this, but she doesn’t. She says talking about her stories helps her work out any problems she has with them. So for her to be so secretive is very strange. I asked Dad what he thought, but he just laughed and said, ‘Rebecca, your mum knows what she’s doing. Don’t worry.’ I’m not sure she does, though. I think I have to keep an eye on her.
    She does have this book party thing coming up soon, though, and her editor Lucy is coming over from London for it, so maybe she’ll (Lucy, not Mum) be able to do something . This party is going to be very fancy. Mum’s publishers are throwing it for her, to celebrate twenty years since her first book came out (and possibly to persuade her to actually write another one – surely Lucy and co must have realised this whole not-starting-a-new-book thing is a bit weird). Rachel and I will of course have to go – we always have to go to these things. They sound much more exciting than they actually are. We’re usually the only people there under the age of thirty and if anyone bothers to talk to us at all they treat us as if we were about five. We end uphanging around the canapés (at the last book launch Rachel ate too many mini-burgers out of sheer boredom and Dad had to run to a chemist and get her some Gaviscon ). So obviously I can’t wait for this party. On the plus side, I might be able to emotionally blackmail Mum into letting me get some new clothes for it. But I wouldn’t bet on it. She’ll