Mates, Dates and Inflatable Bras Read online

  The complete Cathy Hopkins collection

  The MATES, DATES series

  1. Mates, Dates and Inflatable Bras

  2. Mates, Dates and Cosmic Kisses

  3. Mates, Dates and Portobello Princesses

  4. Mates, Dates and Sleepover Secrets

  5. Mates, Dates and Sole Survivors

  6. Mates, Dates and Mad Mistakes

  7. Mates, Dates and Pulling Power

  8. Mates, Dates and Tempting Trouble

  9. Mates, Dates and Great Escapes

  10. Mates, Dates and Chocolate Cheats

  11. Mates, Dates and Diamond Destiny

  12. Mates, Dates and Sizzling Summers

  Companion Books:

  Mates, Dates The Secret Story

  Mates, Dates Guide to Life

  Mates, Dates and You

  Mates, Dates Journal

  Mates, Dates and Flirting

  Mates, Dates and Saving the Planet

  The TRUTH, DARE, KISS, PROMISE series

  1. White Lies and Barefaced Truths

  2. Pop Princess

  3. Teen Queens and Has-Beens

  4. Starstruck

  5. Double Dare

  6. Midsummer Meltdown

  7. Love Lottery

  8. All Mates Together

  The CINNAMON GIRL series

  1. This Way to Paradise

  2. Starting Over

  3. Looking For a Hero

  Find out more at www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Join Cathy’s Club at www.cathyhopkins.com

  For Rachel

  (And thanks to Rachel, Grace, Natalie, Emily, Isobel and Laura for letting me know what’s hot and what’s not. And thanks to Jude and Brenda at Piccadilly for their input and for giving me the chance to be fourteen again. And last but not least, thanks to the lovely Rosemary Bromley.)

  First published in Great Britain in 2001

  by Piccadilly Press Ltd.,

  5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR

  This edition published 2007

  Text copyright © Cathy Hopkins, 2001, 2007

  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 927 1 (trade paperback)

  3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4

  Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon CR0 4TD

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1

  What Makes

  Me ‘Me’?

  If she picks me out in class again, I shall scream.

  Wacko Watkins. That’s what I call her. Our new teacher. We’ve got her for PSHE first period this morning, worse luck.

  ‘I wonder what kind of weird project she’s got lined up to torture us with this week,’ I said as we hurried down the corridor to get to our classroom before second bell.

  ‘She’s OK as teachers go,’ said Izzie. ‘She makes you think about stuff. And she seems really interested in what we feel. I like her lessons.’

  ‘Well I don’t,’ I said. ‘It’s bad enough having a mum who’s a shrink without getting it at school as well. I get that “let’s all share our feelings” stuff at home. I wish Watkins would give me a break here. She always singles me out.’

  ‘Probably because you’re quiet in class. She’s trying to find out what’s going on in that daft head of yours .You’re lucky. At least your mum and dad bother to ask what’s going on. All mine care about are my marks. Whether I get A, B or C. I think I’d faint from shock if either of them ever asked how I actually felt about anything.’

  Izzie’s my best mate. Or was. I’m not sure any more. Not since Nesta Williams arrived at the end of last term. Izzie and I have hung out together since junior school. It’s always been me and Izzie. Izzie and me. Sharing everything. Clothes. Make-up. CDs. Secrets. And then along comes Nesta and I reckon it’s two’s company, three’s a crowd. But I seem to be the only one who sees it that way. I’m going to have to tackle Izzie about it but I rarely get her on her own these days.

  ‘Hurry along and take your places, girls,’ called Miss Watkins, coming up behind us.

  I hope she hadn’t heard what I said about her.

  Miss Watkins is a bit odd looking. Make that very odd looking. She looks like she put a finger in an electric socket. Her expression is always startled, like a cartoon character who’s seen something shocking and their eyes pop out. She’s as thin as a wire and her hair’s frizzy grey, coiling out at all angles.

  ‘OK, girls, now settle down,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about today.’

  Here we go. Talk. Talk. Let’s talk. I wish we could read today. Quietly. Or write. Quietly. Why do we have to talk? Doesn’t anyone realise I’m going through a quiet-but-mysterious phase?

  As Wacko perched on the corner of her desk and hitched her skirt up, we all got an eyeful of her pale legs above knee-high stockings. She has skin like cling film. Transparent. You can see all the veins underneath it. Enough to bring up your breakfast first thing in the morning, I can tell you.

  ‘There’s a few things I want you to start thinking about for the rest of the term,’ she continued. ‘As you probably know, it’s soon going to be time to choose your GCSE subjects for next year. Which ones you want to do.’

  Inwardly I groaned. I’ve been dreading this. See, I don’t know. Haven’t a clue. Not the faintest.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to think about and I don’t want any of you to panic or feel pressurised. We’ve plenty of time, that’s why I want you to give it some attention now so it doesn’t come as a big rush later on.’

  Too late, I thought. I’m already in major panic mode.

  ‘I want you to think about your future. Your goals. Ambitions. What you want to be when you’re older. Right, anybody got any ideas?’

  She started to look round the class so I put my head down and tried to become invisible.

  ‘Lucy?’

  I knew. See. I knew it would be me she asked first.

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘Let’s get the ball rolling. Any idea what you’d like to do?’

  I could feel myself going red as everyone turned to look at me.

  Duhhh? I dunno. Doctor. Nah. Too much blood. Dentist. Nah. Fiddling about in people’s mouths all day. Yuk. Vet? Yes. Vet. I love animals. After Izzie, Ben and Jerry, our Labradors, are my next best friends. So, vet? I could be on all those animal rescue programmes on telly, looking glam as I save poor animals. Maybe not. Ben stood on a piece of glass last week. I almost fainted when the vet said he’d have to have a few stitches in his paw. I couldn’t watch. Had to leave the room like a right sissy. He was fine after but I can’t bear to see an animal in pain. So probably not the best career choice. So what else? What?

  ‘Don’t know, miss,’ I blurted out, wishing she’d choose someone else.

  ‘No idea at all?’ she asked.

  I shook my head.

  Candice Carter put h
er hand up. She was bursting.

  Thankfully Wacko turned to her.

  ‘Candice?’

  ‘Lifeguard, Miss Watkins.’

  ‘Lifeguard. Now that’s an original one. And why do you want to be a lifeguard?’

  ‘So I can give all the boys the kiss of life, miss.’

  Everyone cracked up laughing. She’s such a tart, Candice Carter.

  ‘Anyone got any more sensible suggestions?’ asked Miss Watkins, looking round.

  By now, half the class had their hands up.

  ‘Writer,’ said Mary O’ Connor.

  ‘Nurse,’ said Joanne Richards.

  ‘Air hostess,’ said Gabby Jones.

  ‘TV presenter,’ said Jade Wilcocks.

  ‘Hairdresser,’ said Mo Harrison.

  ‘Rich and famous,’ said Nesta and everyone laughed again.

  Everyone knows what they want to do. Everyone. But me.

  I’m fourteen. Everyone’s always saying, ‘Oh don’t grow up too fast’ and ‘Enjoy your youth’, now suddenly it’s, ‘What’re you going to do with the rest of your life?’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Miss Watkins. ‘Those who know what they want to do are lucky. And those who don’t,’ she looked pointedly at me, ‘don’t worry. You don’t have to decide today. But it does help to have some inkling of what direction you might like to go in when it comes to choosing your subjects later. For those of you who don’t know, we’ll have a look at it all over the next few weeks. In fact, a good starting point is to take a look at who you are now. Identify your strengths and weaknesses. The seeds of today are the fruits of tomorrow. The thoughts of today are the actions of tomorrow. So, to start with, I’m going to give you an essay to be handed in at the end of term. Doesn’t have to be too long. A page or so.’

  She picked up her chalk and turned to the blackboard.

  What makes me ‘me’? she wrote.

  ‘That’s your title. I’ll give you fifteen minutes now to make a few notes.’

  She wrote a few more questions up on the board.

  Who am I?

  What are my interests?

  What do I want? What are my goals in life?

  What are my strengths and weaknesses?

  What would I like to do as a career?

  For the last part of the lesson, I could see everyone scribbling madly.

  I knew what Izzie would be writing. She wants to be a singer. Has done since we were nine. She writes all her own songs and plays guitar. She wants to be the next Alanis Morissette. She even looks like her now. She’s got the same long dark hair and she wears the same hippie dippie clothes. Not my taste, but they suit Iz.

  I glanced across at Nesta. She was writing frantically as well. Typical. She’s so sure of herself and where she’s going. She wants to be a model and will probably get there. She’s totally gorgeous-looking. Her dad’s Italian so she’s got his straight black hair, like silk right down to her waist, and her mum’s Jamaican so she’s got her dark skin and eyes. She could easily be Naomi Campbell’s younger sister. Tall and skinny with an amazing pixie face.

  I wish I was black. They have the best skin, even when they’re old. Like Nesta’s mum. I’ve seen her on telly. She reads the news on Cable. She’s ancient, at least forty, but she only looks about twenty. I’m the typical ‘English rose’, pale, blonde and boring. I’d rather be a tropical flower, like Nesta, all exotic and colourful.

  I stared at the blank piece of paper in front of me.

  What makes me ‘me’? I began to write.

  I’m small and don’t look my age. People always think I’m in Year Seven or Eight.

  I stared out of the window hoping for inspiration. Jobs for little people. Maybe I could audition to be one of the Munchkins if they ever remake The Wizard of Oz? They’re tiny. Or Mini Me in the next Austin Powers movie.

  And what are you going to be when you grow up, Nesta? Model.

  Profile Sheet

  Name: Lucy Lovering

  Physical

  Age: 14 but I look about 12.

  Height/build: 4 foot 8 and a HALF. Slim, 30 minus A chest. My brothers call me Nancy no tits. Not funny.

  Colouring: blonde, blue eyes.

  Sociology

  Parents’ occupations: Mum’s a shrink (psychotherapist), Dad runs the local health shop and is a part-time musician.

  Education: favourite subjects: Art, English worst subjects: anything else.

  Home life: two elder brothers: Steve (17) he’s a computer whiz, Lal (15) he’s sad, spotty and humungously gross but thinks he’s God’s gift. Two dogs: Ben and Jerry.

  Race/nationality: English/Scottish. Possibly alien.

  Hobbies: reading, magazines, old movies, TV, sewing.

  Psychology

  Ambitions: good question.

  Frustrations/disappointments:

  my parents, who are a pair of old hippies.

  Mum and Dad always ramming herbal teas and health products down my neck when I’m quite happy with chips and burgers.

  Mum’s obsession with recycling and buying clothes from charity shops.

  the fact I’m so small.

  the fact my best friend now appears to be Nesta Williams’s best friend.

  Temperament: I think I may be going mental.

  Qualities: sense of humour, a good best friend when allowed to be.

  Abilities/talents: good listener, good at drawing.

  And you, Izzie? Singer-songwriter.

  Lucy? Mini Me.

  Yeah. Right. Now I’m being plain stupid. I must have some decent ideas locked in my brain somewhere.

  I made myself concentrate. What makes me ‘me’?

  I’m the youngest in my family.

  Fifteen minutes later and that was all I’d written.

  ‘Just before the bell goes,’ said Miss Watkins, ‘I’d like to give you all a profile sheet to fill out. Purely for yourselves to help get you started if you’re stuck. Nobody needs to see them, they’re only for you, to get you thinking along different lines.’

  I looked at the sheet of paper she handed me.

  Help. I’m usually good at essays and stuff. But this time I haven’t a clue. I don’t know who I am. Or what makes me ‘me’.

  Or what I’m going to do when I grow up.

  Or where I fit.

  Chapter 2

  Angel

  Cards

  When I got home after school I did what I always do. Headed for the fridge.

  ‘When the going gets tough . . .’ I said.

  ‘The tough eat ice-cream,’ finished Izzie, swooping in and taking the tub from the freezer.

  ‘Diet again on Monday,’ said Nesta.

  I can’t believe she diets. She’s as thin as a rake.

  By five o’clock our kitchen was packed. Me, Izzie and Nesta tucking into bowls of pecan nut fudge. Brothers Steve and Laurence plus two of their schoolmates, Matthew and Tom, all busy cutting mammoth hunks of bread then slapping on peanut butter and honey. Yuk. Mum making a cup of tea. Herbal of course. And Dad attempting to feed Ben and Jerry who are more interested in my ice-cream than dog food.

  It’s chaos in here.

  ‘Why did you call them Ben and Jerry?’ asked Nesta, pointing at the dogs — Ben, who had his paws up on my knees trying to get his nose in my bowl, and Jerry, looking longingly at Izzie in the hope she’d take pity and give him a taste. I gave Ben the last spoonful to lick; I’m a sucker for his great sad eyes and that pathetic ‘no one ever feeds me’ look of his, plus he’s still got his paw in a bandage, poor thing.

  ‘We named them after they ate a whole tub of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey when they were puppies,’ said Lal through a mouthful of bread. ‘They love ice-cream.’

  I think Lal fancies Nesta, he’s gone all creepy and over-friendly since she walked in. He keeps flicking his hair back and giving her meaningful looks. I don’t think she’s even noticed. He likes to imagine himself as a ladies’ man. Ever since Tracy Marcuson next door let him snog
her last Christmas. He’s not bad-looking in a kind of Matt Damon way but I don’t think Nesta would be interested. She likes older boys or so she says. And not that she’d fancy my eldest brother Steve either. He’s seventeen and a bit too swotty-looking for her though he’s quite nice looking when he takes his glasses off and has a decent haircut. But he’s not bothered about girls, unlike Casanova Lal; Steve prefers computers and books.

  ‘It’s like Waterloo station in here,’ sighed Mum, clearing a space at the table. She doesn’t mind though. Our house is always full of people, usually all piled in the kitchen which is the largest room in the house. Dad knocked a wall through last year to open it up a bit and though we do have more space now, he ran out of money so couldn’t finish the job.

  ‘What are those marks on the wall?’ asked Nesta, pointing to some pencil marks by the fridge.

  ‘Our heights as we were growing up,’ said Lal, getting up and going to stand against the wall to show her how it worked. ‘See, on every birthday we measure how much we’ve grown with a pencil mark.’ He pointed to the highest. ‘Those are Steve’s.’

  ‘And these must be Lucy’s,’ said Nesta, looking at the shortest marks. She stood at least six inches higher than I had last birthday.

  She then had a close look at our ‘original’ wallpaper. To cover up for the lack of it, Steve, Lal and I have plastered our artwork from school all over one wall. And Mum, who’s convinced that one day Dad will actually get round to decorating, has used another area to try out different colour paint samples.

  ‘Very Vogue interior,’ Nesta smiled as she examined Mum’s wall which looks like a patchwork quilt of misshapen daubs in various shades of yellow, blue, terracotta and green.

  ‘Not,’ I said.

  I haven’t been to Nesta’s house yet but Izzie has and says it’s amazing. Straight out of an interior design mag. Still, Nesta doesn’t seem bothered by our lack of decor style. In fact she appears to like it here, as she comes back most nights after school now. Her mum works different shifts as a newsreader on the telly and her dad’s a film director so he’s often away shooting. Nesta has an older brother as well but she says he’s hardly ever at home either.