Mates, Dates and Cosmic Kisses Read online

  Cathy Hopkins is the author of the incredibly successful Mates, Dates and Truth, Dare books, and also a fabulous new series called Cinnamon Girl. She lives in North London with her husband and two cats.

  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 talking to her friends on email.

  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.

  Thanks to my husband, Steve Lovering, without whom my life would have no meaning. (He told me to write that but I do mean the thanks bit. Honest.) And thanks to Brenda and Jude at Piccadilly for their input and for giving me an excuse to watch Dawson’s Creek in the name of research. And lastly to Rosemary Bromley, for all her encouragement and being a pal.

  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 928 8 (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 1

  The Bridesmaid of Frankenstein

  Lucy’s jaw dropped when I came out of the bathroom.

  ‘Izzie! What on earth have you done?’ she cried.

  ‘It’s different,’ said Nesta.

  Both of them stared at me like I’d stepped out of a horror movie.

  ‘Do you like it?’ I asked, giving them a twirl.

  It was the day of the wedding of my boring stepsister Amelia to the equally boring Jeremy and I had to be bridesmaid with my other stepsister Claudia. Typically, Amelia chose a disgusting dress for me. Emerald green satin. Empire line. Awful.

  But then I’d had an idea.

  ‘I had to do something,’ I said. ‘I looked like I had a starring role in a Jane Austen costume drama.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nesta, still gawping, ‘but green hair?’

  ‘It matches perfectly,’ I grinned. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I think it looks fab,’ said Lucy. ‘But what about school? Mrs Allen will kill you.’

  ‘Oh it washes out after a week. It’s only mousse. But I’m not going to tell Mum that.’

  I looked at my reflection in my bedroom mirror. ‘I like it and I think I might keep it in until Monday at least.’

  ‘Won’t your mum make you wash it out?’ asked Nesta.

  ‘She’s been dashing about all morning and the car will be here any minute so by the time she sees me, it’ll be too late.’

  Lucy giggled. ‘You look like an Irish colleen. All that emerald makes your eyes look even greener than normal.’

  ‘Then my grandma would have been proud – Irish roots and all that. Geddit? Emerald green roots?’

  They were staring at me as if I’d gone mad.

  ‘Hair roots, dummies.’

  ‘More like she’ll turn in her grave,’ said Nesta. ‘I don’t think wearing green stretched as far as hair.’

  ‘Maybe her ghost will show up at the wedding,’ I said, ‘and when they get to that part where the priest says, “Anyone here got any objection?” her ghost will rise up to the ceiling groaning, yes I do, I do. My granddaughter has dyed her lovely long brown hair green.’

  Lucy and Nesta laughed.

  ‘Seriously though,’ I continued, ‘I wish you two were coming. It’s not fair. Everyone else was allowed to bring friends, at least to the reception. But then, I suppose because they’re all grown up it’s one rule for them, another for us.’

  ‘Well, there might be some decent boys there,’ said Nesta. ‘You can practise my flirting tips.’

  ‘Fat chance. It’ll be deadly dull. There’s not even a disco. Jeremy’s an accountant and, like Amelia, is from a family of accountants. They even had the wedding cake made into the shape of a calculator.’

  ‘What’s her dress like?’ asked Lucy, interested as always in the styles of things. She’s thinking about going to Art college and being a dress designer when she leaves school.

  ‘Big meringue. Makes her look enormous even though she’s skinny. In fact, I don’t know how she’ll fit into the wedding car.’

  ‘If I got married,’ said Nesta, lying back on the cushions like Cleopatra, ‘I’d look fantabulous. Of course, I’ll be famous by then and there will be lots of press there as all the mags will want to buy the wedding photos.’

  ‘What would you wear?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘Something slinky. Figure-hugging. Maybe ivory silk with no back. And I’d have my hair loose, like it is now, right down to my waist. Not stuck up in one of those awful styles a lot of women choose for their wedding day, you know, beehives, all stuck up on top. And I’d just carry a simple bouquet, a couple of lilies or something. Elegant. And I’ll have the ceremony in the grounds of my mansion and there’ll be loads of rock stars and celebrities there.’

  ‘You’d look stunning whatever you wore,’ I said, looking at her stretched out on my bed. Nesta’s easily the best-looking girl in our class, if not our school. She’s half-Jamaican and half-Italian and has drop-dead gorgissimo looks. She could be a model if she wanted but lately has decided that she’d prefer to be an actress instead.

  Lucy’s pretty too but in a different way to Nesta. She’s petite with spiky blonde hair, and looked like an elf, sitting cross-legged in her favourite place on the beanbag on my floor.

  ‘What would you wear, Lucy?’ I asked.

  Lucy looked out of the window dreamily. ‘I think I’d like to get married in winter, in the snow. In velvet, with a cloak. And little white rosebuds in my hair. I’d arrive at the church in a horse-drawn carriage and the church would be covered in flowers and ivy . . .’

  ‘You’re such a romantic, Luce,’ I laughed. ‘As long as you don’t subject your bridesmaids to anything like this awful monstrosity I have to wear.’

  ‘We would be the bridesmaids, wouldn’t we?’ asked Nesta. ‘Being your best mates an’ all?’

  ‘Course, but I’d like to have Ben and Jerry as well, as they are my other best friends,’ said Lucy.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Nesta. ‘Dogs at a wedding?’

  ‘Yeah, they could be page-boys.’

  Nesta and I had to hold our sides laughing. The idea of two fat Labradors waddling up the aisle with flowers round their necks was too much.

  ‘Well I’m never getting married,’ I said. ‘What’s the point? So many people split up a couple of years later. Like my mum and dad. Once, I overheard my dad on the phone saying he thought divorce was nature’s way of saying “I told you so”.’

  ‘But you might fall in love one day,’ said Lucy. ‘And then you’ll feel different
ly.’

  ‘Nah. Look, I’m already fourteen and still not had a proper boyfriend. I’ve never met anyone who’s come even close to what I want.’

  ‘But if you did?’ insisted Lucy.

  ‘OK. If I did. Which I won’t. I’d wear a red rubber mini-dress and roller-skate up the aisle with an all-singing all-dancing gospel choir in the background.’

  ‘But I can’t roller-skate,’ said Lucy. ‘And I have to be one of the bridesmaids.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not going to happen. I can’t see me ever falling in love. Especially not if I stay round here. All the boys round here are total Kevins.’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t want to get married for ages,’ said Nesta. ‘I want to play the field for as long as possible. Why settle for one fruit when you can try the whole basket?’

  ‘You’re such a tart,’ said Lucy. ‘Anyway, it’s easy for you, being the boy magnet of North London. But what if you meet someone really special?’

  ‘What, like Tony?’ teased Nesta.

  Poor Lucy went bright red. Tony is Nesta’s elder brother and Lucy has an almighty crush on him.

  ‘He’s asked me out on a date next week,’ said Lucy shyly.

  Nesta looked concerned. ‘And are you going to go?’

  ‘Course. But I know, I know, don’t get too serious. I know what he’s like. A different girl every week.’

  ‘Don’t you forget it,’ warned Nesta. ‘It’s me and Iz who’d have to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ said Lucy. ‘But what about you, Iz? What do you want in a boy?’

  ‘How long have you got?’ I asked. ‘Can I ask the audience? Go fifty-fifty? Phone a friend?’

  ‘Final answer,’ said Nesta. ‘Give us your final answer.’

  I had to think about this. The perfect boy?

  ‘OK. Good sense of humour. Has to be able to make me laugh. Er, intelligent. I don’t want some thick idiot. Someone I can talk to and have lots in common with.’

  ‘Good-looking, surely?’ asked Nesta.

  ‘Yeah. A bit. I mean, I don’t want a pin-up as I think a lot of boys that are way handsome are too cocky . . .’

  ‘Like Tony,’ said Nesta, looking pointedly at Lucy who ignored her.

  ‘Er, excuse me,’ I interrupted. ‘I haven’t finished. Final answer for the million dollar boy. GSOH. Intelligent. Generous. Decent looks. A nice bum. Genuinely likes girls’ company. Clean fingernails and last but not least . . .’

  ‘Rich,’ said Nesta.

  ‘Cute,’ said Lucy.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘last but not least . . . able to stand on his head and sing “God Save the Queen”.’

  Lucy cracked up. ‘You’re mad, Izzie.’

  ‘Good luck to you,’ said Nesta. ‘I mean, most of it sounds OK but clean fingernails? I think you’re pushing it, girl.’

  ‘Izzie,’ called Mum frantically from downstairs. ‘The car’s here.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Here I go! So. Final final question. Do I look all right? Green and all. Do you think I need more kohl on my eyes?’

  ‘You look great,’ said Lucy. ‘And let us know how it all goes.’

  ‘OK, Nesta?’ I asked.

  Nesta laughed. ‘Well put it like this. When Amelia sees you, let’s hope love really is blind.’

  ‘If love is blind,’ I said, ‘then marriage will be an eye-opener.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Nesta, getting up off my bed and heading for the door. ‘Come on, Luce, I suggest we get out before Mrs Foster sees her and all hell breaks loose.’

  Lucy grinned. ‘Yeah. Nice knowing ya, Izzie.’

  And with that, the two of them ran for it.

  So much for my plan to freak out our headmistress with my green hair on Monday. As soon as we got back from the wedding, Mum marched me upstairs and into the bathroom.

  ‘Right,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Start scrubbing and don’t stop until your hair is back to normal.’

  She handed me the shampoo and I waited for her to leave but she stood there glaring at me.

  ‘It’s not enough that you shame me in front of all our family and friends,’ she continued, ‘but you ruined Amelia’s special day. And how are we going to explain the fact that one of the bridesmaids is missing from most of the wedding photographs?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded being in the pictures,’ I began.

  ‘Well Amelia minded. She was furious. Honestly, Isobel, fancy upstaging the bride on her wedding day.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’

  ‘You never think, do you? You’d have stood out a mile in every photograph.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said for the millionth time that day.

  ‘And I won’t have you going into school looking like that either. Lord knows what the teachers would think of us and what kind of home you come from.’

  I was going to tell her loads of girls have coloured hair and highlights but I know defeat when I see it so I bent over the taps and began washing.

  Mum was still hovering as streams of green dye filled the bath. I could hear her sighing above the gushing water. I decided silence was the best policy so continued washing then reached for a towel.

  ‘NOT THAT ONE!’ cried Mum. ‘For heaven’s sake, Isobel!’ (She always calls me by my full name when she’s mad at me.) ‘Not a white towel, it’ll leave stains. I’ll get you a dark one.’

  Mum’s very big on white towels. Once, after I’d been washing my face, she came into my room holding the towel I’d used.

  ‘Is it you who’s marked my towel?’ she asked, pointing to mascara blotches. ‘Towels are for drying with, not for using to remove make-up.’

  Honestly. I wish she’d get some normal coloured ones so I could use the bathroom without worrying, but then she’s like that about everything. Our house is immaculate. Mum’s immaculate. Always dressed in neat black suits for work and neat black trousers and cashmere sweaters for home. Dark hair in a neat bob. I don’t know how she does it. Never a hair out of place. Never a scuff on her shoes. Never a mark on her clothing. Her star sign is Virgo, the perfectionist. She even cleans up before the cleaner comes in as she doesn’t want her thinking we’re a dirty family. What is the point of having a cleaner if you can’t make a mess to clean up?

  I wished she’d go away and let me finish doing my hair in peace but no, she plonked herself on the side of the bath and looked at me sternly. ‘Now are you going to give me some kind of explanation?’

  ‘Er, I . . . I thought it looked nice.’

  Sigh. Bigger sigh.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset anyone . . .’ I began.

  I didn’t. But I did get quite a reaction. We were going up the aisle and everyone was oohing and aahing at the bride when suddenly the guests all spotted me and the place went quiet. Then people looked away. But not Amelia. I could see the moment I caught her eye that there was going to be trouble. Big trouble. I swear I could see steam coming out from under her veil. I kept my eyes on the altar and prayed she’d mellow out a bit at the reception after a few drinks. She didn’t. She went completely ballistic.

  Mum was still glaring at me from the side of the bath. I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘Um, sorry,’ I said. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? You don’t know the meaning of the word. Go to your room. I can’t bear to look at you.’

  I crept into my room. Definitely in the doghouse. Definitely persona non grata. Again.

  Chapter 2

  A Strange-looking Parasite

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ asked Mum the next day as I tried to sneak out the front door. I was hoping to escape before I was grounded.

  ‘Out with Nesta and Lucy.’

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘Not hungry,’ I said, stuffing my gloves in my coat pocket.

  ‘It’s cold and raining out there. You can’t go out without anything inside you. Come back.’

  I followed her back into the kitchen
and she started putting bread in the toaster.

  ‘Er, no thanks, Mum, I’ll just have some fruit. I don’t eat white bread any more.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since now.’

  ‘And why’s that?’ she asked. She was looking quite cheerful considering the events of the day before. Was I forgiven?

  ‘Er, no reason. I just don’t fancy any.’

  ‘Then I’ll do you some eggs.’

  ‘No thanks, I don’t fancy eggs. I’ll take some fruit.’

  How can I tell her I only eat free-range now? I read how they keep the battery hens all cooped up in tiny spaces. Awful, poor little chicks. But I don’t want to go there with Mum today, it would only start an argument.

  ‘Izzie, what is it with you lately? Can’t eat this, won’t eat that!’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Well, see, we did a class on nutrition at school and I was wondering if, er, maybe we could have more healthy food.’

  ‘What do you mean, more healthy food?’

  ‘Like maybe fresh food rather than frozen, free-range eggs, maybe organic . . .’

  ‘And what’s wrong with what I give you?’

  ‘Er, nothing wrong with it but we could be eating better.’

  ‘Nonsense. We eat very well here. There’s always plenty of food in the cupboards.’

  ‘But Mum . . . I’m not talking about quantity, I’m talking about quality . . .’

  ‘Are you saying my food isn’t good quality?’

  ‘No, NO . . .’

  This wasn’t going well.

  I decided to try another angle. ‘You know how you like everything to be immaculate in the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, see, that’s all external. What I’m talking about is what’s inside. You are what you eat and the more fresh and healthy the food is that you eat, the better you feel and the more immaculate you are on the inside. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  It was worth a try. She seemed to be considering what I’d said.

  My stepfather Angus looked up over his Financial Times. ‘What Izzie’s saying is she wants to go green!’

  Very funny. Not.

  Thanks, Angus, I thought, last thing I need is someone reminding Mum of yesterday.