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  I went over and gave him a hug. I really love my dad. And I can see that he is really trying to make things better even if Mum can’t.

  ‘I’m sure they will be perfect,’ I said. ‘What have you made Mum for supper?’

  ‘All her favourites. Fettucine. Rocket salad from the garden . . .’

  I had a sudden moment of panic. ‘Oh God! It’s not her birthday or your anniversary, is it?’

  ‘Hah. We don’t need a birthday or anniversary in this house to celebrate. Nope. No . . .’ He sat down. ‘Actually, I have some news. Good news. Things are going to change around here. And for the better, I can tell you.’

  ‘Go on, then. Tell me.’

  Dad grinned like a cheeky kid with a secret. ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I want to wait until Mum’s home. I want to tell you both together.’

  He looked so happy. Happier than I’d seen him in ages.

  ‘You’ve got a job,’ I said.

  ‘Noooo. Not that.’

  I should have known it wasn’t that. He’d stopped looking for proper work ages ago after he’d finally got himself a literary agent. It had taken months of rejections before he got accepted by one. First step on the ladder, he’d said at the time. I didn’t understand the significance, but he explained that many publishers don’t really consider submissions unless they come through an agent. He was over the moon with the news, but then most of the year went by and his agent still hadn’t managed to sell his book, even though she’d sent it out loads of times to different editors. His rejection file grew fatter. That’s when the arguments between Mum and Dad began to get worse and more frequent. They were mostly about money. She wanted him to get a part-time job. He wanted to follow his dream or at least give it a chance. He’d started work on a new idea and was really excited about it and had sent the outline and first three chapters off just over a week ago.

  ‘It’s your new book,’ I said. ‘It is, isn’t it? Your agent’s got you a deal.’

  Dad couldn’t keep it in any longer and his face split into a beam. ‘OK. You guessed. Oh, what the hell, I’ll tell you. It’s hours until your mother gets back. Yes. The agent phoned this morning. Actually she phoned last week, but I didn’t want to say anything until it was definite, as these things can always collapse at the last moment. But the news is good. Not one but two publishers wanted my book. They went to auction over it.’

  ‘Auction? What does that mean?’

  ‘It means, my little Duchess, that they try to outbid each other. It means the advance they’re willing to pay gets pushed higher and higher.’

  ‘And . . .’

  Dad began to dance round the kitchen. ‘We’re in the money,’ he sang, ‘we’re in the money.’

  I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING with a start. There was a noise outside the tent. Voices. Someone was out there . . .

  I snuggled down further into my sleeping bag, my heart pounding madly, and strained to listen. Then I realised. Stupid me! I wasn’t in a sleeping bag. I wasn’t in a tent. I was at home. In my bed. Completely safe. Phew, what a relief, I thought as I pushed the duvet off. I’d been dreaming that I was lost in the woods like in The Blair Witch Project. What a horrible film that had been. Really scary. Not like some horror films which are so over the top with special effects that you can have a laugh about them, this one had seemed real and left a lot to the imagination. Mine had gone into overdrive and I’d got really spooked. So had Lia. I could see that she had been freaked out by it too and was glad when the lights came back on at the end.

  I could still hear voices, though. Raised voices in the kitchen below. I got out of bed, crept out on to the landing, then down a few stairs and strained to listen.

  ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I heard Mum say.

  ‘Oh come on, love,’ said Dad. ‘Things like this don’t happen every day. One should celebrate the good times. They don’t always last long. Heaven knows it’s going to be a hard slog from now on, when I actually have to get on with finishing the book.’

  I hovered for a moment in case they were about to launch into one of their rows.

  ‘I know,’ said Mum, ‘and I think it is great news. I said so last night, but why can’t we have a small celebration? Something that doesn’t cost too much.’

  I hopped down the remaining stairs and went to join them in the kitchen. ‘Celebration? What celebration?’

  Dad, back in dishevelled mode with his hair in its usual unkempt fashion, was wearing his navy fleece dressing gown and sitting at the table. Mum, dressed in her work clothes – navy suit, white shirt, hair tied back neatly in a clip – was at the sink.

  ‘Morning, love,’ said Dad and pointed at the kettle. ‘Tea?’

  I shook my head and went to the fridge. ‘I’ll have some juice, thanks. So what’s going on?’

  ‘I think we should mark the occasion of my first book deal,’ said Dad. ‘And I think we should go somewhere fabulous to do it.’

  ‘Great idea,’ I said as I sat at the table. ‘Where?’

  Mum continued washing up at the sink. She turned round and sighed. ‘I don’t see why we can’t just go to a nice restaurant over in Plymouth or to The View Café up at Whitsand.’

  ‘What were you thinking, Dad?’

  Dad gazed dreamily out of the window. ‘Somewhere further afield,’ he said. ‘Seeing as we haven’t been away for a while as a family, I thought maybe a city break. Paris, London, Barcelona, Prague, Istanbul . . . What do you think?’

  ‘Wow. Yes to all the above,’ I said. Usually it was the Axfords who were jetting off somewhere fab and although they did take Cat and me along when they were celebrating Lia’s mum’s birthday in Morocco, it would be great to go away with my own mum and dad for a change.

  Mum leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed her arms. ‘You’re not earning JK Rowling amounts of money, you know.’

  ‘But he did get a good deal, didn’t you, Dad? Didn’t you tell her that the book went to auction?’

  Dad nodded.

  ‘And didn’t you tell Becca that the advance is only enough money to last a year?’ said Mum. ‘And we have debts to pay off from earlier this year, credit cards, overdraft, not to mention the mortgage. I’m only being practical. And don’t forget that your agent will take her ten per cent, and we don’t get all the money at once. See, Becca, the advance that the publisher gives gets split into three amounts. One lot on signature of contract. A second on acceptance of the book once it’s written and the third on publication.’

  ‘Yeah. And then the book goes into the shops and we’ll be rich. Hurrah,’ I said.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Mum. ‘Who knows if a book is going to sell or not? We won’t know until it’s out there. And who knows even if the final manuscript will be accepted? We can’t go frittering money away that isn’t even in the bank yet.’

  I could see by Dad’s shoulders that she’d put a complete dampener on his good news. She always did this lately. It wasn’t fair. I was with Dad on this. Celebrate the good times. Rock and roll.

  ‘I think we should go,’ I said. ‘Seize the day and all that.’

  Dad smiled weakly. ‘Well, it’s up to your mother really.’

  Mum groaned and banged down a cup she’d been washing on to the draining board. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake. Why is it always me who has to be the sensible one? The responsible grown-up? Why do I have to be the one who counts the pennies? Well, you know what? I won’t do it this time. Go on. Spend your money. Book a trip away. Just don’t blame me if further down the line you regret not putting the money away.’

  I’m out of here, I thought. I hated seeing Dad look so unhappy, especially when for once he really did have good news and was only trying to share it.

  ‘You’re such a killjoy,’ I blurted to Mum. ‘We never have any fun in this house any more.’

  I got up and went out the back door. I didn’t want to be there. I’d get breakfast somewhere else. S
omewhere where there wasn’t a strained atmosphere or people rowing.

  And I didn’t want to go on any trip if this is how Mum was going to be. Why couldn’t she for once try and be like the old Mum she used to be, who was fun and up for anything?

  ‘If I were a character from fiction, who would I be?’ asked Squidge as he lay back on Cawsand beach.

  We were silent while we thought about it. We being Mac, Lia, Cat, Squidge and I. We were lying in the sun in a line on beach towels supplied by Squidge’s mum. We’d been there most of the day just hanging out, paddling a bit, talking, reading books and mags and having a laugh. I loved being down on the beach with my mates and was almost feeling happy again as I breathed in the seaside smell of seaweed, salty air and suntan lotion.

  ‘Digory from that book, The Secret Garden,’ I said.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Cat.

  ‘No way,’ said Squidge as he sat up, whipped out a pair of dark glasses and put them on. ‘That’s such an old-fashioned book. No. Look at me. I’m loads hipper than that. I reckon Keanu Reeves in The Matrix.’

  ‘Dream on, babe,’ I said. ‘I chose Digory because of his personality rather than his looks. Although he’s got an open face like you, he’s also a nature boy and loves roaming about outdoors. And anyway, The Matrix is almost as old now as the Secret Garden.’

  ‘Tosh,’ said Mac. ‘You’re talking out your bum.’

  Cat burst out laughing. ‘Now that I would like to see. Can you imagine? Be a great trick to do at parties.’

  ‘The Matrix will always be cool,’ said Squidge and he lay back down again. He looked miffed that I’d compared him to a character from an old novel, but it was his idea that we play this stupid ‘If I Were a Character from Fiction’ game.

  ‘What about me?’ asked Mac. ‘Bond? 007?’

  Cat, Lia and I spluttered with laughter, causing Mac to look at us with a hurt expression.

  ‘Give us a break,’ said Cat. ‘All the Bonds have been tall. And you, my fine furry friend, are, er . . .’

  ‘Vertically challenged,’ I said, laughing. ‘Which is a politically correct way of saying short.’

  ‘No way am I short,’ Mac objected. ‘I’m five foot six. Medium.’

  ‘And very cute,’ said Lia.

  Squidge thumped her playfully on the arm.

  ‘Hey! And so are you,’ she said and rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly! Boys.’

  Mac looked put out. ‘Looks don’t tell you everything about a man,’ he said sulkily. ‘I have an inner James Bond.’

  ‘And I have an inner Keanu Reeves,’ said Squidge who was quick as always to support his mate.

  ‘OK, so I’m not James Bond,’ said Mac. ‘Who then?’

  ‘Tintin,’ said Cat.

  Mac almost choked. ‘He has red hair. You’re not taking this seriously.’

  ‘Am,’ said Cat.

  ‘OK, then you’re Betty Boop.’

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘Are,’ said Mac. ‘Cute with dark hair. Very Betty Boop.’

  ‘Betty Boop? But she’s a cartoon,’ said Cat. ‘I’m a human being!’

  ‘Oh stop arguing,’ I yelled up into the sky. ‘Why is everyone always arguing these days?’

  Mac put his hand on my arm. ‘We’re not arguing. We’re joshing. Big difference.’

  ‘OK. So who am I, then?’ I asked.

  Mac scrutinised me. ‘Easy. The Lady of Shalott. I always reckoned you look like one of those girls in the Pre-Raphaelite paintings with your long, red, silk hair and pale skin. The ones by Edward Burne-Jones, not Rossetti – his ladies were dark with big full mouths. Your features are more delicate.’

  ‘Delicate? Sounds deadly dull,’ I said. ‘Weren’t the Pre-Raphaelite women all tragic heroines?’

  ‘I guess,’ said Squidge. ‘Yeah. All mourning their knight-type boyfriends who had gone off on crusades or were doing other brave deeds.’

  Cat sat up and looked wistfully out to sea. ‘Shame we don’t get knights on white horses any more,’ she said. ‘I think I’d like all that. It would be so romantic being rescued by one and then carried off to a castle somewhere. All we get now are oiks on bicycles who want to show off by riding with no hands and then usually fall off. So actually, I reckon our life now is far more tragic that it was for those heroines back then. There’s nothing more tragic than a lack of local talent.’

  ‘I agree. I am a modern-day tragic heroine,’ I said and sat up and put on my best noble-but-tragic look. ‘I think I might write a song about it, in fact.’ I strained to think of the right words for a song about heroines, but all that would come was: Lady Bec, what a wreck, give us a peck, oh Lady Bec. God. Rubbish, I thought.

  ‘Pff,’ said Mac. ‘What’s tragic about your life?’

  ‘Everything,’ I said. ‘You don’t know.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘From what I heard you had a great time with one of Ollie’s mates in Morocco.’

  I tossed my hair back. ‘Henry. That was a holiday romance. And anyway he lives in London. He e-mails sometimes but I don’t do long-distance love.’

  Cat looked awkward. ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘Your song.’

  She was referring to the song I had sung for them last night after supper at Squidge’s. I had written it about Henry and the title was ‘Long-distance Love Is Just Too Long For Me’. It hadn’t gone down well. I could tell by everyone’s faces. ‘Long-distance love, long-distance love, long-distant love, it stinks,’ I’d sung. They’d tried to be enthusiastic, but I know them all well enough to know when they are faking it and it wasn’t my best song – even I knew that. When I sang another song afterwards, a soul number from the sixties, they were genuinely impressed and applauded like mad.

  ‘Why not stay in touch with Henry? You got along so well,’ said Lia. ‘And Cat’s stayed in touch with Jamie, haven’t you, Cat?’

  Cat nodded as I flicked my hair back again. ‘So?’ I said. ‘It won’t last. Love never does. And anyway, I’m through with boys. And I’m through with relationships.’

  ‘Since when?’ said Cat.

  ‘Since now. I’ve just decided.’ Since my parents started arguing, I thought – but I wasn’t going to say that to my mates. I didn’t want it to get around the area that they weren’t getting on. I was still hoping that they might get over it and we could go back to being the happy family that we once were.

  ‘Yeah right,’ said Mac.

  ‘No really. You don’t know me. I really, really am through with boys. Relationships stink.’

  ‘No they don’t,’ said Lia. ‘Sometimes they can be great.’

  ‘Well, you and Squidge are the exception,’ I said. ‘And you are still in what the magazines call the honeymoon stage. Just you wait. It won’t last. It never does.’

  ‘Becca,’ Cat objected. ‘Why so cynical all of a sudden? You’re usually the most romantic of all of us.’

  ‘I’m just being practical,’ I said and then realised that I sounded like my mum and felt cross. ‘Oh shut up.’

  ‘You shut up, misery guts,’ said Squidge. ‘We’re not having this, are we, guys? Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise. Only you don’t get to choose. It’s Kiss. I, as King of Rame, and my royal subjects all decree that you shall get back on the horse immediately . . .’

  ‘What blooming horse? Horses, knights – you lot don’t half talk some rubbish. And anyway, you ride a bike not a horse – or at least you did until you broke your leg.’

  ‘I am speaking metaphorically. The horse of life. Of love. Of relationships,’ said Squidge.

  ‘Oo-er,’ chorused the rest of us.

  ‘Get him and his big words,’ said Cat. ‘But I agree. Kiss. You must . . . you must . . .’

  ‘Kiss the next boy who comes on to the beach,’ Squidge finished for her.

  ‘No way,’ I said. ‘It will be some local nerd with spots and bandy legs.’

  ‘Too late to object,’ said Mac. ‘Come on, guys. Let’s go and wait at the benches by the café and see who comes along.
’

  Mac, Cat and Lia got up and helped Squidge to his feet and on to his crutches. Then they gathered their belongings and stood over me. Squidge even waved a crutch at me.

  ‘Shan’t,’ I said. ‘And you can’t make me.’

  ‘Cowardy, cowardy custard,’ said Mac. ‘You’re scared, aren’t you? It’s not cynicism. It’s fear.’

  ‘Don’t be pathetic. No way I’m scared.’

  ‘So do it,’ said Cat.

  I stood up and followed the others to the bench by the alleyway that led from Cawsand Square down to the beach. I got out my lip-gloss and applied some. Got out my brush and brushed my hair.

  ‘I’ll show you who’s scared or not,’ I said. ‘Bring them on.’

  ‘Prepare to pucker,’ said Mac, to no one in particular, as we took up our places to wait.

  First a family of three came by. A dad, a mum and a baby in a pram. I got up to approach the man.

  Squidge pulled me back. ‘Nooooo. Er . . . there are rules. No married men. No men over . . . thirty, and none under, er . . . thirteen.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said and sat back down.

  Mr and Mrs McKeever were next. He’s at least seventy, so he was out.

  After them was a bunch of girls who looked about twelve. They glanced flirtily at Mac and Squidge. Lia immediately linked arms with Squidge while Mac gave them his best cool look which makes him look like he’s about to fall asleep any second.

  And then no one for about ten minutes.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ I said. ‘Let’s go somewhere else.’

  ‘No wait,’ said Squidge. ‘There are some people getting out of a car in the square. Look.’

  We peered down the alleyway and could see that a very bright turquoise car had just parked outside the pub. Not locals, I thought, I would have remembered that car. A balding man who looked as though he was in his forties got out, followed by a very pretty girl with shoulder-length blond hair. She was wearing a really cool outfit. A wraparound flowery dress that looked vintage over a pair of jeans and the most outrageous high wedge sandals with a big red flower on them. Definitely not local.

  A moment later, a lady with long blond hair in a plait got out the back. Must be the mum, I thought. In contrast to the girl, who looked really stylish, the mum looked as if she’d thrown her clothes on in the dark. She had a red-and-white striped T-shirt on over a floral lime-green and orange skirt. Not a good combination.