Authors: Anna Carey
The Real Rebecca (5 page)
Miss Kelly seems to have reached a compromise. She did boring geography for about half an hour and then gave us a passionate lecture on the evils of not washing everything
we put into the green recycling bin. It’s nice to have her back. Well, not nice, exactly, because she’s always a bit scary and sometimes when she’s been particularly extreme I have nightmares about the end of the world, but it’s better than learning about the GDP of Belgium.
Called in to Cass’s after school. Alice couldn’t come because her guitar teacher was sick on Tuesday, when she normally has classes, and she had to switch days. Alice is quite good at the guitar, but she’s learning classical guitar so she doesn’t have an electric one, just an acoustic one with big plastic strings. She can play some cool stuff on it anyway. Apparently her dad has an electric one somewhere but it doesn’t have an amplifier so it’s no use. Anyway, Cass’s brother is so annoying. We were in her room trying to have a serious conversation (well, sort of. Actually, Cass was telling me about her recurring dream in which Miss Kelly has challenged her to a duel like in days of old, and Cass only has twenty-four hours to learn how to use a sword. She doesn’t know what on earth this means. Neither do I, although I did have a few theories, mostly about global warming). But Nick kept coming in saying stupid and usually disgusting things like, ‘Did you know the
human body is 90% snot?’ (which isn’t even true THANK GOD). He is
so
irritating. He actually makes me grateful for Rachel, and I never thought I’d say that.
My plan to inspire my poor, suffering mother has begun. I spent today thinking of excellent plots for her (it was a nice distraction from my classes, which were very, very boring) and have begun to work them casually into conversation in the hope that it will inspire Mum’s creative powers.
Although
frankly I think I have done nearly all the creating myself already. I’ve practically written four books today (in my head). I began putting the plan into action when I was helping Mum make the dinner, peeling potatoes like a slave (what would Mrs Harrington say if she knew her beloved Rosie Carberry used child labour in the home?). Mum was messing around with a big orange casserole dish and saying something boring about not cutting off half the potato when I got rid of the purply bits when I said, ‘You know, Mum, I heard a very interesting thing at school today.’
‘Oh really?’ said Mum. ‘Was it more interesting than peeling those potatoes properly?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A girl in my class was telling us about her aunt. Apparently she had two really good friends, right, and they all went to school together but when they got older one of them became a teacher, and she was really bored and
frustrated
because she had to teach girls about tidal waves all day, and then another of them ran a fancy hotel, and she met all these glamorous men who were staying in the hotel, and the last one was a nurse and she was very saintly.’
‘Really,’ said my mother. ‘Which one was your friend’s aunt?’
‘Um,’ I said. ‘The nurse. No, sorry, the teacher. Anyway, over the years they all went their separate ways, and then they met up again and shared their stories. Oh, and they went on holiday together and the nurse found love for the first time. And the teacher learned to follow her dreams and see all the places she’d taught classes about.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Mum. ‘What about the hotel manager?’
‘She decided she liked just, like, flirting with all the men
in the hotel. So she was pretty happy.’
‘Wow,’ said Mum. ‘That’s quite a story.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Just thought you’d be interested.’ And I gave her a meaningful look. But she wasn’t looking at me. She was sort of looking off into the distance with a funny expression on her face. Could I have inspired her already?
I don’t think I have inspired Mum. I heard her on the phone to Joscasta this evening. First of all she was laughing in a sort of mad sniggering way. Why doesn’t she ever laugh like a normal person when she’s on the phone? She sounds like a horse. Maybe she has a special phone laugh like some people have a special posh phone voice.
Although
you’d think if she went to the trouble of coming up with a phone laugh she wouldn’t sound like a farm animal. Then she was saying ‘no, Jocasta, they don’t know. It’s not a big deal!’ Then she saw the door into the sitting room was open and went upstairs to her and Dad’s room so I couldn’t hear anything else. What is she going on about now?
Could she be sick?
I am a bit worried.
This evening I sort of cornered Dad when he was making the risotto and hissed, ‘Dad, do you know what’s wrong with Mum? Why isn’t she writing her new book?’
Dad sort of looked at me and then he said, ‘Bex, are you really, seriously worried about this?’
‘Yes!’ I said. ‘I’m worried she won’t be able to write any more and then she’ll be miserable and …’
And then, to my shame, I burst into tears. Dad was very nice and even though normally these days whenever either of my parents try to hug me I just go ‘gerrof’ and escape from their annoying clutches as fast as I can, I didn’t
actually
mind being hugged this time. He told me seriously not to worry and that Mum didn’t have writer’s block and that soon she would have a nice surprise for all of us. ‘Especially nice for you,’ he said, which cheered me up a bit. Maybe Mum is writing a film, and maybe there will be a part for
me! Or maybe one of her books is being made into a film, and someone really famous and cool is going to be in it. I’m quite looking forward to the stupid book party now.
It’s Mum’s book party tomorrow and she still hasn’t started a new book. At least, if she has, she’s not telling us about it, which just isn’t like her at all. She’s off at the shops now, looking for a bag to go with her book-launch dress. I really am worried about her, although Rachel pointed out (in quite a kind way, really, not her usual horrible, patronising way) that if Mum really was suffering from writer’s block, she wouldn’t be so cheerful. She’d be sobbing and wailing in frustration, according to Rachel. I couldn’t imagine Mum wailing, and it wasn’t a very nice thought, but I suppose Rachel is right about the writer’s block thing.
‘But then what do you think is wrong?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think anything’s wrong,’ said Rachel. ‘
Seriously
, I think she’s working on something. She’s in her study every morning, as usual. And she seems fine.’
‘But if she’s working on something, why won’t she tell us?’ I said.
‘Maybe it’s something she doesn’t want to tell us about,’ said Rachel. ‘Maybe she’s changing direction.’ She stopped, and suddenly looked a bit sick. ‘Oh, God, Bex, maybe she’s writing, like, really sexy stuff.’ She stared at me in horror, and I stared back. ‘Maybe she’s writing a big sexy blockbuster. Like Louise Bagshawe, Jilly Cooper or Jackie Collins or something. That’s … that’s practically porn!’
‘What?!’ I said. What a horrible thought! It’s bad enough having a mother who writes about feisty Irish mammies and their roguish children, but having a mother who wrote porn would be a zillion times worse. I could never, ever live it down.
‘Oh God,’ said Rachel. ‘The shame. And we can’t ever read it. We’d keep imagining … urrrrrrgh. It’ll traumatise us for life.’
‘No wonder she hasn’t told us anything,’ I said, sitting on the couch. ‘Oh, God, I feel sick.’
‘I feel sicker,’ said Rachel. She sat down next to me.
‘Should we ask her about it again?’ I said.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Bex, we’ve both tried that,’ said
Rachel in an exasperated way. So she
had
asked Mum about her new project! I knew she thought the whole thing was freaky! And there she was telling me I was over-reacting. ‘She’s not going to suddenly tell us anything now.’
Then the phone rang. We both jumped about ten feet in the air – I think we both thought it was Mum ringing to remind us to put the casserole in the oven for dinner. But it was Tom for Rachel. She’s on the phone to him now,
talking
in her Tom-phone-voice, which is absolutely
sickening
. At least she has a boyfriend to comfort her about having a pornographer for a mother. I don’t even have a Cass and an Alice because they’re both out at the cinema tonight (I didn’t go because they’re going to see a scary film and I can’t watch scary films in the cinema. In fact, I can’t really watch scary films at all unless I’m watching them from the sitting-room door so I can leap back into the hall if anything gross happens). At least I’ll get to see my future love, Paperboy, tomorrow, though.
Except I won’t, because I’ll be at that stupid book party!
My mother is wrecking my entire life!
