“How was it down at the shop?” Dad asks, as soon as we’ve pulled ourselves together.
“Pretty quiet,” I reply, and I see a flicker of worry cross Dad’s face. With most people choosing to get married in the summer, winter is always our quietest time, but this year it’s even deader than usual. “Oh, but I did get an American couple asking if we could do their wedding in New York. They seemed pretty serious too.”
Dad raises his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yes, they want a Downton Abbey theme. But they need it mega quickly. They’re meant to be getting married just before Christmas but their original wedding planner ran off with the bride from his last wedding.”
Now it’s Tom’s turn to start laughing.
“What’s the joke?” Mum says, coming in the door and taking off her coat.
“Why did the chicken cross the road, roll in—” Dad begins.
“No!” Tom yells. “That wasn’t the joke. The joke was why did the American couple have to call off their wedding?”
Mum looks at us all like we’re crazy. She looks at us like this a lot.
“Because their planner ran off with the bride from his last wedding.” Tom starts cracking up again.
Mum sits down next to me, looking even more puzzled. “What’s he talking about?”
I tell her about Cindy and Jim. “They’re getting married in a hotel called the Waldorf Astoria,” I add at the end.
Mum and Dad’s eyebrows do a synchronized lift.
“The Waldorf Astoria?” Dad says dreamily.
‘In New York,” Mum says, looking equally dreamy.
“Yes. I’ve got all their details here.” I hand Mum Cindy’s and Jim’s business cards. “They asked if you could call them as soon as possible. I know we don’t normally do international weddings but I thought it was best to let you talk to them. I hope I did the right thing.”
Mum and Dad look at each other and then they both grin at me.
“Oh, you did the right thing, darling,” Mum says, hugging me to her.
As Mum and Dad start chatting about the Waldorf Astoria, the text alert goes off on my phone. It’s Elliot.
OMG—my dad just asked me if I’ve got a girlfriend yet!!! Thinking I might have to hire a team of cheerleaders to spell it out for him. Enjoy your sleepover with Mega-Bitch :P
I quickly type a reply.
Either that or you could get Choccywoccydoodah to ice it on a cake for him. And thank you—I think ;) Pxxx
Almost immediately my phone goes off again. But this time it’s from a new number.
Hi, Pen, do you want to meet tomorrow at Lucky Beach? About 12? We could have lunch . . . Ollie x
I stare at my phone in shock. Even though I am the Clumsiest Person in the Universe, and even though he thinks I might have fleas and a chronic wind problem, Ollie wants to meet me! For lunch! At a proper restaurant! Oh my God . . . I think I’ve just been asked on a date!
Chapter Five
If there’s anything guaranteed to wipe the probably-just-been-asked-out-on-a-date smile off your face, it’s the sight of one of your best friends sitting on your bed, staring sullenly into space like she’s about to keel over and die from boredom. Since Megan got here, twenty minutes ago—or it could be twenty days, it feels that long—everything I’ve suggested we do has been greeted with a bored shrug or a tight-lipped “no thanks.” What was the point in her coming over if she’s just going to sit and sulk all night? And then I get it. This must be my punishment for what happened at JB’s last night. She obviously still hasn’t forgiven me for breaking her fingernail. I internally groan. What was I thinking, asking her over? How could I have possibly imagined it would be like our sleepovers used to be?
Megan and I have been friends since our first day at secondary school, when our teacher sat us next to each other. I’ll be honest: at first this friendship was formed out of fear. I’d spent the entire summer holiday worrying that no one would want to be my friend and I’d be destined to spend SEVEN YEARS drifting from classroom to classroom alone. But it wasn’t long before our friendship changed from desperate to genuine and all of my fears faded away.
My favorite memory of me and Megan was when we were twelve and my dog Milo had just died. (Milo dying is not my favorite part—obviously—that was one of the worst things that ever happened to me.) But, when she found out, Megan came around to my house with a little goody bag of gifts, including a poem she’d written about Milo called “Cutie Paws” and a framed photo of me chasing him around the park. That’s how she used to be—kind and caring. But then she got into acting and it totally changed her—especially when she got her first TV role. Megan calls it a TV role but actually it was for a TV advert for GlueStick. She had to stick two pieces of card together and smile at the camera and say, “Wow, it’s so sticky!” She was only on-screen for about five seconds but the way Megan talks about it, it’s as if she’d been cast in the lead role of a movie. And ever since then it’s like she thinks she’s better than everyone else. Including me. Now, every time I’m with her I feel as if I’m being interviewed for the job of best friend and I spend the whole time dreading I’m going to say or do the wrong thing. Like right now.
“So . . .” I say. “What would you like to do?”
“Dunno.” Megan looks around the room and her gaze comes to a rest on one of the photos on my wall. “Oh my God! Why have you taken a photo of a stone?”
I get a weird squirmy feeling in the pit of my stomach. The photo is of a snowy-white stone with three holes in it. According to Elliot, stones with holes in them always used to be considered lucky charms. “It’s a lucky stone,” I say.
“Why’s it lucky?” Megan stares scornfully at the picture.
“Because it has holes in it. Fishermen always used to take them on their boats with them, to keep them safe.”
Megan smiles a tight little smile. “You’re so quirky, Penny!”
Usually, I like the word “quirky.” But whenever Megan says it about me it sounds like the worst thing in the world and it makes me want to punch her. I hug a cushion to me and sigh. I can’t face an entire night like this. I have to do something to rescue the situation.
“Do you want to do face masks?” I ask hopefully. “I’ve got a couple of those strawberry peel-off ones we used to use.”
Megan shakes her head. “No thanks.”
I glance at the wall and wonder if Elliot is sitting on his bed too. It feels horrible thinking that he might just be a couple of feet away from me and yet I’m trapped here—unable to see or talk to him—in this Sleepover from Hell.
I’m about to ask Megan what she’d like to do again when she kicks off her shoes and wriggles back on the bed.
“What was up with you yesterday in the diner?” she asks, staring pointedly at her missing false nail. “Why did you act so weird?”
I think about coming up with an excuse. Then I remember my last blog post and how good it felt to open up about my panic attacks. I haven’t mentioned them at all to Megan. But maybe it will make things a bit easier between us if I’m honest.
I take a deep breath. “You know I was in that car accident with my parents a while ago?”
Megan looks at me blankly for a second. “Oh, yeah.”
“Well, ever since then, I’ve been getting these weird panic attacks and I feel just like I did when I was trapped in the car. Like I get all kinds of hot and feel as if I can’t breathe and—”
“Oh my God, do not talk to me about getting panicked!” Megan interrupts. “I can’t believe there’s only two days till the school play. I am so scared I’m going to mess up.”
“You won’t mess up. You’re the best one in it.”
“Really?” She looks at me, widening her chocolatey-brown eyes. “It’s just so much pressure, though, knowing that the success of the show is riding on my shoulders. Jeff said that I remind him of a young Angelina Jolie, which is, like, super-cute of him but it just makes the pressure even worse.”
/> “Right. Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” I feel a sour mixture of anger and hurt. Yet again, she has turned the conversation back on herself—even when I was trying to tell her something private and serious.
“I’m so glad I have such great chemistry with Ollie,” Megan continues. “Jeff says we’re like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt in that movie they did together—you know, when they first fell in love.” Megan looks at me and gives me another of her tight little smiles. “Ollie tells me everything, you know.”
I feel a bit sick. “Oh, so you—you know about tomorrow then?”
She frowns. “What about tomorrow?”
My face instantly flushes. “He’s asked me to meet him for lunch.”
It’s almost as if I can see the cogs in her brain whirring as she processes this information. Clearly she didn’t know. Clearly Ollie doesn’t tell her everything after all.
“He’s asked to meet you? Where?” She’s still smiling but it’s so forced it looks as if her jaw might crack from the strain.
“At Lucky Beach around midday.”
“What? Just you?”
There’s something about her shocked expression and the way she says “just you” that makes me really mad. I know that Ollie is way out of my league in the stupid School Leagues of Attractiveness and General Greatness but if a boy has asked you out for lunch, shouldn’t your friend be happy for you instead of gaping at you like a goldfish? Unless . . .
“Do you like Ollie?” The question pops out before I have time to censor it.
Megan looks at me coldly. “Of course I like Ollie.”
“No, I mean, like like?”
Megan throws back her head and gives a fake little laugh. “No, of course not. He’s way too young for me.”
I stare at her and all I can think is, Who are you? Megan might have been one of my closest friends for six years but right now it’s like I don’t know her at all.
Chapter Six
If The Guinness Book of Records ever wants to feature the World’s Worst Ever Sleepover they need to get in touch with me. Seriously. I wake up while it’s still dark—never good on a Sunday—and lie there sending psychic messages to Elliot through the bedroom wall. When we were little, we used to try to have the same dream when we went to sleep. We thought that because we slept right next door to each other it would be possible, like we could float up into one giant dream bubble hovering over our houses. I’ve had the worst night ever, I try telling him.
Megan is still fast asleep on the other side of the room on the sofa bed. As I look at her, a new blog title composes itself in my head—CAN YOU OUTGROW YOUR BEST FRIEND?—and all of my hurt and anger at Megan starts welling up inside of me, dying to spill out. It’s so frustrating when this happens and I’m not able to actually write anything. Once, in the middle of a math exam, I got this awesome idea for a blog—at the time I was certain it would be the funniest, most interesting blog I’d ever written. I’d come up with a really clever title and everything. But then I got lost in a sea of algebra and when I came out of the exam the only letters I could think of were x and y. I still can’t remember what that blog post was supposed to be about.
Scared of losing my current idea, I take my phone from my bedside table and burrow under my duvet. I’d put my phone on silent when we went to sleep last night—at eleven thirty!!! Now I see that Elliot sent me a text at just gone midnight.
How’s it going with Mega-Boring? Are you missing me?! My project is making me want to poke my eyes out with a pencil. I mean, seriously, who needs to know about the Corn Laws? Why does corn even need a law?!
I start typing a reply.
Worst sleepover EVER! So bad I was already asleep when you sent your text!!! I think there needs to be a Corn Law and the law should be that hot buttery corn on the cob should be served with every meal. I MISS YOU SO MUCH!!!
Almost as soon as I’ve sent the text I hear a faint knocking on the wall. One knock, followed by four, followed by three: I—love—you. I’m about to knock back when I hear Megan groan.
“What’s that knocking noise?”
“I don’t know,” I lie.
“Is it that boy next door?”
Megan has met Elliot loads of times; there’s no way she doesn’t know his name. This fact makes me hate her even more.
“I don’t know why you hang out with him,” she continues. “He’s so weird.”
I lie on top of my arms to stop myself from leaping out of the bed and bashing her over the head with a pillow.
“Could I have some coffee?” she asks.
“Yep.” Even though she just insulted my best friend and even though she totally ruined last night and even though I want to kill her with a pillow, I’m so grateful for an excuse to get away from her for a few minutes that I leap out of bed and pull on my dressing gown.
• • •
Down in the kitchen, I find Dad sitting at the table, drinking a mug of tea and reading the paper. He’s an early bird just like me. His hair is still ruffled from sleeping and his chin is covered with a grey shadow of stubble.
“Hey,” he says when he sees me. “How’s the sleepover going?”
I look at him and raise my eyebrows.
“That good, huh?”
I nod, then go and turn the kettle on. A few weeks ago, when we were making a spag bol together, I told Dad that Megan and I hadn’t been getting on very well.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think that it’s possible to outgrow a friend?”
He smiles and nods. “Oh yes. It happens all the time, especially at your age when you’re changing so much.” He gestures at me to sit down next to him. “Did I ever tell you about Timothy Taylor?”
I shake my head.
“He was my best friend all through junior school. We were as thick as thieves. But then, when we got to secondary school, he really changed and I just didn’t want to hang out with him.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“He started playing rugby!” Dad chortles. Dad is a total football nut and can’t understand people who prefer rugby. “But seriously,” he continues, “it wasn’t just that. He started getting really full of himself too. I didn’t have anything in common with him anymore.”
“So what happened? Did you fall out?”
“Nah. Just drifted apart really. And we both found other friends we had more in common with. So don’t worry about Her Ladyship.” He nods toward upstairs. “You’ll be fine—sometimes you just have to let people go.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I get up and kiss him on top of his head.
“No problem.” He laughs. “Who knew I could be so wise so early—and on so little caffeine!”
When I get back to my bedroom, Megan is up and fully dressed. I internally cheer—hopefully this means she’ll be going soon.
“Here’s your coffee.” I pass her the mug. She takes it but doesn’t say thanks. Instead she says, “So, what are you going to wear for your lunch with Ollie?”
I look at her blankly. In all of the stress of the Sleepover from Hell I hadn’t given it any thought.
“If I were you, I’d go for a really casual look. You don’t want to seem too keen. I’d lend you my hoodie but I don’t think the color would suit you.” She takes a sip of her coffee and smiles at me sweetly. “It’s such a shame your hair’s red. It doesn’t really go with anything, does it?”
I realize there and then that for me to have any hope of actually enjoying my morning and looking forward to meeting Ollie, Megan has to go. Like, right now.
“I’m so sorry, but my dad’s just told me that I need to help out with something down at the shop this morning.”
Megan frowns. “On a Sunday?”
“Yes. So I’m afraid you’re going to have to go.”
Megan actually looks disappointed. “Oh, but I was going to help you get ready.”
I force myself to smile at her. “It’s OK, I can manage.”
She look
s at me and raises her eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“Oh yes, absolutely.”
• • •
It turns out that actually, when it comes to getting ready to meet Ollie, I can’t manage at all. It’s half an hour since Megan left and my room looks like a nuclear clothes bomb has gone off. In my desperate whirlwind of trying things on and ripping them off again, not a single inch of bedroom space has been left untouched by some random article of clothing. I look at the stripy tights dangling forlornly from the light fixture and sigh. What am I going to wear?!
I’m in a real dilemma. The kind that people write to advice columns about. Normally, if I’m having any kind of fashion crisis, Elliot is the first person I turn to, but I can hardly imagine him wanting to help me when Ollie’s involved. I wander around my room sighing; even the sight of the sea on the horizon doesn’t make me feel any better. Not when I’ve got to be down by the sea in one hour’s time and I’M STILL NOT DRESSED!
Then a question forms in my mind. What would I wear if it were just up to me? I go over to the heap of clothes on the floor by my rocking chair and I pull out a black tea dress dotted with tiny purple hearts. I put it on with a pair of black opaque tights and look in the mirror. The dress is a perfect fit and makes my waist look really tiny. I’m about to pull on a pair of ballet pumps when that question pops into my head again. What would I wear if it were just up to me? I root around in the bottom of my wardrobe for my biker boots. Then I put on my black leather jacket.
“Don’t forget me!” my camera seems to call out to me. I stuff it into my pocket. I learned long ago never to leave my camera behind. It was always on the days when I left it at home that I’d see the best photo opportunities ever. And who knows what photo opportunities I might get with Ollie . . . ? I instinctively blush as I imagine Ollie asking if I can take a picture of him and me together. Even though I hate selfies, I might not mind a couple’s one . . . OK, so I might be getting a bit ahead of myself—but isn’t it every girl’s right to get a bit overexcited, when her biggest crush has just asked her out?