The Real Rebecca (6 page)

Antics. ANTICS! I don’t have antics! Or make antics. Whatever. I hate my mother. I can’t believe I was trying to help break her writer’s block. I’d rather she had writer’s block forever and ever if this is what she’s going to come out with. A teen novel! Officially inspired by my ‘antics’!!! I can’t believe she has done this to me. I will never, ever live this down. I thought Mrs Harrington was bad enough, comparing me with those horrible little ringleted loons.
But now my evil mother has admitted to the world that she has based a character on me! And Rachel too, but it turns out that Ruthie O’Reilly (that’s the heroine of this hideous monstrosity of a book) is fourteen, which means everyone will just think it’s me anyway.

Anyway. As you can tell from that newspaper report, which I have stuck in this diary just to prove that last night wasn’t all a hideous dream, Mum had a lovely surprise for us at the book party. In fact, it turned out that the party wasn’t just to celebrate her twenty years as a published writer. It was also to celebrate her ‘new venture into the exciting world of young adult literature’. At least, that’s what it said in today’s
Irish Times.

Last night was the worst night of my entire life. And today is looking like being the worst day. It started with me opening the door in my pyjamas to find Paperboy standing just outside it (the door, that is, not my ’jamas). I was
letting
out our cat Bumpers, who hates going to the toilet in his litter tray like a normal cat and always demands to leave the house first thing in the morning, and I was still in such a daze after last night that I forgot it was Saturday, the only day we get the papers delivered. So when I saw Paperboy
standing about six inches away from me with some papers in his hand I actually shrieked. And then I stepped back and stood on Bumpers, and Bumpers shrieked too and ran out the door and between Paperboy’s ankles. It was like something out of a very, very crap circus.

And of course the door suddenly opening and me shrieking (with my hair sticking up all over the place, I might add) and a cat wailing and practically running him over gave Paperboy a hideous fright, so he yelled and fell off the step. And he dropped a whole pile of papers and bits of them fell all over the place and on one of the pages was a huge colour photo of me. Well, me with Mum and Rachel anyway. On the third page of the
Irish Times.
We were sort of grimacing at the camera and Mum was beaming from ear to ear like a lunatic. I was so horrified by this I forgot to say sorry to Paperboy for scaring him. In fact, I nearly shrieked again. Unfortunately Paperboy, who was picking up the papers and putting them back in his bag, noticed what I was staring at and said, ‘Hey … sorry for giving you a fright. Is, um, is that you?’

‘Is that me where?’ I said, idiotically.

‘On this paper,’ said Paperboy, helpfully picking it up
and holding it out to me so I could see myself and my evil traitorous mother in glorious technicolour. ‘And … this one.’ He held up a copy of the
Irish Independent
which had fallen to bits. On one of the pages that had dropped out was a huge photo of me and Mum. I can’t describe the freakish expression on my face in that photo. It was too hideous for words.

‘Oh God,’ I said.

‘I thought I recognised you,’ said Paperboy, sticking the last of his papers into the bag. And he grinned at me. ‘See you!’ he said. Then he went off. And I was left, standing there, staring after him like a pyjama-wearing freak. And now I am hiding in my room. I am never coming out again. Mum keeps knocking at my door and saying, ‘Oh come on, Bex, you’ve got to eat some time’. She’s right, actually, I’m starving, but I’m not going to eat any of her horrible food. I’ll go out and buy my own.

Except all my money (such as it is) was given to me by her and Dad (who is just as bad as her, I might add, because of
course it turns out he knew about her evil book all the time!). So technically it would still be their food. Huh.

To distract myself from my agonising hunger, I will finally write about what happened last night, aka the worst night of my life. Mum was all flustered and frantic
beforehand
, which isn’t like her at all really, although of course now I know that it was her GUILTY CONSCIENCE because she knew what was coming. Rachel and I got dressed up, and the gorgeous Topshop dress I got for my birthday and haven’t had the chance to wear much yet actually looked really nice and my hair was behaving itself for some miraculous reason (probably because when I was washing my hair yesterday I nicked Mum’s expensive Bumble and Bumble conditioner that she keeps hidden under her bed). So I actually felt quite good when we left the house. But little did I know the hideous nightmare that awaited me. We arrived at the hotel (oh yeah, the
publishers
had rented a really gorgeous room in a posh hotel) and there was Lucy who edits Mum’s books at the publisher and Mum’s agent Jocasta and lots of journalists and friends of Mum. In other words, it was the usual rubbish. There were photographers and we had to pose for a few photos
with Mum (we didn’t know then where they would end up). Rachel and I had to be polite and say hello to people, and a waiter was handing around champagne and Rachel asked if she could have a glass and Mum said no, maybe later if there were toasts, and then Rachel asked if she could have a glass of wine and Mum said no again, so me and Rachel sort of skulked off and hid behind a pillar where hopefully no one would notice us and start talking to us about Mum’s books.

‘God, this is boring,’ said Rachel, looking at her watch. ‘I wonder how soon we can leave.’

‘Not for hours and hours,’ I said gloomily. ‘Are there any mini-burgers left?’ Mini-burgers are the only good thing about these launches. For some reason they are nicer than ordinary-sized burgers. Why? Who knows? I thought eating a few of them would ease my pain, but even that pleasure was denied me.

‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘I just saw Dad eat the last one. Oh, look, I think Lucy’s going to say something now.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Speeches. My favourite things.’

Little did I know how bad this particular speech was going to be.

It started in the usual way – Lucy went on about Mum’s brilliant career and the contribution she’d made to Irish writing, and how she was one of the first international Irish bestselling authors (a slight exaggeration – if she was really such an international bestseller, we wouldn’t live in a three-bedroom semi in Drumcondra; we’d live in some sort of palace in Killiney. Not that I’d want to live in
Killiney
, but I wouldn’t mind having a bigger house. And a view of the sea would be nice. Although I suppose I could get that in, like, Clontarf or somewhere. Anyway.). So this went on for a while, and I sort of drifted off and was gazing longingly at a tray of mini-burgers that had suddenly appeared on the other side of the room when Lucy said, ‘But of course, the real reason we’re here tonight is to launch a new stage in Rosie’s career. As most of you know, her new book will be aimed at a whole new audience – teenagers!’

I wish I could say that everyone gasped in horror, but that was just me and Rachel. In fact, everyone else seemed to know all about it and nodded sagely while Rachel and I stared at each other.

‘As you know, Rosie has two lovely teenage daughters
and she thought it would be a good idea to write
something
that they and their friends could enjoy.’ (FYI, I can safely say that I – and my friends, for that matter – will never enjoy anything written by my mother.) ‘All of us at Peregrine have heard a lot about Rachel and Rebecca over the years, and about a year ago we were delighted when Rosie told us she wanted to write something inspired by their adventures. And we weren’t disappointed.
May the Best Girl Win
will be the highlight of our children’s list this season!’ And she held up a copy of a stupid-looking book with a horrible drawing of a pouty girl in Ugg boots on the cover. I thought I was going to be sick.

Then Mum took the microphone. She carefully avoided looking at us, probably because even she wouldn’t have the cheek to waffle on about her awful book while Rachel and I glowered at her. She thanked Lucy and then she thanked her publishers and her editor and her agent and everyone for coming to the event and just when I thought I was going to faint from a combination of
boredom
and rage she said, ‘And of course, thanks most of all to my family – my husband Ed and my lovely daughters, Rachel and Rebecca. Those girls drive me mad sometimes,’
(and of course everyone laughed like this was funny) ‘but I don’t know what Ed and I would do without them. They make us laugh a lot.’

Everyone sort of went ‘awww’ and of course turned around to gawp at us and see how we were taking this touching speech. I think they thought we’d be wiping away tears of emotion and mouthing ‘we love you!’ at our awful horrible sneaking mother. But we weren’t, we were just standing there glaring at her.

Mum cleared her throat and went on. ‘The girls aren’t really fans of my books – I think it was Rebecca who described the last one as ‘nice if you like that sort of thing’ – so I decided to write a book they would really like, about their world.’

Oh my God, that’s what it’s all about! Punishment for mocking those evil Irish dancing children! The unfairness!

Mum kept waffling on. ‘It’s been a long time since I was a teenager,’ (everyone laughed again as if this was a joke, when of course it is simply THE TRUTH) ‘but I can remember what it was like, and of course I have Rachel and Rebecca around to remind me all the time. Their antics inspired me to write this book, although I had a little help
from teen magazines. I think the girls wondered what I was doing with some of them!’

Yeah, I did. I can’t believe I was worried about her having a mid-life crisis when she was really just getting ready to embarrass me in front of the world. I can’t believe I actually CRIED the other night because I thought there was something wrong with her. I am never going to be nice to her again.

‘But I really enjoyed writing the book,’ she said. ‘And I’m already working on the sequel. So, well, I hope you enjoy it!’

And everyone clapped. The fools. Soon they all started moving around chatting and eating canapés, but Rachel and I were still pretty much frozen to the spot.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Rachel. ‘I can’t believe I never guessed.’

‘I can’t believe she’s been spying on us and planning to write a book without telling us!’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ said Rachel. ‘Bex, I think this is worse than the porn thing.’

Just then, my dad came up to us, beaming from ear to ear.

‘Hi girls!’ he said, as if his wife hadn’t just DESTROYED OUR LIVES. ‘What do you think?’

‘You knew?’ shrieked Rachel.

Dad looked confused. ‘Of course I knew,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? Aren’t you excited? I thought you’d be excited!’

‘Of course we’re not excited!’ I said. ‘Is this what you were talking about when you said Mum had a surprise and that I’d like it?

‘Um, yes,’ said Dad.

‘Well I don’t!’ I cried.

‘But why?’ said Dad. He looked very confused, but then, he often does. It’s what happens when you lock
yourself
away and teach history for twenty years.

‘Because she’s written a book and she’s just told the world it’s about us,’ said Rachel. ‘I mean, it’s bad enough having that awful teacher going on about how we must love Mum’s books every time I bump into her in the corridor, even though she isn’t even my English teacher …’ (Ha! I knew Mrs Harrington wouldn’t leave Rachel alone.) ‘but now Mum’s actually officially said that she’s written about us. How do you expect us to be
happy about that? It’s humiliating!’

‘It’s worse for me,’ I said. ‘She’s just said that this girl in the book is fourteen. So everyone will think it’s about me.’

‘Well, I was fourteen once too,’ said Rachel. ‘So that doesn’t help much.’

‘Girls!’ said Dad. ‘You’re being very silly. I’m sorry you’re upset, but I really don’t see what the problem is. Your mum’s very excited about this book and she’s already working on the sequel. Last week you were convinced she had writer’s block! You were crying, Bex!’

‘I’d PREFER writer’s block to an awful book about a girl in stupid hideous boots who everyone will think is me!’

‘Oh God,’ said Rachel. ‘Everyone we know is going to read it if they think it’s about us. It’s going to be so
embarrassing
.’

And then our enemy, aka our mother, came over. She had a sort of stupid smile on her face.

‘Well, girls,’ she said. ‘How did you like my surprise?’

‘If by “how did you like my surprise?”, you mean, ‘How do you like being embarrassed in front of the whole world?’ Well, the answer is “not at all”!’ shouted Rachel, and can I just say how nice it was to see Rachel being all snotty to
Mum in front of me. Normally if she gets annoyed by Mum when I’m in the room, she tries to be all grown up and sophisticated, but as we don’t live in a vast mansion and I am not deaf, I know perfectly well she can be just as tantrum-ish as me when she thinks I can’t hear her. Which I always can.

Mum seemed genuinely confused.

‘What’s so embarrassing about this?’ she said.

Rachel and I stared at her.

‘Mother,’ I said, very slowly, ‘you have written a book that you have just admitted is inspired by us. And people we know will read it. HOW IS THAT NOT EMBARRASSING?’

‘I hate to say this, Mum, but Bex is right,’ said Rachel. ‘Seriously, we are going to look like complete fools. I can’t believe you’ve done this to us!’

‘I thought you’d like it!’ said Mum. ‘You never want to read my books, so I thought you’d like this one.’

Against my will, I found myself feeling a bit sorry for her.