Summer Secrets (2 page)

Clover smiles. “You could so get a job at Benetton.”

Once we’ve packed the green case, Clover reaches underneath her bed and pulls out a slightly smaller one and a matching vanity case. I think it’s what they call a suite of luggage. I wonder absently, do they fit inside each other, like Russian dolls? That would be cute.

Dusting down the new suitcase with her hand, she sends dust mites spiralling into the air like microscopic ballerinas. She wiggles her nose and sneezes.

“Bless you!” I say, automatically.

She beams at me. “Aren’t you sweet? Now, tip my knicker drawer into this smaller case, Bean Machine, and I’ll pack my make-up.”

I stare at her. “The whole drawer? We’re only going for two weeks, Clover, not a year.”

She shrugs. “A girl needs choice. My bikinis are in there too. And I’ll need to pack my laptop and work stuff. That reminds me, Beanie, what do you know about Efa Valentine?”

“The film star?” Efa Valentine is a rising Hollywood star. She’s Irish too and the same age as Clover. She was nominated for an Oscar last year. She didn’t get it – she was up against Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett – but it made her even more famous.

Clover nods. “I’m interviewing her in Cork city while we’re on hols. The mag thought it was a good idea as we’re the same age. Want to tag along?”

I nod eagerly. Silly question.

“I’m bricking it,” she admits. “My very first interview and it has to be a big movie star like Efa Valentine. Saskia was supposed to be doing it, but Saffy’s making her prepare for her big interview in Miami.” Saffy is Clover’s editor at
The Goss
magazine.

“Saskia?” I ask.

“New intern at the magazine.” Clover puts on a posh marbles-in-the-mouth voice. “Saskia Davenport, darling.” She wrinkles her nose. “Daddy owns half of Ireland.” Then she adds, in her normal voice, “Six foot, red lips, jet-black hair, Cleopatra fringe: your average nightmare. Has some sort of big-deal journalism degree. She’s already asked Saffy if she can
help
me with the agony-aunt pages.”

“What did Saffy say?”

“That I had it covered. But my days are numbered – Saskia’s fiercely ambitious.” Clover sounds a bit glum.

“Mills is off to Miami too,” I say brightly, to change the subject. “Remember Marlon and Betty Costigan?”

Clover smiles. “
Remember?
I still have nightmares about those kiddly winks. Especially after the Louis Walsh episode.”

“
X Factor
Louis?”

“Uh-huh. I must have told you about it.”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“OK. Well, first of all they both refused to go to bed. I tried bribing them with sweets, but that just made them even more hyper. Anyway, one of Louis Walsh’s boy bands happened to come on the telly, and Marlon said Louis was his godfather. I thought he was just trying to impress me, so I told him to stop being daft. And he said he’d prove it. He ran off and I forgot all about it. Then the next thing I knew:
ding-dong
. And there he was, Louis Walsh, standing on the doorstep, a big impish grin on his face. He was smaller than I expected, but much cuter.”

“No! What did you do?”

“I invited him in, of course. Marlon got out his Karaoke SingStar and we all had a great laugh. Ria Costigan walked into the living room at midnight and Betty was prancing around to “Mamma Mia” in her heels, still high as a kite from all those sweets. I think Ria had been drinking, ’cos she was swaying a bit. When she saw what was going on, she sobered up pretty quickly, though. She called me irresponsible and practically threw me out of the house! And that was the paddy last time I babysat for the Costigans.”

I wince and then laugh. “Holy drama-rama! I’m not surprised they never had you back. No wonder they’ve gone for someone like Mills this time.”

Clover looks intrigued. “Explain.”

“She’s babysitting for them this summer. In Miami, no less.”

“Go on.”

“Rex is casting a new Matt Munroe film called
Life Swap
, which is set in Miami, and Ria’s involved in the publicity for Matt’s latest movie,
Just Add Water
. Mills might even get to meet him and—”

“Rewind. Did you say
Matt Munroe
?”

I nod.

“That’s who Saskia’s interviewing!” Clover says. “Matt Munroe from
West Dream High
.”

I gasp. “Wow. Lucky thing. Cosmic heart-flutters. It’s a pity you’re not doing it, Clover. You could have hooked up with Mills while you were over there.” Yikes, probably not the best thing to have said in the circumstances. Clover’s face drops. “But Efa’s cool too,” I add quickly.

She sighs. “Cork’s hardly Miami. But Saskia’s got a lot more experience – which reminds me, I need to practise my interview technique. Can I quiz you, Beanie?”

My mobile beeps. Oops. Mum again.

“Sure. But right now I have to run. We’re leaving for Cork first thing.”

“I’m driving down in the morning too, but it won’t be as early. Need my beauty sleep. So I’ll see you there, Beans. Hope you survive the journey.”

I don’t think she’s joking.

Chapter 3

“Seth
says he’ll miss me,” I tell Mills that evening. I clutch my heart and flutter my eyelashes. “Swoon!”

Mills has popped round to say goodbye. She’s off to Miami tomorrow night, so we won’t see each other for ages. Mum nearly didn’t let her into the house; she’s gone mad with all the packing. You should see the place. There are half-packed bags in every single room. She’s run out of proper zip-up ones and now she’s throwing things into anything she can find: Tesco shopping bags, checked-cotton toy bags, my old Barbie bag from infant school – even nappy bags. You’d swear we were going on safari to darkest Africa or trekking across the Sahara or something.

When Mills rang the doorbell, Mum would only open the front door a crack, as if Mills were some sort of violent criminal.

“You can have ten minutes,” she told her.

“Why don’t I help Amy pack?” Mills offered eagerly. “I’m great at folding clothes.”

Mum looked at her suspiciously. “OK.”

Now, every time Mum peers round the door, Mills carefully folds a T-shirt and hands it to me. We’ve been passing the same one backwards and forwards for fifteen minutes and Mum hasn’t copped on yet.

I’m only allowed to bring one bag of clothes – one! How Cruella de Vil is that? And my school rucksack for all my books and music. I hope Mum doesn’t spot the
AMY LOVES SETH
in the big Tipp-Ex love heart. Mills graffitied my bag on the last day of school.

“So did you get a goodbye kiss?” Mills asks, her eyes sparkling.

I open my mouth to say something but she gets in first.

“What was it like? Was his tongue all hot and sticky?” Mills is so excited, she’s hopping around like a little kid who needs the loo.

“Shush!” I tell her. “Otherwise Mum’s going to kick you out.” I grab a pair of trousers and fling them into the bag, followed by my new white jeans. I’m not all that keen on the jeans – they’re a bit tight – but Clover made me buy them. She said they’re a summer-wardrobe staple, like a little black dress in the winter. I’m not convinced.

Suddenly, Mum appears in the doorway. “How are you getting on, Amy?”

“Nearly finished.”

“Good – you can help me with Evie’s clothes when you’re done.” She disappears down the corridor.

“Better slow down,” I say to Mills. “Or else she’ll have me counting vests and babygros. Deadly boring.”

Mills isn’t going to be put off. “Tell me about the kiss. What was it like?”

“Nice.”

“
Nice?
Amy!” She hits me with a silver belt.

“Ouch!” I stroke my arm. The buckle’s left a red mark on my skin.

“Sorry.”

“’S OK. But there’s no need to get violent. We only kissed for a few seconds. Billy wasn’t impressed.”

“Billy?”

“Seth’s dog, remember? I think he was jealous. We were just getting started and he jumped on top of me.”

Mill’s eyes widen. “Seth?”

“No, you sap; he’s not some kind of
Twilight
werewolf. Billy.” Mills laughs and I smile back. “It wasn’t funny at the time,” I point out.

“So what was his tongue like? And yes, I do mean Seth’s, not Billy’s. Soft or hard?”

“Mills!”

“Come on. I really want to know. I
need
to know.
I
’d tell
you
.”

I sigh. She’s right; she most certainly would. Probably more than I actually wanted to hear. Mills is a details girl. “You’d better not tell anyone else,” I say.

“Course not.”

“His tongue was softish but firm. And warm, not hot.”

“Was there saliva everywhere?”

“No, there wasn’t. It’s not like that. You make it sound gross.”

“Did he poke his tongue in and out? Sophie said that’s how you do it.”

Funnily enough, Clover did say that that’s a very common misconception. The in–out style of tonsil hockey is the sign of a rank amateur, she explained, as is the “roundy-roundy” washing-machine technique. Apparently, what you’re aiming for is lots of different kinds of tongue and lip action, with varying pressure.

Clover told me to imagine kissing is a Cadbury’s selection box at Christmas. Some kisses should be rich and smooth like Flake, others mellow and soft like Caramel, with some twisting Curly Wurlys and tongue-cracking Crunchies thrown in for variety: all different, all sweet, all desirable. Unfortunately because of Billy I only tasted the ordinary old Dairy Milk this time.

“Sophie doesn’t know what she’s on about. That lizard-tongue thing is the sign of a rank amateur,” I say confidently, repeating Clover’s words.

Mills’s eyes widen. “How do you kiss, then?”

“You press your lips together gently yet firmly and caress his tongue with yours. And you have to make sure your teeth don’t clink together.” I blush, remembering the end-of-term party. It was the first time Seth and I kissed properly – and, put it this way, it wasn’t a complete success. Thinking about it still makes me cringe.

Mills sniggers.

I swat her with a T-shirt. “Stop being such a baby.”

“Sorry, sorry.” She’s still giggling. “But you sound so funny. Like something from a book.”

I look at her. “What kind of books have you been reading?”

“Mills and Boon romances,” she admits. “Mum keeps all the ones she’s read in a box under the stairs. They’re brilliant. The last one was called
Claimed by the Millionaire Bad Boy
or something like that. I’ll lend you one if you like. They’re full of caressing tongues and heaving bussoons.”

“Bussoons?”

“You know, boobs.”

I grin. “Bosoms, you eejit.”

Just then, Mum runs through the door again, eyes flashing, hands balled by her sides. Her hair is scraped back off her flushed face and tied with one of Evie’s white cotton bibs. She opens her hands and wipes them on her jeans, leaving vivid red marks on the faded denim. “Amy, you must have finished by now. Alex has just poured an entire pot of raspberry jam over his head. Can you give him a bath? Otherwise I’m in danger of committing infanticide.”

Mills looks at me, puzzled.

“Child murder,” I tell her, standing up. “Namely, Alex. My darling brother.”

Alex is nineteen months’ worth of terror and devastation wrapped up in a package of Nordic blond hair and chubby cheeks. He was born on 30 October, the day before Halloween, which in his case is utterly appropriate. No witch or ghoulie could cause as much trouble as Alex.

Mum shakes her head and a plop of jam falls on to the carpet. She whips a tissue from her pocket and dabs ineffectually at the mark. She looks as if she’s about to cry.

Mum can be a bit fragile at times, what with the lack of sleep on account of Evie, who’s an insomniac, and Alex, who’s hyperactive even for a toddler, so I say, “Don’t worry about it, Mum. The carpet’s wrecked anyway. No one will notice.”

She puts her face in her hands and gives a loud roar like a lion. She’s clearly losing it. “Why did I ever agree to this stupid shared holiday? The packing alone… I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

“I think I’d better go.” Mills edges towards the door.

I think Mum frightens her sometimes. Her own mum, Sue, is so sensible. She wears flowery Cath Kidston aprons and bakes.

“Have a nice holiday, Amy,” Mills adds, and blows me a kiss.

“I’ll try. And don’t forget to email me as soon as you get to Miami.”

“I will.
Adiós, amigo.
”

“Mills, Miami isn’t in South America. They do speak English.”

“It’s so far south, it’s practically Mexico,” she says – a little too smugly for my liking. “And loads of Cubans live there. My guidebook says it has an amazing climate, always hot. And the Costigans have a pool.”

“Well,
arriba, arriba
, for you,” I say grimly.

Does she have to keep going on about Miami? I’m so jealous I can taste it. And envy does not taste like any kind of selection-box chocolate; more like battery acid.