Summer Secrets (4 page)

“And she has an American accent,” I add. “I heard her on the radio recently. She does all her voice training in New York.”

“Just do your best.” Clover coughs and then scrunches her shoulders up and down, rolling them backwards a few times, preparing herself. “Hello, Efa, I’m Clover from
The Goss
magazine. Thanks so much for giving me this interview.”

I giggle. I can’t help it; Clover sounds so funny.

“Beanie! Please take this seriously. I only have a few days to prepare.”

“Sorry, sorry.” I sit up and try to concentrate, digging my nails into my palm to stop myself laughing. “Hi, Clover,” I say, “it’s lovely to meet you. I’m a big fan of
The Goss
.”

“You read it?”

“Of course, religiously. I bring it on set with me all the time.”

“I’m so thrilled you like it. We must give you a free subscription.”

“Cool – thanks, Clover. Can I get one too? Me, Amy, I mean?”

“You’re Efa, remember? Stay in character. So, Efa,” she continues, “it must be hard to be a normal teenager with all the films and parties and everything. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Clover! Isn’t that a bit personal?”

“Not at all. My editor wants the interview to speak to fellow teens. That’s the angle.
Life as a normal teenager.
She said the boyfriend question is crucial. It’s what every reader really wants to know. Anyway, I’m sure film stars are used to being asked all kinds of personal things.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Well, if I was Efa, I wouldn’t be very impressed. Your approach isn’t exactly subtle, is it? You should ask about her career first – how she got into acting. Make her feel comfortable. Then she might talk to you about boyfriends and stuff.”

Clover is silent for a bit. Oops, maybe I’ve offended her. Eventually she says, “You’re right, Beanie. Why didn’t I think of that? I clearly need to do a lot more work on my approach and questions.” She yawns. “
Siúcra ducra
, I’m pooped. It’s such a long way. And I wish these saps would stop hogging the road.” She nods at a familiar blue car in front of us which is weaving around like Alex on his tricycle.

It’s the Crisp Criminals. I cringe and wiggle down in my seat.

“Hang on, look at that exhaust,” Clover says. “It’s smoking like burnt toast. There must be something wrong with their engine.” She pulls out into the middle of the road and peers through her windscreen at the front of the other car. “Aha. I thought so: their bonnet’s smoking. I bet they’ve blown a gasket.”

I have no idea what she’s on about, but she’s right about the smoke; there are thin wafts of it coming from their bonnet. They don’t seem to have noticed – or else they’re stubbornly ignoring it and refusing to stop.

Clover nips back in behind them and beeps, waving at them to stop. The boy in the back seat looks round, then makes a rude gesture with his arms and waggles his tongue at us.

“Yuck! What an evil leprechaun of a boy,” Clover says. She grips the wheel and checks her rear-view mirror. “If they won’t budge, I’m going to overtake them. Hang on to your hat, Beanie.” She presses her foot down on the accelerator, indicates and powers off, leaving the blue car in her wake.

I stick my head out of the window and wave at the three boys.

“Do you know them?” Clover asks.

“Not exactly. They threw crisps at me when Dave was changing the tyre.”

“I wondered what the smell was, but I didn’t like to say anything.”

“Clover! I hope you’d tell me if I had BO or doggy breath or something.”

She laughs. “Course I would. I’ll give them crisps, cheeky monkeys.” She reaches over and pulls something red out of her handbag, which is lodged in my footwell, and tosses it out of the window. It sails along in the air for a moment before slapping against their windscreen. “I’ll see your crisps, boys,” she yells, “and I’ll raise you a
Goss
special!”

The boys screech to a halt, peel something off the glass and stare after us in disbelief, their mouths wide open.

“What
was
that?” I ask as we zip away. The boys are now ants in the distance.

“An edible bra. I was going to give it to Sylvie for a laugh. There’s still a box of them in the office. They’re made of this gross chewy stuff – they use it to make edible cards for dogs.”

I stare at her in amazement. The mind boggles. “But what are they for? The edible bras, I mean.”

“Valentine’s Day. I included them in my ‘Original Presents for the Boy who Floats your Boat’ round-up.”

What can you say to that?

Clover flicks on her iPod speakers and Avril Lavigne’s voice rings out. “Remember this one, Bean Machine?” she says, belting out the chorus of “Girlfriend” while jiggling her upper body to the music and tapping the steering wheel with her left hand.

We steam on along the N8.

“Having fun yet?” she asks me when the song ends.

“I would be if I didn’t stink of cheese and onion.”

“Here.” She reaches into her handbag again and pulls out a chunky glass bottle. Old Rose by Jo Malone, one of Clover’s prized possessions. “Just one spritz, mind,” she warns. “I have to smell lush for Brains.”

“Thanks, Clover.” I put on my best American accent. “I love you, man.”

“Don’t blame you.” She grins at me. “I’m pretty cute.” Then she indicates left and pulls into the gravel lay-by with a squeal of tyres. “Now let’s get the top down, Beanie. West Cork, here we come.”

Chapter 7

Clover
stops at a garage in Skibbereen to wait for Dave, as the directions to Haven House – the place we’re staying in – are pretty complicated. Following him out of the town, we drive down a small wiggling road, lined with bushy hedgerows, and through the pretty Lough Ine village – which is basically a pub painted tea-rose pink and a small ice-cream shop-cum-post office – until we reach a large lake. After another minute or so we pull up beside a small stone harbour surrounded by mossy old trees, their leaves suspended just over the water.

There are all kinds of boats bobbing on the lake – orange kayaks, old blue pedal boats with broken seats, yachts and lots of brightly painted wooden fishing boats with engines on the back. It’s so beautiful, it looks like a picture postcard.

We get out and stand beside Mum and Dave by the harbour edge. Evie and Alex are both asleep in the car. Alex looks as if he’s been let loose in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory; there’s a melty brown ring round his mouth, and his hair and fringe are brown too.

“How was your trip?” Clover asks Mum.

Mum shakes her head. “Don’t ask. Alex only fell asleep about ten minutes ago. If I ever have to listen to his nursery-rhyme tape again I swear I’ll shoot myself. Five hours of ‘The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round’. Aagh!”

Clover smiles gently. “We’re here now.”

“But where’s
here
?” Mum looks at Dave, who is gazing out at the water. “Dave, where’s the house? It’s not that one, is it?” She points at a white Georgian mansion to the far left of the harbour.

Dave shakes his head. “No, it’s over there.” He nods at a green patch in the middle of the lake.

Clover squints. “Isn’t that an island?”

Dave nods eagerly and grins. “Yes. Isn’t it cool?”

“An island?” Mum narrows her eyes. “You never said anything about an island, Dave.” She doesn’t look happy.

“It’s a surprise,” Dave says, the smile quickly dropping off his face. “Art thought it would be exciting. Romantic.”

(Dad booked the house – he’s a bit of a control freak.)

“Romantic? With all the baby gear?” Mum demands. “Is he deranged? I can’t believe you didn’t warn me.” She glares at him. “Tell me there’s a car ferry.”

Dave gives a hollow laugh. “Don’t be silly, Sylvie. There’s only one house on the island. We have our own boat. Two of them, in fact.” He gestures at the steps leading down to the water, and sure enough, a yellow fishing boat is tied to the railing. “The other one must be on the island with Prue and her lot. And there’s a private beach only three minutes’ walk from the house.”

Prue is Dave’s posh big sister. Her ferry arrived in Rosslare at six this morning. Dad and Shelly are following us down next week. Shelly has a hospital appointment on Monday, so it will be Tuesday before they get here. It’s a miracle they are joining us at all. Mum and Dad only started speaking to each other again a few weeks ago after Dad “forgot” to tell Mum about his and Shelly’s secret wedding in Barbados. Oh, and that Shelly’s expecting a baby. They’re all still a bit funny around one another.

Mum stares at the boats and then back at Dave. “And how exactly do we get the bags from the beach to the house? And if you say donkey I’ll thump you.”

“Wheelbarrow,” Dave admits. “Far more reliable than a donkey.”

Clover and I giggle, but Mum throws us one of her “wicked fairy from
Sleeping Beauty
” looks so we stop.

“David Marcus,” Mum says, her voice tight and her eyes flashing. “One of these days—” She stops, puts both her hands over her face and makes a muffled squeaking noise.

Clover pinches me and whispers excitedly, “An island! Famous Five stuff, Beanie. Isn’t it Fab City?”

*   *   *

In the end, despite Mum’s reservations, the trip over to the island isn’t all that bad. We load the boat up with all the bags and baby equipment, and after a quick refresher lesson from Dave, Clover helms it to the beach. She’s been in and out of fishing boats all her life with Gramps, so she’s pretty confident. My job is to stop Alex from jumping overboard, which takes quite an effort as he’s mad about any kind of water, especially deep water he can actually drown in.

Clover approaches the beach a little too quickly and grinds the bottom of the boat against the stony sand. It makes a sickening crunching noise, but no water comes in, so Dave says it’s OK; she hasn’t holed it – this time. Clover’s shaken at first, but after a few seconds she bounces back.

“Hey, Beanie, look – our own private beach!” She gives me a wicked grin. “You know what that means? Topless sunbathing and skinny-dipping.”

“What do you think, Sylvie? Fancy a bit of skinny-dipping later when the kids are in bed?” Dave grins.

Mum rolls her eyes at him. “Please. We’re not teenagers, Dave. And if you want to give Prue a heart attack, Clover, then going topless is a good way to go about it.”

Clover isn’t bothered. “Hey, Dan’s a doctor, so heart attack, smart attack – he can always revive her. I for one intend to get an all-over tan.”

(Dan is Prue’s husband. He’s a GP in Hove, where they live – which according to Dave is a posh seaside town near Brighton.)

Mum plays with Alex and Evie on the beach while the rest of us load up the rusty green wheelbarrows. Dave and Clover take one each and begin to push them towards the house – correction, Dave does. The wheels of Clover’s keep getting stuck and she’s swearing so much that Mum says, “For goodness’ sake, help her, Dave. Quickly, before Alex picks up even more bad language.”

When we finally get to the house – a white two-storey Georgian house with huge sash windows, ivy growing over them like wiggly eyebrows – Prue and Dan are there to greet us. Baby Bella is on Prue’s hip, but there’s no sign of Ollie or Denis, her boys.

Denis is a nightmare! Last time they were over, me and Mills were sunbathing in the back garden and Denis soaked us with the hose. Another time he squeezed his feet into Clover’s favourite silver Converse so he could play soccer with Dave and Dan in the back garden, ’cos his own were wet. They came back muddy and stretched. Clover wasn’t impressed.

“Darling brother,” Prue says, throwing her arms round Dave. “How lovely to see you. Won’t this be fun?”

Dave must be smothered. I’m standing several metres away and her musky perfume is pongier than toilet cleaner.

Prue steps back. She’s wearing beige canvas to-the-knee shorts, navy Keds and a neatly ironed white button-up shirt. Her straight blonde hair is pulled back in a navy velvet Alice band.

“I hope you don’t mind, darling,” she says, “but I’ve allocated the rooms already. I thought it would make things easier.” (For someone who’s Irish, Prue has a very Home Counties accent.)

Clover slants me a look. “Sylvie’s not going to like that,” she whispers.

Prue starts to show us around. “This is the Blue Bedroom, where Dan and I are sleeping,” she says, waving her hands around a large room with three big sash windows, all with sea views; an enormous four-poster bed with eggshell-blue canopy; a squashy sofa with sky-blue cushions; wall-to-wall wardrobes; and a big en suite with a power shower and jacuzzi bath.

“And I thought the Yellow Bedroom might suit you and Dave, Sylvie.” She swings open the door to a much smaller room down the corridor with only one window, no sea views; a normal-size double bed; no sofa; only one small pine chest of drawers; and a tiny en suite with a view of the sea only if you stand on the loo seat and peer through the very small window above.

Mum doesn’t say a word. She throws Dave a look, but he’s studiously avoiding her gaze.

Prue gives me and Clover the Safari Room because of the French doors, but Clover has already christened it the “Room That Taste Forgot”.