Wendy Harmer is one of Australia’s best-known humorists.

She has enjoyed a highly successful career over almost four decades as a journalist, stand-up comedienne, radio broadcaster, television host and columnist for magazines and newspapers.

This is Wendy’s second novel for young adults. She has also written numerous books for younger children and adults, three one-woman shows, two plays, a musical and a libretto for the Australian Opera.

Wendy lives on Sydney’s Northern Beaches with her husband and two children.

For everything Wendy, go to www.wendyharmer.com or to her online publication, www.thehoopla.com.au

I Made Lattes for a

Love God

wendy

harmer

I Made Lattes for a

Love God

First published in 2012

Copyright © Pearlie Press Pty Ltd 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Phone:

(61 2) 8425 0100

Fax:

(61 2) 9906 2218

Email:

info@allenandunwin.com

Web:

www.allenandunwin.com

A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available

from the National Library of Australia

www.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 74237 991 3

Cover and text design by Ellie Exarchos

Cover photographs by Getty Images (girl), Veer (celebrity and paparazzi) and

iStockphoto (chair)

Author photograph by Robin Sellick

Set in 11.5/17.5 pt Adobe Garamond Pro by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Brendan, Marley and Maeve

My not-so-secret crush

Contents

Saturday morning. January 3.

Sunday night. January 4.

Monday morning. January 5.

Wednesday. January 7.

Friday. January 9.

Saturday. January 10.

Sunday. January 11.

Monday. January 12.

Tuesday morning. January 13.

Wednesday. January 14.

Thursday. January 15.

Friday. January 16.

Saturday. January 17.

Sunday. January 18.

Monday. January 19.

Tuesday. January 20.

Friday. January 23.

Saturday. January 24.

Acknowledgements

Saturday morning.

January 3.

My name is Elly Pickering and I have a secret.

It’s a secret that’s incredible, and I mean that in the true sense of the word. It’s really, absolutely unbelievable. It simply can’t be right.

I have to keep this secret for the entire weekend. That means there’s still forty-eight hours of brain-busting, bum-clenching, teeth-grinding silence to go!

Had I known just how huuuuge the secret was that I would be sworn to keep, I would never have pestered my mother to tell me. I blame her for blabbing. Why did she?

She must know by now that my willpower is non-existent. She must know that for the past fifteen years of my life I have:

Always eaten all my Easter eggs in one go before breakfast.

Always turned to the last page of every book I’ve ever read to find out the ending.

Always stuck my finger into the icing of every cake I’ve ever seen.

Why ask ME to keep a secret?

It’s like putting a vampire in charge of the blood bank . . . Oops!

Vampires.

Right there, that’s part of the secret. See, I’m practically giving it away already.

If you were sitting opposite me right now, you would see my face go as red as a tomato, my entire body start to twitch uncontrollably and you would say: ‘Hmmm, Eleanor. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

And seconds later, I would spill my guts.

Then I would swear you to secrecy too, but a few minutes later you would cave in and put the entire thing up on FacePlace.

Then the whole world would see it and go utterly mental.

Then my mum would see I can’t be trusted, go off her brain and murder me.

Then my entire summer holiday would be ruined, because I’d be dead.

SO, I googled ‘keeping secrets’ and came up with this advice:

1. Tell the secret over and over to yourself until it becomes just ordinary and hardly worth telling.

OK, here goes.

Jake Blake is coming to Oldcastle. Jake Blake is coming to Oldcastle. Jake Blake is coming to Oldcastle. Jake Blake is . . . AAARGH!

It’s no good. The more I say it, the more I want to climb up on the roof here at Buckingham Palace, let off fireworks and blast myself out of a cannon shouting it to the world. It’s still the most juicy secret I have ever been trusted with. And why me? Everyone knows I can’t be trusted!

2. Tell the secret to a pet. They can’t talk. They just listen.

SO, now I have Camilla the cat sitting on the bed here in my bedroom (AKA The Dungeon). I look into her hairy face and those inscrutable marble eyes and tell her that Jake Blake is coming to Oldcastle.

Yes, THE Jake Blake. J-A-K-E-B-L-A-K-E.

Here in Oldcastle.

The same Jake Blake, movie star heart-throb, who is, at this very moment, plastered all over my bedroom wall – his long lashes fringing piercing blue eyes that follow me around the room, his sleek black hair flopping over his forehead, his lips curved in a smile that’s as mysterious as the Mona Lisa’s.

He’s beautiful. And I’d tell him that if I ever got to meet him.

AND NOW I DO GET TO MEET HIM.

In fact, I’ll probably be hanging out with him for most of the summer!

Do you believe me, Mrs Duchess Cat?

ACK! Camilla looks utterly bored and has just started grooming her paws. This is pointless.

3. Write the secret down in a notebook or journal.

I’m not sure this will work either, but it’s worth a try. I find something to write on and grip my pen until my hand almost seizes up like a witchy claw.

Witches!

There I go again.

Still, I have to do something, anything to stop me picking up my mobile phone or going on FacePlace. So I write.

Dear bit of random paper:

Here’s the secret.

My mother, Libby Pickering, runs her own company called ‘Regal Events’. She’s been doing weddings, parties, the odd corporate thingo and I’ve been helping whenever I need to earn a few $$ to pay off my hideously mounting debts. I’ve been inscribing invitations, folding paper napkins and doing some waitressing stuff now and then.

It’s all been pretty low-rent as far as I’ve ever seen, even though my mother keeps telling everyone she meets that the company has some ‘new, important clients’ and will soon be doing ‘big things’. (This has always been a tad cringe-worthy.)

Well, last night, a ‘big thing’ ACTUALLY HAPPENED.

Mum was on the phone after dinner (it was just her and me and a plate of spag bol), and when she hung up she was so excited she started bouncing around the kitchen like the possum that got trapped inside on Christmas Eve.

She didn’t want to tell me what the call was about, but I knew she was busting to tell someone, so of course I hassled her till she told me.

Mum said the call was from Hollywood. YES! The REAL Hollywood, U S of A.

It came from Festive Films. They want Regal Events to handle the publicity for a new big-budget movie that’s being made here in Oldcastle over the summer!

Huh?

I know, weird. How did my mum’s tiny little business get involved in a Hollywood movie?

Apparently Festive Films had some big publicity company here in Britannia all ready to go, then someone got fired, sick or (to be honest, I did fade a bit here), anyway, the deal fell through and they decided to hire a local company instead.

They looked up Regal Events, Ms Libby Pickering, her 5-star rating (which, to be honest, came mostly from some fake names I made up – ahem) and, there you go!

Now, here’s the even more amazing bit.

The new movie is MONSTER CLASS 3!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It’s being made HERE because in the US, it’s the middle of winter and they come ‘Down Under’ to make films.

They needed an ‘ordinary’ high school to film in and they chose, of all places, my very own school, Oldcastle High!

Well, who could argue that Oldcastle High is ordinary. In fact, Oldcastle High is smack in the middle of Ordinaryville in the Republic of Really Tedious on the planet Yawn.

A bit of info if you’ve been living under a rock and haven’t seen Monster Class 1 & 2.

The films are these kooky musicals about a boy named Joey Willis (played by JB) who goes to Hometown High – your typical all-American high school. Except that on Halloween and nights of the full moon, Joey’s whole class turns into a rollcall of the undead – vampires, zombies, witches and ghouls – and Joey transforms into a werewolf. They all sing and dance and stuff.

(It all sounds a bit Michael Jackson ‘Thriller’, circa 1982 – a whole fourteen years before I was born – but, trust me, the movies are funny and brilliant!)

Unfortunately for Joey, both his love interests get killed off. In the first movie his girlfriend turns into a vampire and dies a disgusting vomiting death after she accidentally eats some garlic pizza in the school canteen. (The ‘stinking rose’ being indigestible to vampires, of course.)

In the second one, his girlfriend is a zombie and her brain gets fried when someone short-circuits her curling wand. (If you want to kill zombies, you have to attack their brains, naturally.)

In this movie Joey Willis comes to Back Beach High as an exchange student – that will explain why everyone has an Australian accent.

Wonder how they’ll kill his girlfriend off in this one? (She gets bitten by a ghostly red-back spider?)

When Monster Class 2 was on at the Majestic Movieplex here in Oldcastle last year, I went with Bianca Ponsford and we both dressed up.

I was a vampire and Bianca went as a witch. (She was perfect for the role and hardly had to do anything to her ghastly green chlorine hair!)

Everyone danced in the aisles and pelted each other with popcorn and scorched almonds.

The thing is that the movie topped the box office and now Jake Blake is a MASSIVE star. He’s totally gorgeous (even with fangs and fur all over his face). He’s an amazing singer and dancer and well . . . he’s just impossibly cute.

I like the way he messes with his hair when he’s being interviewed. His dazzling smile. The way he winks. How good he looks in leather jackets. It’s adorable when he bites his lip and . . . Sigh!

He also just starred in a movie with Johnny Depp – a drama – so he’s a really good actor. He’ll get an Academy Award one day. You’ll see.

What else can I say? Jake’s my celebrity crush.

Which means that I love him. Totally.

Not that I’m in love with him – I’m in love with my surfie boy, Will – but it’s nice sometimes to daydream about what I’d say if I met Jake.

AND NOW I AM GOING TO MEET HIM ...ERGH!

‘You want a doughnut, El?’

My older sister, Tilly, sticks her head around the door of The Dungeon. I wave away the greasy bag she’s brought back from the farmers’ market in Victoria Square. She’s been down there this morning doing the shopping with Mum.

And of course, I’m wondering if she knows. I scan her body for telltale signs of nervous breakdown. Nothing.

Tilly isn’t like me. She’s an expert at keeping secrets.

My mother might jump around like a trapped possum. I might find a branch and screech like a cockatoo at sunrise. But Tilly’s a bandicoot. Nocturnal. Silent. Secretive.

In Grandpa Pickering’s backyard on the edge of Britannia Park, there’s a family (tribe? mob? herd?) of bandicoots. They’re out after dark, so you rarely see them, but every morning you can see where they’ve been digging in the dirt. There are all these little holes all over the lawn where they’ve been working feverishly through the night unearthing tasty grubby treats.

If you’ve ever encountered a bandicoot (I saw one once, by torchlight), you’ll know they have adorable all-seeing eyes; fine-membraned, lacy ears that hear everything; and delicate, but powerful, claws.

That’s my sister, Tilly Pickering.

She plonks herself on the end of my bed, right on top of my feet.

OW! When I tell her to get off, she shuffles up a bit, then grabs my pink stuffed pig, punches it in the face and chucks it at the wall.

Why does she always do that?

She turns and half-smiles at me from behind her long chocolate-brown hair.

‘I know you know,’ she says. ‘When the news is in the Bugle on Monday, the whole place will go ballistic!’

PHEW! Now I have someone to share with. In an instant I am a cockatoo – flying to the top of a tree and screeching and flapping like a maniac. I’m not saying much that makes sense, just random squawks of happiness.

Tilly lies back against my pillows and listens, then flicks her long lashes and gazes at my posters of Jake. I’ve seen that dreamy look in her eyes before, but it’s usually when she’s talking about her boyfriend, Eddie.

‘Jake is soooo gorgeous,’ she says. ‘How old is he, anyway?’

Too young for you, I tell her. He’s only seventeen and his birthday isn’t until March 13. (Tilly would know all this if she really loved him as much as I do.)

‘He’s not too young for me. Only six months younger. There are plenty of men who go out with older women in Hollywood, like Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore,’ she says.

Yeah, and look what happened to them! I point out that there was a fifteen-year age difference between Demi and Ashton. Since Tilly’s just turned eighteen, that would mean she’d be going out with a three-year-old. She’d be watching her date splashing in his paddling pool on their romantic hook-up.

‘Oooh! Do I detect someone’s a teensy bit possessive of Jake?’ Tilly pokes me in the ribs with a skinny finger.

That would be very stupid, seeing that there are about one million girls on the planet who are mad about him.

‘Exactly, so take a number, little sister, and stand right behind me,’ says Tilly. ‘Mum says we’ll get to meet him. Imagine if he asked me on a date!’

Now all this is a bit weird. What about her boyfriend, Eddie? He plays football for the Sovereigns and he’s famous around Britannia. Eddie and Tilly are the closest this town’s got to a Power Couple. (More like an AAA battery couple. Heh!)

‘Sometimes it sucks so badly having a footballer boyfriend,’ says Tilly as she traces her pout with lip balm. ‘I’m hardly going to see Eddie all summer because he’s going away. And when he’s playing I hardly see him all winter. When I do he’s usually bruised all over like an avocado and only wants to lie on the couch and play video games.’

Uh Oh. Big Trouble. Little Buckingham Street.

Please don’t let them break up! When Tilly’s heart is broken she staggers around the house mooing like a sick cow while the rest of us hide. She’s horrible to live with. There’s still a big dent in her bedroom door from where she kicked it last time.

‘Wouldn’t it be amazing to date someone like Jake Blake?’ asks Tilly.

Hah! I don’t suppose it’s worth mentioning that he lives in Los Angeles, which, last time I looked, is a universe away. Would Tilly like me to show her where LA is on Google Maps?

‘But you think I’m pretty enough to get a guy like him, don’t you, El?’

I make sure I answer this one straight away!

Of course she’s pretty enough. More than that, she’s beautiful. With her long, straight, shiny hair, radiant green eyes, pale skin and gorgeous figure she’s one of the best-looking girls in the whole city of Britannia.

‘So, why shouldn’t I try to go out with him then?’ she asks me.

Because he’s mine, I want to yell at her. But, really, how sad and deluded is that?

So I say nothing.

Poor Jake Blake. He’s probably packing his bags right now, completely unaware of what will happen when all the love-starved females of Oldcastle find out he’s coming.

It’ll be a Monster Class, alright!

There will be so many girls waiting to sink their fangs into him, he’ll wish he really was one of the undead.

Sunday night.

January 4.

The secret is becoming a toxic, throbbing monster with the ability to kill. It’s growing bigger by the hour.

I spent the whole day at my nan’s place stuffing my face with her roast lamb dinner, pavlova, caramel slice, hedgehog and lavender shortbread just so my mouth was full whenever anyone rang and I could only mumble that I had to ring them back . . . and then I didn’t. Because I couldn’t trust myself!

Now, it’s 9 p.m. and I’m lying on my bed like a bloated, beached pilot whale. Maybe if I fall asleep, right now, I will wake up and the keeping of the secret will be mercifully lifted from me.

BLEGH! I just woke up at 3 a.m. from a dream in which my huge cetacean carcass was stuck in the sand and my skin was

drying out, becoming tighter and tighter. I was almost at the water’s edge, about to be rolled back into the forgiving, wet and beautiful sea by Greenpeace volunteers, when an angry mob intervened.

They pushed me back up the dry sand, yelling: ‘Tell us the secret. Tell us!’

I have a drink of water and peel my jeans from my sweaty body.

Then I consult the dream app I have on my phone and search for ‘whale’.

‘To see a whale in your dream indicates a relationship or a business project that is too enormous to handle. You may be feeling overwhelmed. The dream may also be a pun on “wailing”and a desire to cry out about something.’

That is Utterly. Totally. Right.

This dream app was worth the ninety-nine cents I paid for it.

Still, in just five more hours everyone will know.

Monday morning.

January 5.

It’s about 8 a.m. and my computer is pinging like . . . er . . . a thing that pings a lot.

That means the story about Jake is in the newspaper!

Which means it’s on the radio and TV!

Which means every girl in Oldcastle wants to talk to someone. Anyone!

WHICH MEANS THAT I DON’T HAVE TO KEEP THE SECRET FOR ONE MORE SECOND!

WOOT! WOOT!

I open my FacePlace mirror and, sure enough, it’s going off!

OMG! OMG! OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I loooove Jake. He is sooooooo hotttt!!!!!

Oldcastle High? Bogan Central. In a movie? What gives with that?

Have you seen his body!?!?!?!!?!! HE IS FREAKING GORGEOUS!! Especially on the teen choice awards! His hair was all flippy and his shirt was tight!!! GAHHHHH!

The most gorgeous man on the face of this earth.

Who knows when he’s coming? Where can weez seez him?

I am in heaven ♥ ♥

There’s a call on my mobile and, predictably, it’s Bianca.

‘I’m gunna get a part in that movie, Smelly,’ she says.

Can you believe she still calls me ‘Smelly’ and that I still take her calls?

Seriously, I should have ditched her last year when her stupid ex, Jai, caused all that trouble between me and Will. It’s not like I call her or anything, but she sticks like chewy and I can’t scrape her off.

I wish my BFF (Best Friend Forever) Carmelita was coming down for the school hols. It’s a whole year now since her family went to live on that dumb macadamia nut farm up in Queensland and I still miss her like crazy.

By now I should have found a new BFF to hang with, but there’s some part of me that can’t move on just yet. My new BFF needs to be someone who is kind and loyal and funny and just loves me for being me, like Carmelita used to.

OMG! Can you believe I’m talking like she’s dead?

I imagine the spectacle of Bianca appearing in the film with Jake Blake. I see her pouffed-up hair taking up the entire movie screen and then just a glimpse of him collapsing in the background with an asthma attack from her reeking hairspray fumes.

The idea that she could be in a movie with him is so preposterous! Hah! Hah!

‘Yeah, go ahead, laugh all you like, but it so happens that my mum’s cousin’s hairdresser knows this girl who’s going to be working in the make-up department. They’re having auditions and I’m going to be one of the back-up dancers,’ says Bianca.

This is so idiotic that I laugh again. I know it’s not true and I tell Bianca that they’re bringing all the principal actors and dancers with them from all over the country. There aren’t going to be any auditions.

I tell Bianca I know this because my mum told me.

‘You’re just jealous cos everyone knows you’re a crap dancer. Anyway, what would your mum know about it?’ barks Bianca.

GRRR! Then I do something that I probably shouldn’t and inform Bianca that I know EVERYTHING because my mum is doing the publicity for the film. She knows the whole set-up and has everyone’s phone numbers and schedules. So there!

Bianca is speechless and I enjoy a small moment of glorious triumph floating by like a balloon . . . Then it goes ‘POP’.

‘Perfect!’ exclaims Bianca. ‘That means your mum can get me into the auditions. If I can’t be a dancer, then I’ll be an extra. And once they see how good I am, I’ll be promoted into the front row.’

GROAN!

I snap my phone shut in the way I should have shut my big, fat mouth.

Are there going to be auditions? Bianca Ponsford has an uncanny way of finding out this sort of stuff.

I have to ask my mother.

I race down the hall to the kitchen and find Mum leaning against the bench with a cup of coffee. I have to say, she already looks totally fritzed.

In the past few days she’s taken a zillion phone calls, and this is a rare moment when she’s not yakking her head off.

‘Yes, I think there are going to be some auditions for extras,’ she says wearily. ‘Just for some students to be in the background shots.’

WHAT? I can’t believe she hasn’t told me!

‘I can’t be seen to be using my position for favouritism. That would be unprofessional,’ she says sternly.

But how could just telling me there are auditions be unprofessional? I swear, she’s already going crazy with power.

Maybe Carmelita could come down and we could both try out. That would be the most amazing holiday EVER. The two of us in a movie with Jake Blake! Just the thought of it sends me into a total frenzy and I know Carmelita would go off her brain. She’s really into acting. She was a star in our old drama class.

I follow Mum into her bedroom where she wrestles with her hair. (Her hair’s winning.) If she’s going to be a big-time publicist she’s going to have to do something about her looks. She urgently needs her roots done. (You may have noticed how particular I am about hair.) There’s this hideous strip of grey that looks like a herd of goats have worn a track across her scalp.

I decide to be diplomatic and tell her this later.

Instead, I tell her she looks great (!) and then put the case for Carmelita to come and stay.

‘Yes, that would be fine,’ she says, half-listening. And then her face brightens. ‘In fact, that would be wonderful. You know that I’m going to have no time at all to spend with you in the next month. I’m going to be so busy.’

I tell Mum what I really want is for me and Carmelita to get parts as extras or maybe even back-up dancers or just small speaking parts opposite Jake, or . . . There has to be some way she can get our faces on the screen. That’s the least she can do since, by her own admission, she’s abandoning me all summer.

‘There will be an open audition. You and Carmelita can go along and try out with everyone else,’ she says.

I call Carmelita instantly.

‘I just came back in from feeding Viscount,’ she says. (That’s her pet pig.) ‘And I saw the news on TV, it’s AMAAAZING!’

It sure is. And when Carmelita hears that I am totally In The Know cos of Mum (I mean, I can tell her, surely) and that we can go along to the audition, she screams.

‘OOOOOOH, we could be in the movie? Maybe we could meet Jake, and . . .’

And then her brain implodes.

I expect to become very used to this eerie silence. I know that she’s imagining we will somehow find ourselves walking down the red carpet at the Oscars, because I’ve thought it myself.

How that could possibly happen is a mystery. But I guess you can’t help thinking that if you see the magic of Hollywood close-up you’ll soon be picking glitter out of your hair.

‘I’m going to ask my mum if I can come down and stay,’ says Carmelita.

I tell her, yes, yes! Come! There will be absolutely no point to experiencing this whole Tinsel Town fantasy unless I have someone to share it with.

‘Hold the phone,’ she says and there’s a tense minute where I can hear her talking to her mother, then she’s back and yelling in my ear.

‘She says: YESSSSSSS! EEEEEEEEEK!’

And then I hang up and do the phone dance around Mum’s bedroom, waving it above my head, kicking up my heels and waggling my various bits.

Mum eyes me crossly as she drags her hair into a sticky-out blonde straw broom. ‘This is a very big opportunity for me, Elly. I expect you and your sister to be right there supporting me every step of the way. You have to both act like grown-ups and take some responsibility.’

Yeah, yeah. Whatevs. And then the thought strikes me, what if Carmelita and I don’t get picked at the audition?

Maybe we could be Mum’s assistants? Hang with her every day and help her with stuff. Get her coffees?

(You can see my evil reasoning here. That will put us right up close to the action with Jake.)

‘No, I don’t think you girls have enough experience for that,’ she says firmly.

Huh? How hard could it be? Ordering skinny lattes with sugar substitute and minding her phone and reading glasses? We have to get on that film set somehow. Missing out would be sheer torture!

Then Mum says: ‘If you do manage to get a job as extras, then that will be fine, but otherwise, I’m going to need you to be here at home. Your father’s not going to take any holidays, so you two can help him with the house and meals and feeding the pets . . .’

WHAAA?

Stay here with Carmelita, dusting the spice rack and feeding Harry the Dumb Dog and Camilla the Uncomprehending Cat while actual Hollywood royalty is just down the road?

Not a chance! My father is a grown human being. He can use a tin opener as well as anyone. What did he do before he had three grown females looking after him?

Just then, he calls from the bathroom: ‘Libby! Have you seen my green polo shirt? And can you put some toast on for me?’

Oh yeah, I forgot. He got around in the nude, almost starving to death.

‘It’s in the washing basket. You’ll have to wear your blue one,’ my mum calls back as if he’s five years old. ‘And I’ll cook you some eggs. Poached or fried?’

And then she starts plodding towards the kitchen to make Dad’s breakfast. If she thinks Carmelita and I are going to take over her job as resident doormat here at Buckingham Palace, she’s dreaming.

No way.

Soon enough Dad, enticed by the smell of sizzling bacon (honestly, Mum should wear it as perfume, he’d never leave her side), skips into the kitchen with his hair still wet. He’s wearing the previously mentioned green polo shirt.

‘I said that was dirty!’ Mum snaps at him.

‘I sniffed it,’ Dad replies. ‘Didn’t smell too bad.’

‘Rick! You’re disgusting!’ Mum rolls her eyes.

He ignores her, takes his plate of toast and eggs, pokes at it with a fork, makes a pathetic face and says: ‘Aww! The yolks have gone hard.’

Then they start firing insults at each other, squabbling like toddlers over a plastic rattle.

I trudge back to The Dungeon.

Sometimes it feels like the only person in this entire family with a fully functioning brain is me.

I’ve got to get out of here. Carmelita and I have to get a part in that movie!

It’s a beautiful warm day here in Oldcastle and there’s a big swell rolling in across the ocean.

I could smell the sea spray, even through our kitchen window. As soon as I could get away, I pulled on my bikini and T-shirt and raced down the street to meet Will at Hammerhead.

Now I stand on Winchester Headland, shade my eyes and see an ocean shining with endless, bountiful promise. No matter what life has in store for me, Oldcastle will always be my home.

I will migrate back here when I am an old, barnacled humpback whale.

As I bound down the wooden steps set into the cliff face, I know that there on the beach below is my own little paradise.

I plough through the toasty sand, dump my stuff and see Will’s blond curls bobbing up and down out the back beyond the line-up. He’s on his board. He sees me and waves.

I wave back and the light catches the sparkle of the rings on my finger. I wear two rings now. The silver one with carved leaves and blue stones that he gave me ages ago – the one that was lost and miraculously found. And the one he had specially made for me: a gold band decorated with dark emerald stones the colour of my eyes.

We are in love. The first-year anniversary of us getting together is not long away.

I flop back onto my towel, stare up into the blue immensity and watch little cottonwool-ball clouds pass by. Could my relationship be any more perfect?

Although, I do wonder what the future is when you meet the boy of your dreams when you’re only fifteen. I suppose I really can’t expect that we’ll get married, have kids, then be together until we die.

And yet, the thought of Will being with someone else is like a stab to my heart.

Our story will probably be like in the movies where we will both move away from Oldcastle, go to university or overseas, and then, sadly, drift apart.

Years from now, I’ll be standing at some kitchen sink somewhere, up to my elbows in dirty dishwater with kids crying in the background, and I’ll see a bubble of detergent on a greasy plate.

The screen will go all misty, violins will start playing, there will be a flashback and I’ll be transported back to this day with the surf frothing on Hammerhead Beach.

I’ll remember the diamonds of seawater scattered in Will’s glorious tumble of golden curls. The sheen of his tanned skin.

The soft grey of his eyes, the same shade as the crumbling cliff.

It will come back to me like a fairytale from a life lived a long time ago.

I’ll just bet that I cry then. (Although on the screen will be this arty camera shot of a single tear plopping on a Chux Superwipe.) This sentimental moment will tell everyone that my days with Will on Hammerhead were the best days of my life.

(Sometimes I think I should be a movie director. I’m constantly rearranging the scenes of my life into epic films, sitcoms, cartoons and snappy ads.)

Anyway, back to reality, Will and I will be together for ages. I’m in Year Ten this year and Will is in Year Eleven. Which means that we have at least one year of bliss ahead of us at Oldcastle High, and that’s about as far into the future as I want to see right now.

Sometimes I wish I could just relax and be ‘in the moment’. That’s what all the groovy gurus say. Just simply ‘be’. But it’s almost impossible. From where I sit I can see far out to the horizon. Then, when I look behind me, I can trace my steps back up the cliff to my home and family.

Who can stop thinking about what has been and what might come next? It might be achievable for those Buddhist monks who visited Gummy Beach last year, but not for the rest of us. I’ve tried. I can’t do it.

And it might be way overrated. If you can’t look back at where you’ve been or look ahead at where you’re going, you might just disappear down the crack between two rocks.

I put on my sunglasses and think about all the excitement coming up soon. Maybe Carmelita and I will have to do an act at this audition to be extras in Monster Class 3, and that gets me thinking. What, exactly, could my talent be?

This is a bit anxious-making, to tell the truth. I could recite some of my poetry, maybe? No. No. I couldn’t.

I’ve been writing a lot of stuff lately and I think some of it’s pretty good, but I’ve never read it out to anyone. Doing it for an audition? My heart just started racing at the thought of it. No way.

But then, if this is just an audition to be an extra? I mean, how talented do you have to be to walk by in the background, or be seen sitting on a bench eating a sandwich?

There’s one thing for sure, Ponsford won’t get a part, because no matter who’s on screen, the sight of a weasel with green hair texting and yelling ‘OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, I’M IN A MOVIE!!!’ in the background would be somewhat distracting for the audience.

Even Cate Blanchett couldn’t act her way out of that one!

I’m lying on my stomach thinking about all this when a scatter of freezing drops of water on my back makes me screech with surprise. It’s Will shaking out his curls like a wet puppy.

‘Good waves,’ he says.

And then he gives me a salty, wet kiss, which of course makes me tingle all over with pleasure.

I give him all the news about Jake Blake that I’ve kept secret up till now, even from Will, which was a very big call.

‘Oh yeah. He’s the one on your wall, right?’ says Will with about as much interest as Camilla, i.e., zero.

This is typical of Will. He hasn’t ever seen the Monster Class movies. He pretty much only watches surf DVDs. So, to spark his interest, I inform him that Jake Blake is a massive surfer. I’ve read that he’s out at Malibu every chance he gets and takes all his holidays in Hawaii to catch some waves.

Maybe when Jake comes to Oldcastle, Will could take him out for a surf?

‘I’m not ruining a good session by babysitting some Hollywood noob,’ he says. ‘Anyway, they all say they can surf, but it’s just for publicity purposes. He probably only rides an esky lid.’

(That’s how surfers describe the grommets on body boards. They totally look down on them.)

Anyway, it’s so not true in the case of JB! I’ve seen a video of him carving up the surf.

‘In a wettie three sizes too small and on a board as big as a canoe, I’ll bet,’ he scoffs.

GRRR! I can only think Will’s jealous. And, I just can’t help telling him that I’ll be meeting Jake and, hopefully, getting a part in the movie.

‘Oh yeah. Sweet,’ he says, now ignoring me and staring out to sea. This always happens when he spots a wave. He suddenly goes all glassy-eyed and it’s impossible to get his attention.

‘I’m going back out,’ he says.

And then he’s gone.

What was that I said about years of bliss ahead of us? Honestly, imagine if I did ever marry Will. I’d probably end up living in a thatched hut on the beach, spending my days scraping wax off his surfboards and having more intelligent conversations with hermit crabs than my own husband!

I’ve always wished Will talked more. Why can’t he be like the character of Joey Willis in Monster Class? Joey says what’s in his heart. He cries. He’s funny. He’s the type of boy every girl wants.

(Although maybe not when he’s a werewolf, leaving hair all over the place and drinking out of the toilet!)

That kind of boy who can express himself so wondrously?

Sing his soul to you?

He’s probably just a fantasy. Something they dreamed up in Hollywood.

What, I ask you, are the chances of finding a boy like that in Oldcastle?

Wednesday.

January 7.

It’s just past midday and the past three hours seem to have dragged on for-e-ver!

I am sitting cross-legged on scuzzy twirly-patterned carpet that reeks of rancid salted butter and spilt milk shakes. The only good thing is that Carmelita is here with me. She gets to stay for two whole weeks.

We got up at 8 a.m. to make it here to the Theatre Royal by nine and figured that’d be early enough to be in the front of the line for the auditions.

But, no! People had been camping here in the foyer since 6 a.m.

We ended up taking the numbers 121 and 122 for our chance to get in front of the casting people. And even Ponsford’s in front of us! It figures she’d find out about the auditions. She has a way of finding out about everything.

I’m not sure what time she woke up, but judging by the effort she’s put in on her hairdo, it must have been waaay early. She’s got all these horizontal black stripes all over her blonde hair (which makes it look like she’s put her head in a griller. How did she do that?) and then sprouting from underneath are synthetic red and yellow hair extensions.

HER HEAD LOOKS LIKE A TOASTED CHEESE-AND-TOMATO FOCACCIA!!

‘Wow! What has Bianca done to herself?’ whispers Carmelita. ‘Check the black eye make-up and lipstick and the bat necklace. She’s gone totally goth!’

Which is such a big, fat fake!

She’s about as goth as my big toenail. Which happens to be French-polished so, you know, not at all. And if she’s trying for the ‘emo’ thing, as far as I remember that’s about sloping around and being all deep and melancholic and intellectual.

There is nothing deep about Bianca Ponsford. She’s about as deep as a bottle of half-used nail polish. And as for being melancholic and intellectual? There’s not a thought in her brain that can’t be put in a two-line text message. And half of that will usually be: XOXOXO!!!!!

She’s just pretending because the movie is about the undead and she figures that’s the type they’re looking for. But her efforts are doomed because I know from my mother that Bianca’s got it totally wrong. They just want normal-looking kids to look like average students.

Today I’ve got my hair down and I’m in jeans and a plain white shirt. Carmelita’s in a white flouncy skirt and blue singlet top and has her gorgeous coal-black ringlets tied up in a ponytail. We look totally average. Although, you know, better than totally average. That should do it.

Bianca saunters over to us and her ridiculous mass of anklets and bracelets clink and clank with every step. The sound is like someone sorting through a mass of junk in a car-boot sale.

‘Carmelita,’ she smirks. ‘What are you doing here? Life on the old pig farm getting a bit boring?’

Bianca always does this. She knows Carmelita lives on a macadamia nut plantation. She’s just being painful. Hard to believe we were all so close once. It seems like a lifetime ago.

‘Hello, Bianca,’ replies Carmelita. ‘I see you’ve gone over to the dark side since I left. You should definitely get a starring role in this movie – your hair looks like it died a horrible death. It looks like it’s been run over by a tractor.’

Yikes! I’d forgotten just how much Carmelita loathes Bianca since that night at the Year Nine dance when she got so drunk and we spent hours looking for her in the rain.

‘Well, you should get a part as an extra. You look extra boring, as usual,’ Bianca fires back.

(Well, sort of fires back. Not a very original line, I must say.)

‘I’d rather look extra boring than like a hamburger with extra cheese,’ Carmelita replies.

(Go Carmelita! She’s in top form today.)

‘Bite me,’ says Bianca.

‘Eyew! No thanks. I’m trying to cut down on the fat in my diet.’

‘You should! Life on the pig farm’s not doing you any favours,’ Bianca says, eyeing Carmelita up and down.

Carmelita then stands up, opens her mouth and says: ‘Why don’t you—’ Whoa! At this point I grab her arm and hustle her back into the line.

It’s getting too nasty and I don’t want our entire holiday together ruined by a fight with Bianca. Carmelita should know how mean she can be.

Sigh. How did we all end up like this? The Pickering, Martinez and Ponsford triple act used to be one of the best in town.

We all used to hang out together and have amazing fun.

Why am I asking? I know what happened. Carmelita was the Good Fairy who knew the words to the spell that kept us together. We were enchanted somehow when she was with us.

When she moved away the magic just evaporated. Now, like I say, Bianca’s company has become a curse.

What would it be like if we all ended up on the movie set together?

Hideous.

Still, there’s no chance of that. The casting agents will take one look at Bianca and seal themselves in a crypt.

It’s now almost 2 p.m.

Some assistants from the agents came by earlier with sandwiches and bottles of water and about fifty kids fell on them like an army of ants.

I don’t recognise half the people here trying out for a part. They must have come from all over Britannia. Which is so not fair! I think that since the movie is going to be set in Oldcastle High, our students should have been given preference to be extras.

More than that, I shouldn’t even be here, given that MY OWN MOTHER is actually working on the movie.

I’m not going to forgive her for this. I’m almost fainting with hunger, desperate to get out of here and the bit I’m going to recite from Romeo and Juliet is now going around and around in my head in a jumble.

I should have been brave enough to do one of my own poems – at least I would have been able to remember it. But they probably wouldn’t be that interested in my average, ordinary life.

Shakespeare’s always impressive, right? We’ve been doing Romeo and Juliet at school and I love it.

This is the Juliet monologue from Act 3, Scene 2. When I say it, I’m going to imagine I am talking about Jake. Er . . . I mean Will.

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

Towards Phoebus’ lodging: such a wagoner

As Phaethon would whip you to the west,

And bring in cloudy night immediately.

Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,

That runaway’s eyes may wink and Romeo, Jake, Will

Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.

Lovers can see to do their amorous rites

By their own beauties

Carmelita and I are edging nearer to the doorway of the theatre and the closer we get, the more nervous I’m feeling. Carmelita’s going to do the flamenco dance her Auntie Isabella taught her and she’s madly tapping her toes and twirling.

The foyer in the Theatre Royal is emptying and beginning to feel more like the shabby, musty old cave it is. I reckon there’re fifteen people behind us and just five in front.

Make that four.

Bianca pushes through the big wooden doors and disappears from view.

I hold my breath.

I think I’ve almost stopped crying now after suffering the most humiliating moment of my life . . . And given my life, that’s saying something.

To cut a long, tragic story short, Bianca and Carmelita both got hired as extras and I didn’t!!!!!

To make it even worse, apparently now Bianca’s a ‘featured extra’ which means that she won’t just be walking through the background like a cheese toastie on legs, she will actually be in there, front and centre. Maybe even in the same frame as Jake.

After her audition she walked out and gave me and Carmelita the news.

‘They just loved my look,’ she told us. She was so pleased with herself, I thought she’d spontaneously combust. ‘And I don’t think they’re going to be interested in two cartons of vanilla milk. Good luck, girlies! You’ll need it.’ She stepped over us sitting on the floor and flounced out the door.

Then it was Carmelita’s turn. I sat outside and waited and prayed and wished her every good thing and the ten minutes she was gone seemed to go on forever.

‘I’m in, I’m in!’ she laughed as she burst from the double doors and fell into the foyer. She was almost crying with happiness.

‘They loved my whole “Spanish thing”. They said they wanted people who were interesting and different. Like me! I can’t . . . believe it . . . Elly,’ she sobbed.

I looked down at my jeans and white shirt, at the scrunched copy of the monologue in my hand and knew, for sure, I was heading for an epic FAIL.

At that point, if you googled ‘dull’ my pic would have come up.

I was THIS close to the door when a woman came out and announced: ‘Thank you all so much for attending. We have all our extras and featured extras now, and so our auditions are closed. Again, thank you all for your interest and patience, and we hope you enjoy Monster Class 3.’

For a minute there, I couldn’t register what she was saying.

Did she mean we had to come back the next day?

I looked at Carmelita, begging her to translate. She shook her head. It was over.

O.V.E.R.

I probably should be grateful I was spared the torture, but – I WAITED FOR ALMOST SEVEN HOURS AND DIDN’T EVEN GET A CHANCE TO BE REJECTED!

On the way back to Buckingham Street I really did try to be happy for Carmelita, but just smiling at her took every little fibre, nerve ending and brain cell of my being.

They should have given me an Oscar for Best Actress on the Number 27 bus.

I knew Carmelita would offer to quit the movie. She tried to, but I just couldn’t let her. I mean, this could be her big break into showbiz.

Now I’m sitting in The Dungeon by myself. Carmelita is in the lounge room with Tilly and I can hear them chattering away.

I ask myself for the millionth time, how is this all going to go? Carmelita’s sleeping in my room for the next two weeks.

I mean, am I supposed to sit here in the fireplace while she goes to the ball? (Not that I’m saying she’s my Ugly Sister, but you get my meaning.) I have to get myself onto that movie set somehow!

I log on to FacePlace and my mirror. The auditions are the talk of the town.

OMG! OMG! OMG!!!! I got a part in Monster Class 3. I am dying here!!

Ponsford is going to be Oldcastle’s Paris Hilton. Can u believe it?? Yuck.

I didn’t get in, probably be a lame movie anyway.

Hey, what about Elly Pickle? Her mum couldn’t even get her a part. LOL.

OW! That last message is a complete insult. So I write back:

Won’t have time to be an extra, since I’m going to be working on production as Jake Blake’s assistant!!!

Er. Maybe I shouldn’t have just posted that.

But, hey, maybe it isn’t true now, but it will be!

This is going to take a bit of strategy, so I stop sniffling, put on my best face and go to help make dinner.

I acted my little heart out over that grilled ham and pineapple.

There was a lot of talk about the movie around the dinner table and I piled the praise on Carmelita. Said I was so thrilled for her. (Which I am, or at least I’m trying to be.)

I could see my dad was particularly impressed with my generosity of spirit.

Good. I’m softening him up nicely.

Tilly asked: ‘So when do I get to meet Jake?’

‘There’s going to be a glitzy party at the Crown Hotel on Friday night to welcome him to town and you can all come to that,’ Mum replied to general squeals of excitement.

In fact, Tilly was so demented she screamed: ‘WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR?’ and rushed straight from the table.

When Carmelita asked the same thing, I suggested she go and see if she could borrow something from Tilly and she ran from the room too.

Now, just as I hoped, I have Mum and Dad to myself. I hang my head and sadly poke at my salad with my fork.

‘What’s wrong, ma belle?’ asks Dad, right on cue.

I shake my head and then I let just one teensy tear slide down my cheek.

‘You’re upset about not being in the film, aren’t you?’ he says.

And then I nod and the tears come whether I want them to or not. Actually, I really do feel upset.

‘Can’t you get her a part, Libby?’ Dad pleads.

‘It’s not up to me, Rick. I wish it was. I’ve already explained that.’

Dad thinks for a minute, looks at me and I give him my best sad look. Big eyes and swimming with tears . . . like the cat in Shrek.

‘What about being your assistant, then? You know she’s very responsible.’

(Go Dad!)

‘No, Rick. I need her at home giving you a hand and—’

‘No, no, no! Don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly able to manage. Anyway, if Carmelita’s going to be in the movie, it’s not fair Elly’s stuck here by herself, is it?’

‘No, I don’t suppose—’

(Keep going, Dad.)

‘Well, listen, love, why don’t you tell them Elly’s going to be with you and make herself useful? No one will ever notice she’s there. It will be good work experience for her and, after all, you two are a great team.’

‘Maybe . . .’

(You’re galloping down the track now, Dad. Don’t give up!)

‘You’re doing a top job so far, love, and I reckon Elly will be a real asset. She’ll take some of the pressure off you. She can pick up your dry-cleaning, put money in the parking meter or bring you your coffee . . .’

‘Well . . .’

(Don’t scream, just yet!)

‘You just have to insist with these Hollywood types and, honestly? It’s not like they will sack you or anything. At this stage, where will they find a publicist as good as you?’

Mum looks at Dad. Then looks at me. I don’t dare breathe.

Then she says: ‘OK, then. I’ll give her a trial run and see how she goes.’

(NOW!! SCREAM!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH.)

I give Mum huge thank-you kisses and then take a flying leap into Dad’s lap.

At the sound of my scream, Tilly and Carmelita come hurtling down the hallway. Can’t blame them. It sounded like I’d lost my arm in the blender.

‘OK, you’re hired. But,’ says Mum, wagging a finger at me, ‘I’m warning you, Elly, the days will be long and tedious and you will have to do exactly what I tell you and keep out of everyone’s way. Or you will have to come straight back home!’

Yeah, yeah. Whatevs.

Then we all scream and dance and generally carry on like . . . Well, like girls who’ve been told they’re going to meet their favourite movie star!

‘Hey!’ Dad calls out over the racket. ‘I’ve had an idea how I can get in on this whole thing too. Why don’t I ask Jake Blake here for a barbie? Show the bloke how to make a decent chicken marinade?’

We don’t stop laughing about this until around midnight.

Friday.

January 9.

From where I’m standing I can actually see the back of Jake Blake’s head. He’s haloed by television camera lights and surrounded by a group of minders and security guards.

Whenever he moves the bright light follows him. Or is the light actually radiating out of him? It’s hard to tell.

It occurs to me that he is like the sun at the centre of his own solar system. He exerts irresistible gravitational pull as a collection of greater and lesser planets revolve around him.

At this moment Carmelita, Tilly and I might be somewhere out around the moons of Saturn, but it’s a lot closer than I ever thought we’d be.

There are probably a hundred people on the street outside the glass front doors of the Crown Hotel, all pushing, shoving and screaming Jake’s name. Compared to us, they’re in a distant galaxy far, far away.

We three have been inside the hotel for about two hours now. It’s nearly 7 p.m. We came in the car with Mum and then the back way into the hotel from the underground car park and through the stifling kitchen where cooks were busy arranging plates of delicious-looking canapes.

Now we’re in the crowded foyer and from where we are standing on some chairs underneath a fake palm tree, we have a pretty good view of the commotion. The place is full of rubbernecking hotel guests, staff, camera crews and journalists yammering into their mobile phones.

We can see Jake leave the foyer now and make his way up a flight of stairs, past a velvet rope and into a private room. I spot Mum following along behind.

The door closes behind them, the TV camera lights are switched off and once more the Crown Hotel foyer is revealed as the gloomy old hole it is – busted fountain, plastic statues and all.

‘Is that it?’ gasps Tilly.

‘It can’t be. I didn’t even get to see his face!’ Carmelita grabs at my elbow and slumps on my shoulder.

I’m about to topple off my chair with both the weight of her and my own disappointment when the door opens and Mum appears at the top of the stairs like an apparition, all newly blonde like an Angel of Mercy.

She waves frantically for us to come on up and we instantly leap off our chairs and push our way through the foyer.

At the bottom of the stairs we run into a bloke barring the way. He seems to be entirely square, as if he’s made out of a tower of Lego.

‘Sorry, girls, VIPs only,’ he growls at us.

‘They’re with me,’ Mum calls down to him.

‘Oh, no worries, Mrs Pickering,’ he calls back.

He unhooks the red velvet rope and we scamper past him up the stairs.

‘Have a nice night, ladies,’ he says.

Did someone get a picture of that?

Honestly, it’s a miracle!

I cannot remember, ever, when any member of the Pickering family was a VIP. A Very. Important. Pickering. Mum has really pulled this off. Who would have thought?

We’ve never even had priority parking at the oval when Eddie’s playing football!

And speaking of Eddie, he’s not here tonight. Tilly says he would have hated to come, so she didn’t even bother to invite him, but I wonder about that. I reckon Eddie would have jumped at the chance to steer the beautiful Tilly around in front of photographers.

Actually, we all look pretty gorgeous. I’m in a strapless green silk mini-dress with a gold belt and flat bronze sandals and have my hair in a high ponytail; Carmelita’s wearing a long white halter dress, strings of gold beads (amazing against her olive skin) and she’s let her curls down; and Tilly?

She’s a vision in a figure-hugging black one-shoulder dress that’s scattered with sequins and shimmers every time she moves. She’s accessorised with a silver headband on her long, perfectly straight chocolate-brown hair. Her pale-skinned long legs end in platform silver ankle boots.

Definite movie star material.

When we walk into the private room, she’s instantly spotted by a photographer and poses like a supermodel. I can’t believe my sister can be so composed when she must know Jake’s so close.

I madly swivel my head to see where he is and then realise he’s about two metres away. He’s in a dark suit and his mop of hair is shiny black and tousled.

Then, he turns.

And smiles.

Oh. My. Goodness! It’s like the first rays of dawn breaking over Hammerhead. The radiance of his gaze hits me. It starts at my toes, gets hotter as it moves up my body, makes my face go burning red, then sets every individual strand of hair on my head on fire.

‘Jake, this is my youngest daughter, Elly,’ says my mother. At least I think it’s her speaking. It’s just a voice floating by from somewhere off-camera. ‘She’s going to be my assistant.’

He reaches for my hand and I offer up this numb lump of something that doesn’t even feel like it’s attached to my body.

The feel of his skin on mine jolts electricity right up my arm.

Then he kisses me on both cheeks. I’m surprised he doesn’t jump back with scorched lips.

‘Hey, Elly. Pleased to meetcha. We’re gonna be working together? Cool,’ says Jake in that smooth, adorable voice like melted milk chocolate.

That’s Jake Blake. International movie star. Talking. To. ME. I can only nod. My lips are blubber.

‘And this is her best friend, Carmelita. She’s going to be working as an extra,’ says Mum.

I swear that Carmelita curtseys!! Good thing Bianca’s not here to see it, she’d never let her live it down.

And then Jake’s wondrous blue eyes alight on Tilly and I can feel the moment.

It’s like the universe trips on the carpet.

‘This is my eldest daughter, Tilly.’

‘Tilly? Cute name.’ Jake tilts his head to one side and I note that a strand of dark hair flops over one eye. If I could move my arms I’d brush it back for him. And then give his curvy mouth a big smooch like I’ve done with the poster on my wall a hundred times.

‘Short for Matilda,’ says Tilly with an enigmatic smile and a swish of shiny hair over her bare white shoulder. ‘I answer to “Matty”, “Tilda” and “Tills”. But I prefer Tilly.’

‘You got it. Tilly it is.’ Jake beams at her. ‘So, Tilly, where am I? I just flew in this morning . . . And boy, are my arms tired!’

This is hilarious! We all laugh like mad . . . except for Tilly, who’s playing it cool.

Jake seems impressed with this and leans forward to whisper in her ear: ‘You gotta give me the lowdown.’

‘Sure,’ says Tilly. ‘What would you like to know?’

And then Jake takes my sister’s arm (he puts his actual hand on her actual elbow) and steers her to a corner where they sit opposite each other and start talking.

I can’t take my eyes off them.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Tell me I didn’t just bow to him!’ Carmelita hisses in my ear.

I have to tell her she did and she groans with embarrassment and buries her face in her hands. Then she’s peeking at Jake and Tilly through her fingers.

‘Look at them. They look amazing together,’ says Carmelita.

I can see that everyone in the room has noticed this. When Jake and Tilly lean in closer and laugh, the photographer steps forward and aims his camera.

In an instant, an incredibly thin stick-insect woman dressed in a black suit and wearing a microphone headset stands in the way of the camera and nods grimly over to where my mum is standing.

Then Mum’s on the scene in the next second, muttering in the photographer’s ear. Whatever she says, it’s enough for the snapper to put his camera away. That’s my mum’s job – to manage the publicity. I must say she really looks the part in her new navy suit and carrying that clipboard. I wonder what she thinks about Tilly chatting away with Jake?

More than that, I wonder what Eddie would think?

It’s getting a bit awkward gawping at them now, so I turn to Carmelita and push her towards a waiter with a tray of drinks. We each take a tall glass of fruit punch and then fall on a platter of mini hamburgers. I’ve suddenly remembered that I’m starving.

There are only about twenty people in the room and one of them’s Megan Harrison, the entertainment reporter from that Channel Eight show How Was It? She’s come all the way from Sydney. I LOVE that show. It tops the ratings. This is about as exclusive as it gets.

Can’t wait to tell everyone on FacePlace!

Ponsford, the witch, will scream ‘I’m Melting! I’m Melting!’, and dissolve in a puddle of green envy that runs down a gutter.

Carmelita and I then turn our attention to scoffing divine smoked salmon pancakes, rare roast beef on pesto bruschetta, and chicken and leek tarts. Yum!

Every now and then the doors open to admit some actors that we recognise from TV. We happily sit in the corner munching away and star-spotting, and it’s pretty rich pickings for this part of the world:

The actress who plays the mother on Us and Them. Wow! She’s a lot shorter and thinner than she looks on TV. She looks amazing for someone over thirty-five. I think she’s going to be playing a teacher, although given the frumps and shlubs at Oldcastle High, she looks way too fashionable for that role.

The tall comedian with the fuzzy hair from that panel show, Show Us Yer Jokes. I think he’s got a part as one of the Australian students, from memory, although he could be playing a werewolf too with that ’do. I like him. He’s funny.

Hey! There’s that boy from the TV ads for Caramba nacho cheese corn chips. He’s a bit of a weirdo in his jeans, sneakers, old tartan shirt and clunky black-framed glasses. He’s got his brown hair all brushed forward and looks like he’s stepped out of a tumble dryer. I wonder what part he’s got? He winks at us! Erk!

OMG! Then it’s Gigi Cantona, from the TV modelling contest Glossy. She was the resident nasty girl on the show. Tilly and I loved to dish the dirt on her, but she looks amazing in real life. Tall, blonde and beautiful. She looks like a doll. She’s been in a couple of TV shows and everyone raves about her (except me and Tills) but this is her big break into showbiz. Mum says she’s going to be playing Jake’s love interest in the movie, although she’s going to turn into a harpy at the end – some ancient, hideous creature with the body of a bird and the face of an ugly woman. Wonder what horrible death the scriptwriters have in store for her?

Here come some dancers. You can tell by their amazing bodies and the way they stand with their feet at weird angles. They all have long hair scraped back into buns and ponytails – even the boys! And they’re really hungry. Eating everything in sight. I even spot one girl stuffing chocolates in her handbag when she thinks no one’s looking.

Sigh! This is one of the best nights of my life. It all feels so super-glamorous being here in this room stuffed with gorgeous flowers, expensive smelly candles and beautiful people.

If this is what the next two weeks are going to be like, BRING IT ON!

‘Elly, I need you to go down to the car and get my phone charger,’ says Mum.

AWWW! Now? Why now?

I have to leave the best night of my life for Mum’s stupid charger? Why didn’t she bring it with her?

This sucks.

‘You said you wanted to be my assistant. It’s not the glamorous life you think it’s going to be. I’m here to work and so are you, so get going.’

‘You want me to come with you?’ asks Carmelita.

I tell her no, it’s fine. Anyway, that boy from the corn chips ad is coming this way and I think he’s got his eye on Carmelita. (It’s hard to tell through his thick glasses.)

He’s got no chance. She’s still madly in love with Henry who lives on the pineapple farm up the road – the one with the ginger hair who’s allergic to macadamia nuts. I’ll leave her to handle him.

I put down my drink, take a strawberry tart for the journey and trudge off.

What a pain!

AAAAAAAARGH!!

Can someone, anyone, help me here? I’m out on the street with all these screaming girls and I can’t get back inside the hotel!

I went down to the car to get the charger and then couldn’t get back through the exit because it was blocked by a security guard. No matter how many times I told him I was with Mum – Mrs Libby Pickering, publicity agent – he wouldn’t take any notice. And I’d left my mobile up inside the room and couldn’t call her. I asked him to call her, but he wouldn’t.

Then I had to go back outside to the street, walk around the entire block and come to the front door of the Crown Hotel. There are even more security guards here who’ve given me the big brush-off.

Now what am I supposed to do? Mum will be so mad at me. The first thing she gives me to do and I utterly fail.

Not to mention that I now have no idea what’s going on upstairs.

OW! Some stupid squealy girl totally crushes my toes.

There’re still about a hundred people here and everyone’s pushing and shoving. The average age of these girls is about twelve, I swear. They’re here with their mothers, who are in the crowd with their elbows out and digging me in the ribs. What sort of mother brings her daughter out to something like this?? It’s almost 9 p.m. – shouldn’t the tinies be tucked up in bed?

JAKE! JAKE! They start screaming again, right in my ear. The mothers are yelling too. This is craaaazy!

And then the doors open, the TV camera lights are blinding and I can only guess that Jake’s on his way out. I can’t see him. I’ve got a massive handbag mashed in my face.

JAKE! JAKE! OVER HERE! OVER HERE! The screams are deafening.

The whole mass of humanity surges forward and I go crashing through a narrow gap between two street barriers and end up face-first on the red carpet. It feels like I have my dress halfway up my back.

I look up and there’s Jake, smiling down at me. He extends his hand and pulls me to my feet and I can feel the flash of about a million cameras.

Oh, great! How many of them got a snap of my undies?

‘Elly,’ he says. ‘You OK?’

OMG! He remembered my name! I manage to stutter that I’m fine and then he kisses me on the cheek. A trillion flashes of light this time.

And before I know what’s happening, a claw reaches out, grabs me by the arm and drags me back into the shadows.

‘Brilliant,’ Mum hisses in my face. ‘Just. Brilliant. I ask you to do one thing . . . Now get back inside, find Tilly and wait for me. I’ll be there to take you all home as soon as I can.’

I’m stumbling back along the red carpet when I’m confronted with more flash cameras and the question: ‘So, out of all the girls in Oldcastle, you scored the first kiss from Jake Blake. How does it feel?’

I stutter that it’s not the first time we’ve kissed.

‘Really?’ says someone I can’t quite make out. A woman with very curly dark hair piled into a topknot on top of her head. I can only see a blurry outline with the light and everything. ‘Are you going to be seeing him again?’

And then I say something even more ridiculous – that I expect I’ll be seeing him every day he’s here.

‘And what’s your name? How old are you?’

It seems only polite to tell the truth.

Saturday.

January 10.

I wander into the kitchen, still trying to make sense of what happened last night. Did Jake Blake kiss me? Or did I dream that?

My mother waves the Weekend Britannia Bugle under my nose.

There, on page three, is a huge picture of Jake kissing me.

And the headline:

JAKE BLAKE IN HOOK-UP WITH OLDCASTLE’S ELLY.

The story says:

Jake Blake’s reputation as a young Romeo seems well deserved.

He’d only been in town three hours when his baby blue eyes were turned on young Elly Pickering.

‘I’m going to be seeing him every day he’s here and he’s already kissed me,’ said Elly, who, at fifteen years old, makes a very cute, blushing Juliet.

He’s from Los Angeles, she’s from Oldcastle High. It’s a budding romance, worthy of the Bard himself.

‘YOU’RE FIRED!’ Mum yells. ‘I’m supposed to be managing the publicity and the first story in the paper is negative. Even more appalling, it’s about my own daughter! I have already had an angry call from Festive Films and it took me half an hour to explain. There is NO CHANCE of you coming on the film set with me.’

‘It doesn’t look good,’ Dad agrees. ‘You’re way too young for a bloke like him.’

WHAAAA??

This is a total miscarriage of justice! It’s all lies. Mum knows full well that I was only doing what she asked me and I got pushed over. It’s hardly a ‘romance’. There were a hundred people there.

‘I know all that!’ snaps Mum, ‘but if you’d used your brains and taken your mobile with you, you could have rung me and none of this would have happened. And why did you speak to that journalist? It just says to me that you are not mature enough to be my assistant, and . . .

’I don’t hear the rest because I run off down the hall bawling my eyes out.

Honestly, this is SO unfair! I didn’t know that shadow I talked to was a reporter from the Bugle. Everything’s been twisted around. Now I look like an idiot.

I go on FacePlace and my mirror is scribbled with horrible stuff. There must be fifty messages here.

Can u believe Pickering is telling the world she’s Jake’s girlfriend? ROFL. What a loser.

Dream on, pickle-face.

She said she wouldn’t have time to be an extra. Now we know what she means by ‘personal assistant’. Helping him wipe her lipgloss off his shirt?

Why her? She’s boooooring!

Hey! Leave her alone. I think they make a great couple.

Never knew JB had such bad taste!!

Say it isn’t true, Jake ♥ ♥

Then I check out the Jake Blake fansites on the net and my picture is on every one of them. This stupid story has gone around the world in the hours I was asleep.

I’m now the Number One Enemy of about a trillion girls on planet Earth.

And it’s All. Total. Lies.

I’m sitting in front of the computer with my head in my hands and snuffling into a soggy tissue, when Carmelita comes into the room. She’s still wet from the shower.

‘I’ve seen the paper,’ she says. ‘You poor thing. And I heard your mum saying what she said. I tried to talk to her, but she’s pretty mad. It’s sooo awful.’

She puts her hands on my shoulders, but I can’t turn around and look at her. I’m too miserable.

‘Els, I won’t be in the movie. No way!’ she declares. ‘I can’t go there while you’re just sitting at home. You’re my most darling friend in the world. Who cares about some dumb old movie? We’ll still have a great summer together. Go down the beach every day and just hang out.’

Don’t you just love Carmelita? She would even give up a chance of being in a Hollywood movie to be with me. At least there’s one little bandaid on my heart.

But I can’t let her do that. As much as I’d like to. If she’s just going to drag around with me every day? How boring would that be? That’s not why she came to visit.

What about Henry? She could be lying under the shade of a tropical fig tree and smooching with him, all hot and sultry, on the banks of a big, brown, rushing river.

‘He’ll be fine,’ says Carmelita.

But I can hear in her voice she already misses him. As much as she loves me, she loves her boy too.

And isn’t that what friendship is about? To have some patience when True Love comes along?

I mean, Carmelita and I know we will be friends until we die, but we also know we need to have other friends, family and romance. And we can’t get in the way when a big break comes along. We don’t want to be sitting together in some old folks’ home in front of the Xbox, plucking each other’s nose hairs, and with no one coming to visit because we were too selfish to let each other have a life.

So that’s why I get my head up from the desk and tell Carmelita that she HAS to be in the movie.

I tell her this could be her big break! I know she desperately wants to be an actress. She was always the star in drama club at Oldcastle. Everyone loved her. She’s a great singer and knows every song in every Monster Class movie by heart.

‘Maybe I could be like one of the famous Latino actresses, such as Jessica Alba, Eva Longoria or Penelope Cruz,’ she says dreamily.

I never thought of it before, but why couldn’t an Oscar-winning actress come from a macadamia nut farm in Far North Queensland?

Stranger things have happened.

(Although I actually can’t remember when.)

I tell her that I couldn’t stand in her way. A true friend would never do that.

‘Thank you, Els!’ she cries.

And then she sings that hit tune from Monster Class 1:

‘Where, where?

It’s a wolf. Over there!

Where, where, oh where, is the wolf?

Here!

(Scream!!!)

He’s a werewolf. An everywhere wolf.

In your face, in your mind.

In front, just behind.

Beware, the everywhere . . . WEREWOLF!’

(Scream!!!)

I’m outside Will’s house on Hammerhead. I’ve come to visit and explain that dumb story in the Bugle. I am hoping he hasn’t spotted it, but Carmelita said I should come and see him, just in case. She’s right. She’s good at this sort of stuff.

Will lives here with his family – his dad, Took; his mum, Jasmine; and his little sister, Pookie, in a rundown shack at the far end of the beach. It’s one of the last old houses left around here.

Most of the places are now huge glass boxes with massive decks and gargantuan swimming pools. And in the middle, where you would expect another mansion to be, is Will’s place.

Will’s dad, Took, has this great saying: ‘You get the view, but the view gets you.’

I get it. When we’re looking back at the cliff all we can see is intense light bouncing off shiny glass and it’s like we’re surfing at the mall. Meanwhile, all the rich people inside those houses imagine they’re at one with nature, communing with whales.

Like I said, why does it sometimes feel like I’m the only person with a fully functioning brain?

You almost can’t see Will’s house because it’s shaded by a clump of ti-tree. You come straight from the sand onto the wooden steps on the cliff, then halfway up you step to the left, take a sandy path along for a bit and there it is – the cutest little house made from bamboo, shells and driftwood.

It’d almost seem like the wreck of a wooden ship if it weren’t for Will’s mum’s art everywhere, making you look twice. There are bright flags, painted pots, portraits of mermaids and offerings to various gods and goddesses of the ocean scattered everywhere in their front yard.

Jasmine’s made pottery shrines to King Neptune (Roman); the ancient goddess Naunet (Egyptian); Aegir the Sea Giant (Old Norse); the goddess Amathaunta (Sumerian); the god Varuna (Hindu); the great Poseidon (Greek) and the ruler of the ocean, Kanaloa (Hawaiian). And every day, whenever you visit, she’s laid a fresh flower in front of each one.

Today I step on the old front veranda and there she is, painting one of the pretty pots she sells down the market. She looks like a mermaid herself in a long faded blue dress and bare feet, with pink hibiscus flowers in her long, blonde, braided hair. She smells of patchouli oil and you feel good just being near her.

‘Hello, lovely one,’ she says to me. ‘Will’s just on his way back from the shops. He went to get some milk. Sit down and take a brush.’

Soon enough I’m sitting cross-legged on the bare boards and dipping my brush into little wells of pure colour. A pair of rainbow lorikeets perch on the railing and squawk at us. I take my inspiration from their intensely bright plumage and dab brilliant green and scarlet on my pot. Just beyond, the sea shimmers with aqua intensity and the sound of the waves washes over me.

Could there ever be a spot more peaceful than this?

I tell Jasmine that Jake Blake is in town.

‘Who?’ she replies.

I tell her no one really, just a boy, and we sit and paint in silence, listening to the surf.

‘Oh, here’s Will now,’ she says with a wide smile.

Along the path he comes, striding purposefully as he always does. His face is a picture of concentration, as if he’s thinking deep stuff, which he usually is. As soon as he sees me, he scowls and then I see in one hand he has a carton of milk and in the other, uh oh, the newspaper.

‘Thanks, sweetie,’ his mum calls to him as he barges up the steps past us, straight into the house and bangs the screen door behind him.

‘What’s up with him?’ asks Jasmine. ‘You’d better go see, Elly. You can always make him calm down when he’s cross.’

I don’t know whether I’ll be able to today. Reluctantly I lay down my brush and go indoors.

Inside, lazy smoke from a sandalwood incense stick swirls through the shady rooms. In the kitchen the Bugle is dumped on the wooden dining table. I stop for a moment to look at that picture again.

It’s perfectly innocent – Jake’s only kissing me on the cheek.

And then I peer more closely and see what Will sees. The look on my face. In that picture – there’s no other word for it – I am swooning. It looks like I am about to sprout wings and fly to heaven in sheer rapture.

Erk!

I tap, tap on Will’s door and when there’s no answer, peep my head around and see him stretched out on his bed – his huge feet hanging over the end. His arms are crossed behind his head and he’s staring at the collection of surfboards stacked on top of the wooden beams above.

I perch on the edge of the old cane couch by the window. I tell him I’m sorry, it was not like it looks. I start babbling like Took does when he talks about the Bugle. He calls it a ‘rag’, full of stupid lies. The ‘mouthpiece of the rich and corrupt’.

And then I go on about all that Romeo and Juliet stuff and how dumb it is. I’m hoping he’ll interrupt me, but he doesn’t and my words just end up dribbling out pathetically into the gloomy silence. All I can hear is the crash of the ocean.

‘What’s the big deal with him?’ says Jake. ‘It’s like you’d trash everything we’ve got just to get noticed by someone famous.’

I tell him that’s not true! Will must know that I love him. I tell him I adore him with all my heart. There’s not a boy in the world that could take his place.

‘So what’s the story about then? You kissed him? You’re going to see him every day?’ he accuses me.

I explain the whole thing with my mum, and how I fell over and stuff. He has to believe me!

‘For real?’ he says and turns to me. The doubt in his grey eyes makes me leap from the couch and onto the bed beside him.

For absolutely true and for real, I whisper into his salty, blond ringlets. He wraps his long, tanned arms around me.

‘I love you, Elly,’ he says into my neck and then he kisses me.

For the first time I’m not sure that I am kissing him back.

Sunday.

January 11.

I’m in The Dungeon with Carmelita. We had a great day at the beach together. Will came down for a while and he went for a surf with Carmelita.

I will never be able to stand up on a surfboard. Never. I’m no good at skiing, skateboarding or rollerskating.

I just don’t have the balance and coordination. I think too much and just can’t find that groove where your brain switches off and your body takes over.

Not like Carmelita, who’s a natural. She’s sure on her feet like a cat.

We’re both tired and happy and I love how when you spend the day in the water, it still feels like you’re light and floating for hours after.

Carmelita has a rare and precious document in her hand. It’s a call-sheet with ‘MONSTER CLASS 3’ written on the top of it.

She is sitting on the blow-up mattress on the floor and she reads: ‘I have to be on set in the Oldcastle High gym at 8 a.m. Then I go into “hair and make-up” and “wardrobe”! Look at this, Els,’ she gasps as if someone’s sitting on her chest, ‘I am actually going to be in a Hollywood movie. It’s like some sort of dream. The only thing is . . .’

I know what she’s going to say here. The only thing is I’m not going to be there with her.

And, yes, I feel really disappointed. But seeing how happy she is and how her curls are bobbing and her brown eyes are radiating pure joy, I just can’t help but feel happy too.

‘When we’re at the film premiere and walking down the red carpet, you’ll be my date,’ she says.

This is a biggie, because I imagine she’d rather take Henry.

‘If someone was going to play you in a movie, who would you choose?’ asks Carmelita.

Hmmmm. Let me think about this. Maybe Keira Knightley or Natalie Portman, although, I point out, they’d have to put on a few kilos!

‘It’s my dream to be a movie star,’ Carmelita whispers and falls back on the farting old air mattress.

Maybe she’s starting on making her dream come true tomorrow morning.

What’s my dream, I wonder? I know every girl is supposed to have one, but exactly one week ago I dreamed I was a stranded whale!

Do I have to settle for just one dream, just now?

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Poems, stories, fashion journalism – I’d love any job where I could write. And I’d love to be a movie director. Who wouldn’t?

But then I should also do something to make the world a better place.

Maybe I should write and direct a movie about an ordinary girl who dreams of becoming a fashion designer. Her wish comes true and one day she becomes this icon of fabulosity. She uses her worldwide fame and organic clothing range to save a rainforest near her home from being destroyed by a logging company and inspires people everywhere to believe in miracles . . . I could cast Carmelita in the lead role.

What’s the difference between a ‘dream’, a ‘wish’ or a ‘miracle’?

It’s my dream that I’m always able to dream. There are so many people on this earth who have only nightmares to keep them company in the dark. Like the people who have their whole lives swept away by tsunamis or floods, or crushed by earthquakes.

My wish is that everyone starts caring for the planet. That it stays just as green and beautiful as it is now. That when I have children there will still be tigers and bandicoots, coral reefs . . . all that stuff.

And as for a miracle?

Hmmmm . . .

It would be a miracle if Ponsford won an Academy Award for her on-screen stylings.

Yes my friends, that would indeed be miraculous.

Monday.

January 12.

Bored, bored, bored, bored. Out of my brain, BORED.

It’s 11 a.m. I’m sitting in my PJs in front of the television nursing Camilla and watching an ad for an ‘ab-master’. It’s some ridiculous-looking contraption that you swivel around on and apparently do an entire fat-busting and cardio workout in the time it takes to cook a piece of toast.

Duh! How do people fall for this stuff?

Next up is some ad for a volumiser mascara that will supposedly make you look like you’ve got an entire hedge stuck on your eyelid.

Can’t anyone else see those long lashes are totally fake?

Finally it’s one for a slimming pill that says you can lose 6 kg in one week. Guaranteed!

What’s in that pill? Amoebic dysentery?

Sometimes it seems the entire world is fake. Seriously, stupidly and obviously fake.

I’ll tell you what’s real – these four walls I’m sitting in. I might as well be wearing one of those house arrest ankle bracelets. I mean, where can I go? What am I supposed to do today while everyone is on set at Oldcastle High and playing a massive game of ‘pretendies’?

Will’s gone down the coast for two days with his dad so I can’t even see him.

Bored. Bored. Bor— There’s a ding on my phone and a text:

In make-up right now.

Jake walked past.

He waved! AAAArgh!

Miss U. C xoxo

Waaaah!

And I miss Carmelita. I thought this was looking like one of the best holidays ever and now it’s going to be the worst.

I’m making myself a piece of toast in the time it would take to do a full workout on the ab-master when I see Her Majesty Princess Matilda has arisen.

She’s hanging at Buckingham Street this summer until she gets her university offers. She should be able to go any one she wants. She won a state prize for chemistry in Year Eleven and wants to study biotechnology. (I know! How did someone so smart get born into our family?) I guess that will take her away from Oldcastle. Just thinking about that makes me sad.

This morning she looks like she’s been backed over by a garbage truck. She’s in an old raggedy T-shirt, her hair’s a tangled mess and her eye make-up has migrated to somewhere down around her chin.

Still, it’s understandable. She works as a waitress at the Earl Bistro until about 1 a.m. so she sleeps till late and then goes off to work at about 6.30 p.m. most nights.

‘What are you doing here?’ she grunts at me.

I remind her that I got the sack from my job with Mum, remember? All because of that stupid photo and story.

‘Oh, yeah,’ she laughs. ‘The star-crossed lovers. I nearly forgot!’

What’s so funny, I’d like to know. Tilly wrenches open the fridge and slurps from an orange juice container. I wish she wouldn’t do that. She’s not the only one who lives here, the grub!

‘It’s no big deal. So Jake kissed you? So what?’ she mumbles and wipes drips from her chin.

I LOST MY JOB WITH MUM AND MY HOLIDAY WITH CARMELITA’S BEEN RUINED, THAT’S WHAT!!

She is so self-obsessed. I feel like smacking her on her pointy bandicoot nose with a spatula. I tell you, ever since she turned eighteen, she’s been a real pain.

‘Els, since when does anyone believe the stuff that’s written in the paper? If you read the gossip mags, Jennifer Aniston has been pregnant about sixteen times by now. Grow up!’

Then she swipes MY piece of buttered toast and starts munching on it. Her almond eyes narrow and she smiles like the cat that got the cream.

‘Anyway, you don’t have to worry about any more love stories in the paper about you two, because Jake rang me last night,’ she says.

WHAT? Jake Blake rang my rat-haired sister? TRULY? No, she’s lying! FOR REAL?

‘Yup. We talked for half an hour.’

ABOUT WHAT? WHAT DID HE SAY? WHAT DID SHE SAY?

‘None of your business!’ she snaps.

But maybe it’s Eddie’s business – her boyfriend, Eddie. Remember him?

Then Tilly leans right up close and eyeballs me. So close, she’s breathing in my face and I can tell she hasn’t brushed her teeth yet. Eyeew!

‘You keep this a secret. Don’t you tell anyone. Anyone. Ever. Especially Eddie. You promise me, Eleanor.’

Then she pokes a skinny finger in my ribs. OW!

But I like Eddie, I whine.

‘My relationships are private,’ she hisses. ‘Now you promise me. Or else I will make sure you never get anywhere near that film set. I can fix that if I want to,’ she says with an evil grin.

She can. If she’s Jake Blake’s new best friend, she can.

And then I have a thought. Maybe I can use this to my advantage.

If I promise to keep her secret, will she try to get me into the movie maybe? As an extra, or maybe a featured extra, same as Ponsford? Huh? Huh?

‘Maybe,’ she says.

I solemnly promise under oath, by the snout hair on my stuffed pink pig to— ‘Alright. Enough,’ she says. ‘Want a bite?’

She offers me the half-chewed crust from my own piece of toast. I politely decline.

Then Tilly swans back to her nest.

There’s another ding on my mobile and this one’s from Ponsford.

Having fun at home?

Miss you.

Not.

LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

By the time Dad comes home from work at about 3.30 p.m., Tilly has already left for a pedicure and manicure before she goes to work. She’s getting all her extremities in perfect shape for the werewolf, I suppose. I wonder if they’ll go on a date? (I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this!)

If they ever do, I hope Jake knows what he’s letting himself in for. But then, if he’s in his werewolf make-up, they’ll make a great couple. Tilly’s been such a vampire lately. I wouldn’t be surprised to find she slept all day upside down in her wardrobe.

What happened to my cute and funny adorable sister? I miss her.

It’s been a hot and overcast day. The house was stifling, so I went for a swim, read for a bit and then cooked dinner. I’m into cooking at the moment and I think I’m getting pretty good at it.

I’ve made Dad’s favourite: scalloped potatoes with butter and cream baked in the oven. When Dad barbecues the herb-marinated chicken, I’ll make a green salad with my deluxe homemade vinaigrette and I’ve also got some garlic bread ready.

It should all be delicious!

My dad works really hard as a driver with Ascot Couriers.

He’s been sitting in his delivery van all day long and I like cooking dinner for him and Mum. They both work so hard and it’s great that they just relax when they get home.

‘Phew! What a day!’ he says as he walks in the front door. ‘And is that my favourite potatoes I can smell?’

In the kitchen he greets me with a cuddle and what he calls a ‘doggie scratch’, where he grabs me, scratches my middle and barks like a dog. Dad and I have always been special to each other. I know that some girls at school hardly ever get to talk to their dads and I know I’m lucky like that.

When he drives me to school or netball we always have a good long talk. I used to be embarrassed about turning up to a school dance or the swimming carnival in a delivery van. Now I reckon it’s kind of cool.

When Dad’s kicked off his work boots and showered the dust of the day away, he sits at the table on the back deck with a cold glass of beer and you can see that he’s just happy to be home here in Buckingham Palace.

My dad has never once complained about our little red brick house or wished that we lived in one of the mansions on the cliffs above Hammerhead.

‘Never be envious of what other people have and always count your blessings,’ he always tells me.

‘Well, what did you get up to today, ma belle?’ he asks.

I love it when he calls me that. When I was little I called him ‘Dad of all Dads, Best in the World’. Sometimes I still do. Mum reckons he spoils me. I like it when he does.

I tell him that the day was pretty dull with everyone away. Now that Carmelita’s off with Mum at the film set, and Will’s away surfing, it’s awful being stuck here at home.

‘My poor Cinderella,’ he says with a sympathetic smile. He scratches at his bulging gut through his T-shirt and looks thoughtful. ‘It’s like everyone’s gone to the ball and left you behind.’

That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking!

‘Why don’t I have a talk with your mother and see if there’s any way she can get you a job on the film set? I drove past

Oldcastle High on the way home and there must be fifteen trucks down there. The joint’s jumping. Surely someone could use a helping hand.’

Of course I have to remind him that Mum’s given me the boot and I can’t even get any time with her to tell her that was such an injustice.

I ask Dad, if I’m not here will he be sad to come home to an empty house?

He just grins. ‘To peace and quiet and a cold beer in the fridge after a long day’s work? No mobiles ringing or doors slamming? I think I’ll manage.’

‘Alright, Elly. I’ve been talking with your father and I think I’ve found a job for you,’ says Mum.

She swipes at a mosquito buzzing around our heads as we sit on the back deck after a, may I say, superb dinner.

‘Do you know the Di Masi family?’ she asks.

I start coughing as if I’ve swallowed that mozzie. I sure do. Rosie Di Masi is Bianca’s best friend. She’s a total airhead. She’s even more ditzy than Ponsford, if that’s possible. She follows Bianca around like a puppy and is always giggling about something. Every time I see her I think: ‘What’s so funny?’

I throw a look at Carmelita, whose eyebrows rise alarmingly.

Mum keeps on going without waiting for my reply: ‘Her family is doing catering on the set and they’re looking for someone to work with Rosie in their mobile kitchen van. It would be a hard job – you’d have to be there a bit before seven to help serve breakfast – but since your father has to go off about that time, he could drop you there and I could bring Carmelita with me a bit later.

‘Then you could help cook and serve lunch, catch the bus home in the afternoon at three and be here to help your father with dinner.’

Everyone smiles at me, no doubt expecting me to punch the air with excitement.

So, let me get this straight.

I get up at dawn.

I serve breakfast to a million people.

I work in a tin-can in the middle of summer chopping vegetables next to Dingbat Di Masi.

I serve lunch to a million people.

I catch the bus home at three.

I make dinner for the family.

I expire of exhaustion.

Then get up and do it all again for the next two weeks.

Wow! Sounds FABULOUS!!

‘Oooh,’ Carmelita exclaims and claps her hands. ‘That would mean we could be together, Elly. How great!’

‘You’re turning into a terrific cook. It could be a wonderful experience,’ says Dad.

‘And the pay is quite good. You need the money,’ adds Mum.

AAAAAARGH! I silently scream and sit there looking at the three of them.

Don’t they get it?

I want to be IN the movie!

Or in the wardrobe department fluffing feathers.

Maybe in the make-up department as first assistant in charge of glitter.

Seriously, I’D LIKE TO DIRECT!

How can I tell these people that my destiny does not include working in a mobile sweatshop making coleslaw.

‘So.’ Mum smiles brightly, pleased with herself. ‘What do you say?’

Well, if this is the only option to get on the movie set, I guess I’d better take it. At least I’ll be closer to Mum so I can nag her night and day to give me back the job as her assistant.

‘Whatevs,’ I reply and get up to take the greasy plates to the dishwasher. (Might as well start training for my new career.)

After dinner, Carmelita and I stretch out on our beds in The Dungeon and we have a long yack.

I love it when we’re together in my room, just the two of us, talking until we put the lights out. Then talking for ages more in the dark.

She tells me all about her first day on a big-budget movie set.

‘There’s this rule they have,’ Carmelita explains. ‘You MUST NOT talk to a leading actor unless they talk to you. You’re not supposed to stare at them or anything and DEFINITELY no asking for autographs or taking photographs, so it was so exciting when Jake waved to me in front of everyone.’

How brilliant. Hah! I bet that made Ponsford jealous.

So far Carmelita’s been filmed in one scene, walking through the background with an armful of books outside the library.

‘You can’t look at the camera, so that’s weird. We were all walking along and Tenzin waved at the cameraman and everyone started laughing. The first assistant director went off her brain.’

I crack up. That would be typical of Tenzin. He’s one of my friends in my year at Oldcastle and has the most incredible smile. When he laughs, everyone falls about.

‘And Els, the best thing is we don’t have to wear any revolting school uniforms. Everyone is dressed casual, like in America. In the movie Oldcastle’s called Back Beach High—’ I know that and, are they serious? Where’s the front beach then? What a dumb name for a high school!

‘I know! We all laugh about that. It’s really cool to catch up with everyone again.’

It must be. Carmelita was always very popular at Oldcastle.

‘I am so glad you’re coming to the set, Els,’ Carmelita sighs. ‘Wait till you see Ponsford! She’s all done up as the resident school goth. You know, with nose piercings and black lipstick and stuff. She’s already had a close-up. Now she thinks she’s Scarlett Johansson.’

We both roll around laughing at this idea.

Yeah. I imagine they’re showing Ponsford on screen for the comedy factor.

In American teen high-school movies you always see these groups of weirdos – geeks, goths, gang members, cheerleaders and jocks – who make the rest of the kids and the hero look kind of normal.

Here are some other teen movie clichés I’ve spotted:

Almost every student who plays sport is a great big dumb jerk with an army haircut.

When a nice boy plays sport, the coach gives him a hard time. He usually injures himself in the groin on the pommel horse and everyone laughs. (BTW, isn’t the word ‘groin’ completely gross?)

Basketball game scores are always even until someone throws the ball on the full-time whistle. Then the ball spins in slow motion and when it goes into the basket, it snaps back to real time and everyone runs onto the court.

When the hero and the heroine of the movie (it’s usually a handsome boy and a plain girl) dance at the prom, everyone stands back and watches. (Like that would ever happen at Oldcastle!)

There’s always this party scene where there are no parents and everyone gets drunk and it feels like it goes on for a fortnight.

All the students who play computer games are fat boys with bad hair who chain-drink soda.

All the students who can hack into computers are skinny boys who wear glasses.

All cheerleaders are self-obsessed and blonde and hunt in packs.

The school bus is like a cage full of monkeys at the zoo.

All teachers are stereotypes. They’re either nasty, lazy nerds or having an affair with the hot art teacher. (Er . . . this one might be true!)

‘It was a long day, but it was really fun,’ says Carmelita. ‘There were about forty of us extras there and we hung out in the gym. We played foosball and frisbee and stuff and there was heaps to eat and drink. I met some girls from West Britannia High and they were OK, but I can’t wait until you’re there tomorrow and we can hang out together.’

If I get to hang out, I remind her. Sounds like I’ll be really busy.

‘But they’ll give you breaks, won’t they? I mean, we’ll get to see each other, won’t we? I’d love you to help me with some stuff. How to look. How to walk. I have to be good at this, Els.’

Yeah, I say to the black ceiling of The Dungeon.

Of course we’ll get to see each other.

Tuesday morning.

January 13.

It’s 7 a.m. and I’m buttering toast. Not just the odd, jaunty slice in the time it takes to finish an ab-master workout. Nope.

I’m assembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa of Toast.

The Eiffel Tower of Toast.

The Sydney Opera House of Toast.

An entire tourist attraction made entirely of BUTTERED TOAST!

And I’m doing this standing inside a sardine can. This van’s not much bigger than Grandpa Pickering’s mobile home, it must be about a million degrees in here and there are four of us inside.

I’m working next to Rosie Di Masi. Actually, she’s been quite helpful in showing me where everything is. She hasn’t made any stupid airheaded jokes yet, so that’s a relief.

Behind me, Mr Di Masi (Max) is cooking sausages and slices of bacon on a grill plate that’s giving off a shower of boiling grease; Mrs Di Masi (Mary) is stirring a giant pan of scrambled eggs over the scorching flames from a gas ring.

The only life-giving breeze I get comes when Rosie opens the door a crack to take another one of my plates of tottering toast to the big tables outside the canteen.

There has to be some law about this. Send in Amnesty International. I’m about to drop dead.

I’d take off my long-sleeved top, but don’t dare in case I’m spattered with molten fat.

I’ve got a net on my head. Yes, an actual net. The sort of net they use on Taiwanese trawlers to catch fish.

I’m wearing rubber gloves the colour of babies’ gums and then, above them, disgusting transparent plastic arm protectors that come up to over my elbows.

I’m trussed up in a long apron that goes from my boobs to my boots. The most foul, disgusting, clompy black kitchen safety boots with steel toes weigh me down and make me walk like Frankenstein.

Looking like this, I could frighten small children. I could walk straight into the movie Monster Class 3 and fit right in.

At least here inside the tin can no one can see me and . . . UH OH!

Without warning, Mr Di Masi opens the hatch in front of me and now EVERYONE who’s waiting for their breakfast can see me. AAAAARGH!

There must be fifty people standing in the queue and the greedy-guts first in line is?

You guessed it: Ponsford!

She’s got tissues stuffed into the neck of a black plastic cape, probably to signify to everyone that she’s come straight from make-up.

Instead she looks like she’s a messy eater and needs a bib.

Before I can slam the hatch shut she whips out her phone and snaps me. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that the picture of me will be up on FacePlace in minutes.

‘Good look,’ she sneers. ‘Although I think you’ve caught a blue fin tuna in your hairnet.’

I want to flatten her with a frypan.

‘Scrambled eggs, bacon and grilled tomato,’ she adds.

This could be the most humiliating moment of my life. I know I’ve said that before, but life has a way of turning the dial up from the maximum ten to the hideous eleven when you’re just not expecting it.

Honestly, it feels like I am going to burst into tears.

Then, someone from behind Bianca says: ‘You’re not allowed to have phones on set.’ (It’s hard to see who’s hiding behind the towering pterodactyl nest that passes for her hair.) A long arm reaches over her shoulder and a hand snatches it from her grip.

‘Whaaa?’ Bianca spins on one heel to face the perpetrator. It’s that boy from the corn chip ad – the one with the black-framed glasses and the messy brown hair.

‘Oh, hey, Tyler,’ Bianca says in her best ‘I’m-so-innocent’ voice. ‘I was just getting a shot of my best friend, Elly. It’s so great to have her here with the rest of us, finally.’

‘You know the rules, Bianca,’ he says. ‘Strictly no phones.

You can get fired for having them on set. I’ll leave this with the assistant director and you can get it back at the end of the day.’ Then he puts the phone in the pocket of his jeans.

‘Fine,’ Bianca spits. Then she turns back to me, her blue eyes blazing with fury. I slide over the plate of eggs and bacon and she reaches up and takes it with two scrawny claws.

‘You forgot the tomato,’ she says. ‘But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of this whole catering thing before too long. Really, Smelly, you look like you were born for the job.’

And then she skips off.

In my mind I am pelting the back of her stupid head with grilled pork sausages.

This ‘Tyler’ boy steps up next and looks up at me with a sympathetic smile. I want to get down on my knees and thank him, but since I’m above him standing behind this bench in a van, that would be a bit stupid. And besides, my voice seems to be stuck halfway down my throat.

‘You’re Elly, right?’ he says. ‘Carmelita’s been raving about you since she got here this morning. I’m Tyler Jones. I’ll take everything you’ve got. And please don’t ask if I want Caramba corn chips with that, or I’ll kill myself.’

In spite of everything, I have to laugh.

In the corn chip ads on TV, Tyler’s face pops up everywhere – at the winning goal of the Grand Final; the presentation of the Formula One Grand Prix; the swearing-in of the Prime Minister – and says in this mad, squeaky Mexican voice: ‘Ay Caramba! You want corn chips with that?’

Then he gets totally owned – either crash-tackled by footy players or security guards, or run over by racing cars.

The ads are hilarious. They have this really catchy music and now everyone says ‘Ay Caramba!’ in a silly voice just at that moment when you think life couldn’t be better.

It means ‘oh, crap!’ in Spanish.

And here he is in front of me, the ‘Ay Caramba!’ guy. I’ve been saved by the boy from the nacho cheese corn chip ad off TV.

Like I say, you never, ever know what life has in store for you.

He smiles a big wide smile and I’d tell you if his eyes were smiling too, but I can’t quite see past the huge specs that obliterate half his face.

I give him the biggest sausage, the best bits of bacon and the juiciest grilled tomato I can find. As I hand over the plate, I hope he can tell that I’m deeply grateful to him, because I think I can tell that he’s pleased to have been of assistance to a damsel in distress.

Can you make a connection with someone wearing glasses that look like the bottom of Coke bottles over a plate of fried food with your hair in a fishing net and wearing bright pink rubber gloves?

You can. I’m living proof that you can.

I would blush, if I wasn’t already suffering from heat stroke.

He takes his plate with a grin and as soon as I finish here and make myself look respectable, I’m going to find him and tell him thanks.

At this moment, I catch the eye of Rosie Di Masi, who’s looking at me from one end of a trestle table set up outside and piled high with cereal, yoghurt, jams, peanut butter, Vegemite and jugs of fruit juice.

She winks and smiles.

There is something so utterly kind and genuine in her smile that I’m taken aback for a moment. She seems truly happy for me for some reason I’m not quite sure of.

As I continue to hand steaming breakfast plates through the van’s hatch, I look over to Rosie when I can and her smile doesn’t fade at all. It’s curious.

I just keep on passing endless plates of hot food and when Carmelita is at last in front of me to get her breakfast she’s jumping from foot to foot with excitement.

‘I’m in three scenes today,’ she tells me. ‘Don’t give me anything to eat that will make my stomach bulge.’

I know what she means. When Keira Knightley eats an olive, on camera it looks like she’s eight months pregnant.

Carmelita takes two small grilled tomatoes that look ridiculous on a bare white plate. She’s got nothing to worry about, she’s so slim and gorgeous. I load up a pork sausage as well. I don’t want her fainting with hunger.

‘When we get the chance, let’s get together,’ she whispers. ‘Maybe here behind the van where no one can see us.’

There’s a brief moment where I wonder why we have to hide.

I hiss back that as soon as I get out of this hideous Halloween costume I’m wearing I’ll come and find her.

Then I look over to Rosie again and that serene and lovely smile hasn’t left her face. She looks like the Mona Lisa of the breakfast bar.

I don’t get it.

She’s wearing the same atrocious hairnet as me. Her long apron is tied around her middle. She’s got the pink gloves on and all – and yet, as she dunks tea bags into mugs of boiling water, she doesn’t care who sees her and seems to be completely content.

She’s spending her summer holidays working in her parents’ revolting catering van. What’s to love about that, I wonder?

Rosie and I are standing in the gloomy school canteen at the sink washing all the brekkie plates and cutlery before they go back out again for lunch. Rosie’s up to her elbows in soapy water and I’m standing next to her in my clunky boots clutching a damp tea towel.

This job is pure slave labour. I don’t see how I can last even one day doing this.

‘Ay Caramba! Tyler likes you, I can tell,’ says Rosie before she falls into a fit of giggles.

Hmm. I don’t know how she can tell that, since I only exchanged about three sentences with him.

‘I kept looking over while he was sitting having breakfast and he was staring at you in between bites of sausage,’ she says.

Wow! How romantic.

‘I like him,’ she says firmly. ‘He’s always nice to me and I love the way he looks, don’t you? He’s sort of “alternative”. Not like the rest of the guys at Oldcastle High.’

I am going out with an Oldcastle boy, I remind her. Truly, she can say some dumb stuff. Everyone knows Will and I are a couple. I notice she turns down her mouth a little.

She doesn’t like Will?

‘He’s fine,’ she says with a shrug. ‘But some of the surfie boys he hangs out with are mean. Like that Bombie Logan.’ At the mention of his name she starts scrubbing furiously at some dried egg on a plate with a pot scourer.

Yeah, I know that Bombie can be a bit arrogant at times but— ‘He calls me “mud crab” because of the way I stick with Bianca. He says I’m like a beady-eyed crab clinging onto a lump of useless rock.’

Whoa! That is SO mean, especially because Rosie has got small eyes in her big round face, and if you squinted she could look sort of like a crab.

OK, so she’s not the prettiest girl in class. Her hair is plain brown and in really, really tight curls, so she always wears it pulled back in a ponytail. And she is a bit overweight, but, you know . . . So what?

It’s really low of Bombie to say that. Who’s he to judge, with his bandy, skinny legs and his wiry copper dreads that are always sticking out around his head like he’s been impaled with arrows fired by an Amazon tribe?

But he does have a point. Why does Rosie hang out with Bianca?

‘You used to,’ she mumbles.

That’s true. Bianca, Carmelita and I used to be besties. But Bianca’s been meaner than usual lately. She never misses a moment to say something rude to me. I’ve asked her to stop calling me ‘Smelly’ and she won’t. She’s always sending me rude texts.

‘She’s jealous of you,’ Rosie explains as she keeps on stacking dripping dishes in the rack. ‘Ever since she found out Jai was trying to two-time her with Georgie and then he moved schools, she hasn’t had a boyfriend. And her parents are getting divorced, so, you know, it’s not the best time in her life.’

Her parents are splitting up? I never knew that.

‘Yeah,’ Rosie says softly as she hands me another cup to dry. ‘The thing about Bianca is that she’s not very good at showing her true feelings. She gets nasty when she’s sad. Sometimes she’s crap to me too, but I don’t take it personally.’

Well, Rosie is better than me, because I take everything personally. What’s the difference if Bianca means it or not? It still hurts my feelings.

‘Then you have to get some different feelings,’ says Rosie. ‘As long as Bianca knows she can upset you, she’ll keep saying stuff.’

But, Rosie just said that Bombie Logan calls her ‘mud crab’. That must hurt her feelings.

Then Rosie laughs in ringing musical notes that sound like a small wind chime. I’m starting to see why Bianca likes to hear her laugh.

‘“Mud Crab and Smelly” – we make a pretty good pair,’ she giggles.

Yeah, I suppose we do.

‘I used to get annoyed, but I thought about it for a bit and now whenever Bombie says I’m a crab, I imagine he’s standing at Gummy Beach looking for a wave and I sneak out from between a crack in a rock and give his bare toes a good, hard pinch. You know what? I reckon Bombie’s scared of crabs.

‘Now when I walk past him I make my fingers into claws and snap at him.’

It’s my turn to laugh.

Bombie Logan, scared of crabs. I’ll remember that.

Maybe Ponsford calls me ‘Smelly’ cos she’s terrified of deodorant. Maybe she was frightened by a feral roll-on when she was a small child and has never recovered.

Rosie wrinkles her nose at me. ‘Actually, right now, you do smell . . . of bacon fat and fried snags.’ She snaps a pair of kitchen tongs at me, doing her best mud crab impersonation.

I back off, grab a handful of pot scourers and bench wipes and take off around the canteen kitchen, turning every now and then to pelt them at her.

She’s after me, clacking the tongs and yelling: ‘Whoo hoo, watch out, Stinky!’

Then I’m hurling packets of lollies and Rosie’s ducking behind boxes of potato chips. She squirts me with the detergent bottle and I get her back with juice jugs full of water.

SPLOSH! SCREECH! HAHAHAHA!

Five minutes later we are completely soggy with soapsuds in our hair and laughing like drains.

At this moment, the front door of the canteen opens and Mrs Di Masi is standing there.

Uh oh! We’re going to cop it for this.

Instead, to my amazement, she laughs too. Then she presents us with a whopping basket of vegetables.

‘Alright, you two lovely ones, start chopping.’

I’m making coleslaw. Yep. Just like I predicted. I’m shredding, grating, slicing and dicing cabbage, carrots, celery and spring onions into enormous bowls.

But I’m sitting on the van’s metal steps in the sun with Rosie and that’s kind of fun. She’s great at impressions and is cracking me up doing a number on our music teacher, Miss Middleton, using two stalks of celery as drumsticks.

‘Badda bing, badda boom,’ she laughs as she taps out a tune on my head.

Seriously, what is this girl on? She never sits still for a minute!

I’m threatening grievous bodily harm with a carrot unless she stops when Mum sticks her head around the corner.

‘Hello, girls,’ she says. ‘You did a wonderful job with breakfast.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Pickering,’ Rosie replies with a smile as wide as a wedge of cabbage.

‘The Di Masi coffee blend is gorgeous, Rosie,’ says Mum, smiling. ‘The director says it’s the best he’s ever tasted outside Los Angeles and now he’s totally addicted, so can I get you to take him a tall latte, double-shot, no sugar?’

‘Gotcha!’ Rosie springs to her feet and barges inside the van in an instant.

‘And you, Elly. How’d you like to take the same to Jake? But with soy milk and organic honey.’

ME? Go to Jake Blake’s trailer?

I sure would. I’d DIE for the chance to see Jake again.

‘His trailer’s across the yard there, past the assembly hall. OK? He’s waiting, so be quick about it. Make sure it’s nice and hot, darling.’

Now we’re talking! This is what I came for.

When Mum sees how good I am at this stuff, she’ll beg me to be her assistant again.

Inside the van, Rosie is a whiz with the steaming espresso machine. It’s crammed into one corner between the deep-fryer and the microwave. I can’t believe they can fit so much stuff into this tiny space.

While she makes the coffees, I untie my wretched apron, fluff my hair and apply fresh lipgloss. It’s hard to see what I look like in the reflection on the side of a toaster, but it’ll have to do.

Soon enough I am negotiating my way to Jake’s trailer clutching my precious cargo and rehearsing what I’ll say to him. I wonder if I should bring up the topic of Tilly and say she says ‘hello’?

It could be a good tactic if those two are going to keep talking to each other. Even go on a date. (Although I am sure Tilly is imagining all this. As if?) It could help in my campaign to get myself out of that ghastly van.

I know my way around the school grounds, but today it’s barely recognisable with these big trucks parked everywhere. Dozens of people are stepping over cables and ducking under lights. All of them look like they’re on a mission – going somewhere or hurrying back from somewhere else. Technicians are setting up steel tracks and trolleys for the cameras and being watched by assistants carrying clipboards. Through the maze I can see where they’re filming today – just outside the library.

The scabby old garden has been filled with pots of flowers and shrubs and the dirty footpath is scrubbed and gleaming. Oldcastle (I mean ‘Back Beach’) High looks kind of appealing, for once. Not quite Hogwarts but better than its usual slummy self.

Ah! The magic of Hollywood. It is right what they say. It’s the dream factory. There’s a definite buzz of excitement, enchantment even, in the air.

When I walk past the gym, I can hear loud music and I just can’t resist sticking my head in to see what’s happening. (I’m sure the coffee will stay hot enough; the cup is scorching my fingers.)

My eyes adjust to the cool gloom inside and the scene is, well, just like you’d see on Glee. (Big surprise.) There are about twenty dancers twirling, leaping, whumping and thumping across the wooden floor while an instructor claps her hands and shouts at them.

‘GOOD! ONCE MORE. FROM THE TOP!’

I’m taking it all in when I see, sitting up on the stage, a group of kids. Tenzin’s there and I spot Carmelita! I’m about to wave when I realise she’s sitting next to Ponsford. She whispers in Bianca’s ear and they both fall back, laughing.

The sight is a shock and I quickly duck back out the door and lean against the warm brick wall of the gym, blinking at the sun.

Carmelita and Bianca? Whispering and laughing like best buddies? What’s that about?

Last time those two were together it looked like they were going to punch each other out.

They’re laughing. About me. That’s the first thing I think, even though I’m positive Carmelita would never be rude behind my back.

I’ll bet Bianca is telling everyone about dumb Elly Pickering slaving in the catering van in mid-summer. Elly and Rosie doing the dishes, peeling vegies and taking people cups of coffee while everyone else is making movies.

Like Cinderella sitting in the fireplace when everyone else is off at the ball.

She’s good at making jokes about everyone.

I take off and scurry through the grounds towards Jake’s trailer. The closer I get the more massive it looks. Big enough for twenty people to be living in it. It’s four times the size of the catering van.

I wonder what he’s got in there? A jacuzzi, massive waterbed, sauna, maybe even a place to work out? I’ll soon find out. Maybe he’ll ask me to stay and watch a video with him. Listen to music?

That would give Carmelita and Bianca something to gossip about!

I walk up the stairs and see the door actually has the name Jake Blake on it in the middle of a silver star. For real.

I give a couple of little taps.

Nothing.

Then a few more knocks, a bit louder.

‘KEEP IT DOWN. WHADDAYA WANT?’ a raspy female voice with an American accent yells.

I call back that I’m Elly, here with the coffee and then the door bashes open, missing the cup by centimetres.

It’s that insect woman from the night at the Crown Hotel – the incredibly thin one. She’s still wearing all black, from the top of her shiny hair helmet to her studded boots.

It’s like she doesn’t even see me. She starts yammering into the headset she’s wearing: ‘Five minutes. He’s having coffee. I SAID FIVE MINUTES. He’ll be there when he’s there, already!’

She reaches down from the top step, snatches the coffee out of my hand and slams the door after her.

And, y-y-y-yep, that’s all there is, folks!

I just saw the The Magic of Hollywood close-up and the door with the silver star almost took off my hand.

For the rest of the afternoon while I’m serving coleslaw it feels like I have whole egg mayonnaise on my face.

I was going to find that Tyler boy and say thanks for everything, but when he comes to the lunch table I duck away and hide in the toilets.

Why would he want to talk to a loser like me?

After washing all the lunch dishes and getting ready for the next day’s breakfast rush, I stagger off the bus at 3 p.m. and through our front door.

I’m completely exhausted, like I just came back from the annual Oldcastle cross-country run. That dreaded day is the worst of the entire school calendar and every year, for weeks before, I have nightmares.

It’s five kilometres of sheer hell. Dragging your sorry self through the baking streets of Oldcastle, knowing that half the school has bogged off and is hiding in the Princess Beatrice Skate Park, just waiting to burst back onto the trail into the arms of happy teachers and pretend they ran the whole way.

Ponsford cheated last year and I heard she took alcopops and potato chips in her backpack to last her for the duration while she hid behind the half-pipe for three hours. I’ll bet it’s true.

If there’s ever any trouble in my life, Ponsford’s usually right in the middle of it.

I can’t help feeling she’s sucking up to Carmelita, on purpose, just to make me feel bad. Surely Carmelita can see what she’s up to? So why was she sitting there and laughing with Bianca in the gym? I don’t want to know.

I flop on my bed in The Dungeon and rest my aching feet, which feel like two molten lead weights. It’s like I’m wearing a pair of Lady Gaga’s shoes.

Could my day get any worse?

Oh, yes it could.

Tilly the bandicoot slips in my door, sits by the computer and smiles at me. To tell the truth, this is a bit alarming.

‘Did you have a good day, Els, darling?’ she coos.

I nod. I really can’t be bothered to go into details.

‘Good,’ she says. (As if she really cares.) ‘I want you to take this note to Jake tomorrow.’ She giggles and hands me an envelope with – I am not joking – ‘J.K.’ written on it.

Hello? AN ACTUAL, HANDWRITTEN NOTE? ADDRESSED TO JAKE BLAKE?

This makes me sit up in surprise.

I have to ask, doesn’t she know what happened to Friar John’s note in Romeo and Juliet? The note he was supposed to deliver, the note carrying the vital information that Juliet was faking her own death, got quarantined because of the plague. The information never arrived in time to stop Romeo thinking she was dead and then killing himself.

(Truly, how pathetic. No girlfriend’s worth that.)

Even in the fourteenth century they knew letters weren’t worth the paper they were written on.

Why don’t Jake and Tilly just use their phones if they want to communicate? Now we have the technology, why not use it? Why the dumb note?

‘Jake’s worried in case his phone conversations get hacked,’ says Tilly in a sombre tone.

Pardon?

I have to ask her, who would bother to hack Jake Blake’s phone? I mean, it’s not like Wikileaks would be interested. It’s not like he’s smuggling Pentagon documents over the Pakistan– Afghanistan border.

He’s a teen movie star. What’s the big deal?

‘Eleanor, you are SO naïve,’ she sighs dramatically. ‘Like Jake told me, every move he makes is worth millions of dollars to gossip columnists, TV shows, movie studios and the entire film industry. He’s very protective of his private life. Just any small thing he does could ruin his career.’

OK, I can see that, although millions of dollars has to be a whopping exaggeration, surely. But what’s he planning on doing that could ruin his career?

‘Nothing, obviously,’ Tilly goes on, ‘but even the most boring celebrity conversations make the gossip mags and newspapers, and what they don’t know, they make up.’

Huh! You don’t have to tell me, I know that’s true.

‘Jake and I—’

(Jake and I. I swear I will never get used to hearing those words.)

‘—we just want to have some fun, OK? It’s just a silly purple envelope with perfume on it. It’s sort of old-fashioned and cute.’

Really? ‘Cute? ’Wasn’t too cute when Romeo found Juliet and topped himself, I remind her. That’s what happens when you start sneaking around and lying to people . . . like EDDIE. Her boyfriend. Remember him?

‘Just take the note! Give it to Jake tomorrow, or else drinking poison or stabbing yourself with a dagger will be too good for you, m’lady. ’Tilly’s green eyes flash dangerously.

Yikes! I take the note. Although how I’m going to get it past the scary woman on the top step of Jake’s luxury trailer is instantly taking up all the available space in my head.

I should steam it open and have a look, but I have a feeling it might make me throw up.

Tilly goes to get ready for work and I have a bath to wash away the smell of sausages and coleslaw that seems to have worked itself into my pores. Wonder if mayonnaise causes pimples? Yuck.

As I’m lying here in the water, I start thinking about Romeo and Juliet. How different things would have been if she’d just texted him.

Not rlly dead!!!

Dnt freak out. K?

LUV U

J. XOXOXO

And what about all those plots in movies and TV shows where if they had just used their phones there would have been no drama at all?

Gilligan’s Island

Gilligan and his crew set out for a three-hour cruise. They’re blown off course during a big storm and, using Google Maps, realise they’re just off the main island of Hawaii. Big Woop.

Picnic at Hanging Rock

Miranda rings the school principal, Mrs Appleyard, and says: ‘Help! I think I’m lost.’

Mrs Appleyard says: ‘Stay where you are, my dear, and do not move.’

Mrs Appleyard rings Mademoiselle de Poitiers and says: ‘Drop that croissant this minute! Call Miranda, follow the sound of her iPhone and rescue her.’

Mlle de Poitiers rings Miranda and says: ‘Je viens de vous trouver. Vous etes stupide.’

Then everyone has afternoon tea and goes back to school.

Lord of the Rings

Frodo is hiding from the Nazgul in the roots of an old tree when he gets a text from Gandalf.

Where U, bro?

G the Grey

The Nazgul hear the beep, capture Frodo and the ring and everyone has to live under an Orc government that cuts down all the trees and makes big mining pits everywhere . . which is not that much different to the government we’ve got now.

I’m out of the bath and getting dressed when there’s a call from Will. I couldn’t have my phone with me all day and not being able to talk to him was torture.

‘Hey, Elly.’ Just the sound of his voice floods my body with sweet relief.

‘Good waves today,’ he says. ‘When are you going to be finished on this idiot film?’

Why does he talk like that? There are more than a hundred people working on this ‘idiot’ film. It’s Mum and Carmelita’s big break. OK, it might not be going well for me, but why does he have to be so negative? Will’s supposed to make me feel better about life, not drag me down.

I answer that I’m not sure, but it’s at least another ten days.

‘Crap!’ he exclaims. ‘We’re all heading to Wobbegong tomorrow. Me, Bombie and—’

When he says Bombie’s name I can’t help but blurt out that I know he’s been calling Rosie Di Masi names and that he’d better stop.

‘What? You always call Di Masi an “airhead”. What do you care about the mud crab?’ he says.

I can’t believe my Will calls Rosie a mud crab too!

I tell him that I was wrong about Rosie. She’s not an airhead. She’s actually really nice and funny and—

‘But she does look like a mud crab,’ he laughs.

And then I just hang up on him.

Have I ever done that before?

I heat up some frozen lasagne for dinner. That’s about the best I can offer. I’d rather chop my own arm off than dice another vegetable. I’ll probably have nightmares about cabbage and grated carrot.

Mum and Carmelita drag in late at about 6.30 p.m., so there’s not much chance to catch up before we all sit down to eat. It’s probably a good thing, given the black mood I’m in.

Carmelita looks happy and I suppose I should ask her what happened today since we didn’t get even a moment of proper face time. But I just can’t bring myself to.

I’m mad at her too, to tell the truth.

Mad at Will, Tilly and Carmelita, I add up in my head. It’s a long and regrettable list.

‘So, did you have a good day?’ asks Carmelita.

Where do I even start? No, I didn’t.

I mumble something about it being totally boring and then add that the only bright spot was a sunray named Rosie Di Masi.

‘Yeah. Rosie’s great. That’s what Bianca says,’ Carmelita informs the table.

Bianca. There’s that name again! Grrr. Who cares what Bianca reckons!

Everyone yacks their heads off. Mum’s telling Dad the details of how great it’s all going, then at last she turns to me.

‘Tomorrow all the extras are going to be in a big scene in the school assembly hall,’ she says. ‘They need more students, so do you and Rosie want to come along?’

Sure, I reply in a casual tone. (Don’t want Carmelita to see me grovelling for this tiny crumb of recognition.) But at last, I’ll be in the movie. About time!

‘Good. It’s happening at 2 p.m., from memory, so when you’ve packed up lunch, come straight over to the hall.’

What time do I have to be in make-up and wardrobe, I ask.

‘Oh, you won’t have to worry about that,’ says Mum with a chuckle. ‘You’ll be right down the back, so it’s not like anyone will really see you. We just need a few more heads to make up the numbers. Just come in your work clothes if you like . . . although I’d lose the apron.’

How encouraging is that?

‘It could look like they’ve come from a home-economics class or something,’ Carmelita adds helpfully.

‘Sure, why not?’ Mum replies and then beams at me again, which really, really annoys me.

I can’t help the sarcasm in my voice. Why don’t I just come in a giant bear suit, since NO ONE IS GOING TO SEE ME?

Everyone thinks this is v.v. funny.

‘You could end up in one of those famous movie blooper lists,’ laughs Dad. ‘You know, like in Pirates of the Caribbean where you can see a member of the crew standing behind Johnny Depp wearing a cowboy hat, a T-shirt and sunglasses. Hahahahah!’

So that’s my showbiz career, right there. I’ll be getting a Golden Razzie award as a big, fat blooper. This makes me so mad, I jump up from the table, stomp off to the lounge room and turn on the TV.

‘Ay Caramba!’ It’s the corn chip ad.

I swear this stupid movie is ruining my life!

Later, when Carmelita comes into The Dungeon, I pretend to be asleep.

Wednesday.

January 14.

Lunch today was three different kinds of salad (thankfully no coleslaw), salt-and-pepper squid, marinated and grilled chicken wings, rare roast beef and garlic bread.

I can’t believe they serve all this stuff to high-school students.

I mean, most of the kids I know would think a free bag of chicken chips and a can of soft drink was a total bonus. They come back for two and three helpings like they’re carb-loading for an Olympic marathon.

And so does all the crew. I swear, people eat more when they’re working on a film set than they do anywhere else. It must be because they’re bored out of their brains with all the hanging around waiting for the right light, camera angles and for Jake to finish his coffee.

Not to mention that the food is free.

The only people pecking like sparrows are that actress who plays the mother in Us and Them (what is her name?), and Gigi Cantona, the model from Glossy.

I’ve been keeping my beady eye on Gigi. I’ve worked out that over the past two days she’s only eaten a quarter of a muffin, three beans, a low-fat yoghurt and a chicken wing.

No wonder she’s so skinny. She’s like a giraffe. (Maybe she’s been grazing in the trees and eating leaves when no one’s watching.)

I tell Rosie this and she laughs so hard she misses the table and sticks her whole arm into a tub of potato salad. We just scrape it off and then ladle it into bowls, cackling like witches.

We should SO be in Monster Class 3. We would make really good witches and axe-murderers, especially with tea towels and plastic colanders on our heads . . . Heh!

Finally, at 1.45 p.m. we ditch the aprons and slap on a bit of make-up using the mirrors in the toilet block – you know, like Anne Hathaway does when she’s getting ready for her big close-up. (Yeah. Right.)

Rosie wants to do something with her hair, but when she lets it out of the hairband it springs out like it’s ready to attack. Brown tendrils stand almost upright around her head like the stuffing’s burst out from a ripped cushion.

‘Look at it,’ she moans. ‘I never know what to do with it. I’m just not a girlie girl. I suppose I’ll just stuff it all under a hat or something.’

I’ve never thought what it must be like not to be a ‘girlie girl’. I’m lucky that I’ve always had Tilly to help me do my make-up and hair. Rosie has only got younger brothers.

Hmmm. Despite what Rosie thinks, her hair definitely has potential. So I offer to help and after about fifteen minutes I’ve managed to twirl the strands back and use some of my hairclips to fashion a loose sort of bun at the nape of her neck and, if I don’t say so myself, it looks really pretty.

(OK, I did say so myself, so I might as well say it again: It looks v.v. nice.)

Then I get the mascara, eye shadow and lipgloss out and give Rosie a quick makeover. Violet shadow really sets off her brown eyes and after a few coats of volumiser mascara (OK, I admit it, I caved in and bought it after watching the ad a thousand times), her lashes look lovely. She’s got enviably perfect skin, so she only needs some tinted moisturiser, cream blush, a bit of translucent powder and she’s looking . . . well, not like in one of those movies when a girl takes off her glasses, shakes out her hair and someone exclaims: ‘Why, Miss Brown . . . you’re beautiful!’

But she sure does look a whole lot less mud crab–like.

(And that is definitely the LAST time I’m ever going to think of Rosie and a mud crab in the same sentence. I promise.)

‘Wow,’ she says when she looks in the mirror. ‘I mean, really, wow. How did you do that? Thanks a million, Elly. You’re the best.’

And then she gives me the biggest hug and that makes me feel great. Did I mention how much I’m starting to like Rosie Di Masi?

Then I apply a dab of gloss to my own lips and a slick of mascara, fluff my hair where it’s been flattened down by that ugly hairnet, and we’re good to go.

When we peek in the main door of the assembly hall we can see that everyone’s already sitting down and mucking around. Looks like they’ve been here for ages. Did Mum get the time wrong?

(If they changed the call time, how ridiculous is it that my own mother works on this film, knows everything and tells me NOTHING!)

The director of photography’s sitting behind a camera on one of those track things and going up and down the crowd of about a hundred kids. There’s a crane camera overhead and everything’s humming.

We decide not to do the walk of shame in front of everyone and instead go back along the corridor and find our way in through a back door. As soon as we walk in we run straight into Tyler.

Ay Caramba!

‘Hey, you guys. How great you’re here!’ he whispers to us. ‘We’re just about to go for a take.’

I mutter something about my mother getting the time wrong and say we’ll just find a place to sit up the back like she told us to.

‘No way,’ he says. ‘Come down the front. I could do with a couple of cute girls sitting next to me, otherwise I won’t get my head on camera at all.’

And then he smiles in that quirky, attractive way of his and I feel my heart do a little flip-ette.

He grabs my hand (which is, unfortunately, a tad sweaty) and starts pulling me after him. I take Rosie’s hand and down the front we go. He shuffles a couple of people along and there the three of us sit in the second row.

‘All we have to do this afternoon is a whole lot of reaction stuff,’ he says in my ear. ‘We have to clap, then laugh, then jump up and scream and run around. Anyway, just watch what I do and you’ll be fine.’

He reaches out and pats my knee and I have to admit that even through my jeans, the heat of his hand makes my leg tingle.

Then there’s a sharp finger in my back; I look behind me and groan, it’s Ponsford and she looks utterly furious.

‘What are you two doing sitting in front of me?’ she snarls through her black lipstick lips. Her smoky eye make-up looks like it’s about to burst into flames. ‘You’re not featured extras, you’re not even extras. Last time I looked on the call-list your names weren’t there. Go back to the kitchen. We’ll all want some afternoon tea soon.’

She is such a bag!

She says all this under her breath so Tyler can’t hear. And then when he figures out something’s going on and he turns to eyeball her, she smiles a sickening smile at him.

‘You both OK?’ he asks me and Rosie. ‘Looks like the take is only minutes away. So get ready. ’So Rosie and I just nod and stay put.

Next thing we hear is Bianca huffing and puffing and getting to her feet. The chains on her big buckled boots clank as she pushes to the end of the row and stands in the aisle where everyone can see her.

‘EXCUSE ME,’ she calls and her words reverberate around the entire assembly hall so that more than a hundred pairs of eyes swivel her way.

‘I THINK THERE’S A PROBLEM HERE. CAN I SPEAK TO THE ASSISTANT DIRECTOR PLEASE?’

You know how there’s always an echo in assembly halls? How teachers seem able to hear even the teeniest whisper? Bianca’s whiny voice is bouncing off the roof and walls. Could she say this any louder? No. Not even if she was standing on the top of Uluru with a megaphone.

In a blink there’s a woman with a headset standing next to us with her hands on her hips and looking mightily annoyed. She’s the first assistant director and seems to be the one actually running the entire shoot.

‘What’s happening here?’ she says loudly. ‘We’re about to roll.’

‘I’m just thinking of continuity,’ Bianca simpers. ‘I’m pretty sure Elly and Rosie haven’t been in any shots before this and you know, it might look a bit odd or something? Not that I really know, I’m just wondering . . .’

Oh God, this is so embarrassing. Excruciating. I want to shrivel into a small ball and roll away.

Then Tyler stands and says to the first A.D.: ‘I put them next to me. I hope that was OK.’

‘Well, no it isn’t, Tyler,’ she replies. ‘Bianca’s right. You can’t just move people around when you like without consulting me. So come on, you two, please move down to the back of the hall.’

Out of the corner of my eye I see Bianca fold her arms across her chest with supreme satisfaction. Please let a bolt of lightning come through the window, zap her nose ring and reduce her to a pile of ashes.

Rosie and I have to squeeze past what feels like endless pair of knees with the first A.D. saying ‘Hurry, hurry’ to us all the way.

What was that I said about trying to avoid the Walk of Shame?

This is the Shuffle of Indignity. The Stumble of Humiliation. The Trudge of Mortification.

Everyone is talking behind their hands and laughing. And I know they’re all muttering about how pathetic I am.

I will never forgive Bianca Ponsford for this until the day I die.

Meanwhile, Rosie next to me is giggling and giving a few high-fives to people she knows as we make our way right down to the back row. It’s as if she’s the bride at a royal wedding.

I am hardly aware of what happens next. I suppose I clap and woo-hoo on cue. But all the while I am imagining what people will think when they are sitting in the cinema, watching the assembly hall scenes in Monster Class 3.

Surely they’ll be distracted by what looks like a red glow down the back row, which will be my head burning so brightly that it could be used as a beacon to warn of shipping hazards.

As soon as the first A.D. calls ‘wrap for the day’ I run from the hall and straight to the bus stop. I am never, EVER coming back.

So much for my career in Hollywood.

FINITO!

Of course it all ends up on FacePlace.

Including some footage of me and Rosie someone shot with their smuggled phone. Weird how it only took about ten seconds for us to get up the back, but at the time it seemed to go on forever, like that bit in Lord of the Rings where Frodo climbs up Mount Doom.

From every conceivable angle I look like an idiot.

I’m in The Dungeon face-down on my bed with a pillow over my head when Tilly barges in. Even through the triple-duck-down filling I can hear her jabbering away.

‘Did you give Jake the note? What did he say?’

Note? I swear I was so busy I didn’t even think about the stupid thing.

I remove the pillow from my sweaty face and fib that there wasn’t a chance to get anywhere near Jake because he was in make-up all day. (It takes eight hours to turn him into a werewolf, so I hear, so this was a pretty good excuse.)

Tilly sighs. She’s frustrated. I can hear that.

‘OK, fair enough,’ she concedes. ‘So can you take it to him tomorrow?’

I tell her I’ve quit, and why – in detail.

‘You can’t quit,’ she says flatly.

Too bad, I just have.

‘I mean, you just can’t. Not now.’ And I can hear the tinge of panic in her voice.

I tell her that I really don’t care what happens between her and Jake. I’m not there to help her with some imagined budding romance directly from the pages of a fanzine. This is my summer and my life and I’ll spend the rest of it going surfing with Will. That’s that.

(Although even as I say this, I do have a pang of regret that I probably won’t see Tyler again. What’s that about, I wonder?)

And then Tilly changes tack.

‘But Els, you can’t let Bianca have the last word,’ she says, smooth as silk. ‘Are you really going to let her get around Oldcastle for . . . let’s think about this . . . the rest of her miserable life saying that she got you kicked off the film set? Are you going to let the Ponsford beat you?’

Look, I know exactly what Tilly’s up to. She’s using psychology on me to exploit my negative feelings (that’s putting it politely) about Bianca, so I will do her bidding.

I’ve been Tilly’s sister for fifteen years. Some stuff is just predictable by now.

She wants me there so I can be some stupid messenger between Juliet and her Romeo but . . . truthfully . . . and I hate to admit it . . . she does have a point.

If I don’t show up Bianca does win. Rosie will have to do double the work. And I’ll never see Tyler again (how did he make this list twice?).

Sigh! I agree to go back to the set and deliver the ridiculous note on ONE condition.

She has to tell me what’s in it. (Might as well play her at her own game.)

‘Whaaa . . .?’ she splutters.

Wow! I didn’t think Tilly’s face could turn that shade of plum. Interesting. Should I tell her it clashes with her orange top?

‘ALRIGHT! OK, OK, OK!’ she yells and then grabs my bag and upends it . . . Every single thing in it falls out, clattering onto the floor. GRRR!

She finds the envelope, rips it open and shoves the letter in my face.

Oh, dear lord, it’s poetry! Written in real green ink with one of my calligraphy pens she nicked.

If the green left the grass on the other side

(I would make like a tree and leave)

But if I reached for your hand

Would your eyes get wide?

(Who knew the other side could be so green?)

GAAAH! They’re sending each other poetry? I’m sorry, but I can’t help a little laugh. Tilly snatches back the letter.

‘Obviously I didn’t write it,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t waste my time on amateur poetry – like you do.’

Hey! That’s not fair.

‘They’re our favourite song lyrics, from ‘The Honey and the Bee’– that Owl City song I love,’ she says huffily as she folds the page very smartly and stuffs it back in the envelope. ‘And Big Deal, so what?’ she shrugs and looks away, the fall of her shiny brown hair hiding her face.

I could go on about Eddie again and the meaning of ‘Who knew the other side could be so green?’ I could tell her that it’s dumb to think the grass is always greener on the other side.

But then again, let’s be realistic here, people. On one side of the fence there’s a big boofy footballer from Oldcastle and on the other there’s Jake Blake, Hollywood movie star.

Who am I kidding?

I would pole-vault that fence if I thought I had even a chance with Jake Blake, which I don’t, seeing that it appears I’m standing well and truly behind Tilly who is Ms.Gorgeousness.com.

‘So, now that you’ve seen what’s inside, you have to take it to him,’ she pleads. I think she might be a bit in love with Jake. Sadly I can only see heartbreak ahead when the circus packs up and leaves town.

Still, who am I to say? She’s got the chance for a bit of glamour in her life. Why not?

OK, OK, OK, I give in and wearily take the note back.

But just one . . . no, TWO more things, I tell her. She has to pick up all my stuff from the floor AND put this note in a plain-coloured envelope. Lose the purple one with the flower on the back of it. And I’m telling her that for her own good. What is she, nine?

She agrees to do both, which is a bit startling, to tell the truth. She hasn’t done anything I’ve told her to do for years.

I always knew I had a little bit of power here, but perhaps I haven’t realised just how much. The thing is – if I take this note to Jake and then he sends one back, I’ll know for sure something is going on between them.

Maybe I should just suck up a little more humiliation in the catering van until I get what I want?

What do I want?

Well, I’d like my assistant job with Mum back. And . . If I’m honest?

I want Ponsford to suffer, baby, suffer. (Although I’m not exactly sure how to achieve this.)

Is that too bad of me?

No, really, is it?

Dad’s ordered pizza for dinner, thank goodness. Last night it was frozen lasagne. I tell you, the level of nutrition around here is going waaay down at the same time as the people on the set of Monster Class 3 are eating like kings and queens! Next my family will be having pet food with Harry and Camilla and the extras will all be dining on fresh lobster flown in from Tasmania.

We are all flopping in our chairs around the kitchen table. It’s so hot tonight. We’ve got the fan on, but that’s the only thing with any energy in our little red-brick hot box. (Tilly wants air-con, but I said it’s not sustainable and contributes to global warming. She whacked me with a wet towel.)

I can see poor old fur-ball Camilla lying in the side garden, panting. (Wonder if the Camilla from the British royal family does that on the croquet lawn sometimes? LOL.)

I’ve decided to use the very last teensy reserves of niceness I have in me to smile at Carmelita, even though I’m still mad at her. She hasn’t said anything about what happened in the assembly hall today since she walked in the door with Mum. She must have noticed. How could she have NOT noticed?

She’s picking at a slice of ham and pineapple pizza, fidgeting with her curls a bit and shifting in her seat like a nervous cat. She won’t look me in the eye. What’s up with her, I wonder? Then she clears her throat and spits out what’s bothering her.

‘Libby, do you think it would be OK if I went out with Bianca tonight?’

She shoots a sideways glance at me and all of a sudden I am sitting bolt upright in my chair.

HELLLOOOO?

‘A few of the people from the set are going out to the movies . . .’ she continues.

‘Set’??? Pul-eeeze! It’s your old school. Remember? We’re not exactly on the lot at Warner Brothers.

‘. . . and if it was alright with my mother, would that be OK? Of course we’d love Elly to come too . . . if she’d like.’

Hey! Thanks for the afterthought, Carmelita, but NO, I would not ‘like’. I would not ‘like’ at all. Not at all. (I’m starting to sound like Dr Seuss!)

‘Of course, sweetie,’ says Mum. ‘If it’s fine with your mother, it’s fine by me. Would you like to go too, Elly?’

I say I have a crashing headache and that I’m going to bed early.

‘Maybe I should stay overnight at Bianca’s then,’ says Carmelita.

It’s tense between us two, you could cut the air with a bread and butter knife, but I don’t think Mum and Dad are getting it.

‘Oh, that’s a good idea,’ Mum pipes up. ‘Then Rick and I could have a glass of wine or two and wouldn’t have to worry about picking you up. You could come with Bianca in the morning.’

I don’t want to hear the rest of this and I don’t want to say anything awful, so I excuse myself from the table with a sort of ‘have a nice night’ mumble and rack off to The Dungeon.

I have a shower, in a vain attempt to try to cool off both from the heat and my bad temper, and while drying myself, there’s a knock on the door and Carmelita calls: ‘See you, Elly! Hope your headache gets better. Have a good sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Yep,’ is all I answer.

I’m glad she’s not in The Dungeon tonight. I don’t trust myself not to say all the things I’m thinking and the main one that comes up over and over is that even though I am as mad as I can be, I couldn’t bear to break up with my best friend. Carmelita must know how I feel about Bianca after the humiliation in the assembly hall. How can she betray me like this?

Am I some sort of doormat? Do I have ‘WELCOME’ printed on my forehead?

I have to phone Will. I’ve hardly had the time to think about him today and once again that tells me that Mister Jake Blake is ruining my life.

‘Hi, Elly, baby. I’ve been missing you. Want to meet me on Winchester Headland?’ Will says sweetly.

Just knowing that someone is thinking about me has me gulping back tears. My boy is what I’ve needed in my life these past few days. I tell him that I’ll be there in ten.

I’m just about to walk out of my door when Dad appears.

‘Elly, shssh!’ he says and he closes the door behind him. ‘It’s about your mother.’

Yes, well, what about my mother? She’s another one who hasn’t even had a nanosecond of time to think about me lately. I know she’s busy, but it’s almost like I’m just another Post-it note on the fridge that she’s ignoring.

Dad looks a bit excited; something’s up, I can tell.

‘I want to buy her something very special for a present for just being so brilliant in this job and working so hard. I know what a huge fan she is of Julie Jessop and she’s so happy to be working with her . . .’

Julie Jessop? Who’s she?

‘She’s the one who plays the mother on Us and Them.’

Oh, that’s her name. I’ve been racking my brains about that.

‘So I’ve bought a very nice gold locket for your mother and what I want to do is get a picture of me with Julie Jessop and put it inside. You know, two of her favourite people in a heart? That will make the experience something she’ll always remember.’

Awww, that’s my dad. Always thinking of us. I give him a kiss. Although, how’s he going to get a pic of him with Julie Jessop?

‘So can you find a way of asking Julie if she minds posing for a photo with me? Then we can meet up somewhere and you can take a picture of us without your mother seeing. Would that be alright? Of course it will all have to be a secret.’

Hang on just a sec. ANOTHER secret? Groan. I cannot stand it. Seriously, why don’t I just build an underground tunnel from this house to Oldcastle High and then everyone can come and go as they please without having to use me as some sort of spy. This is getting way out of hand. Do I look like James Bond?

‘Please,’ pleads Dad on seeing my less-than-enthusiastic face. ‘Please, please, please, ma belle. You know your mother would love it.’

I do know she would love it, because she hasn’t missed an episode of Us and Them since it started two years ago. I think she’s even had her hair done to look like Julie’s character in the show. I can’t remember her name either because the show bores me to absolute death. As far as I can see it’s all about some incredibly normal family living in the suburbs. I suppose that’s why my mother likes it so much. Weird.

Sigh. What can I do but say yes?

Dad looks thrilled and before anyone around here can ask me to do anything else, I’m off.

The last of the sun is slanting away out there on the vast, calm ocean when I meet up with Will on Winchester. His hair is spun gold and he is tanned and beautiful, his gangly legs sticking out of rumpled boardies and bare feet kicking at the grass. Sometimes he looks like he’s fallen out of the sky from Mt Olympus and landed awkwardly on Earth.

When I’m in his arms and kissing him it feels like I’m home at last. I wonder how I could have ever looked at that Ay Caramba! boy and had any thoughts at all that he could be . . . I push that thought away immediately.

I love how Will drapes his arm across the back of my neck when we walk. The heaviness of it makes me feel grounded and stops me floating off with sheer happiness.

Down on the shoreline we walk with the foam frothing between our bare toes. The water’s still warm and there’s just a slight breeze that’s playing on my bare arms and lifting my hair. It’s good to be here cooling off and all the tiredness of the day seems to be blown out to sea.

‘So, how’s it all going, anyway?’ he asks.

And then everything tumbles out about Carmelita and Bianca. How seeing them together has made me so upset. How they’re both out together at the movies tonight and then Carmelita’s staying over at Bianca’s. How Rosie and I got marched through the assembly hall in front of everyone and it ended up on FacePlace. How hideous it all was . . . and still is.

‘Oh yeah,’ he replies.

And then he’s quiet. That’s it. Truly, that’s all he’s got to say. So, I ask him, what does he think?

‘Dunno really. Nothing you can do about it, I suppose. You shouldn’t let it get to you.’

Of course it’s got to me!! Why doesn’t he just say ‘harden up, Princess’. That’s what the boys at school say now whenever the girls complain about something and, truly, it makes us all want to pummel them into the ground.

I explain one more time that it’s my BEST FRIEND I am talking about here. And she has defected to the enemy camp. She came to spend the holidays with ME. Can’t he see this is betrayal on a grand scale? Doesn’t he get it? At all?

‘Move on, she’s probably not worth it if she’s going to do that,’ he adds.

Thanks very much for that pearl of wisdom.

I suddenly feel like Will’s arm is hanging on me like a dead weight and I shrug it off. I jam my hands into the pockets of my shorts and he gets the message and then we both, at the very same moment, turn and plough through the sand back to the stairs.

Nothing is said all the way.

The wind’s blowing up now, coming in front of a southerly change. The weather’s turning and, unbidden, into my mind come the words ‘and the tide’s turning too’.

Thursday.

January 15.

‘He’s flirting with you,’ says Rosie.

I know who she means. Tyler. But I hardly think coming to the breakfast hatch in this ugly van and asking for ‘the most perfectly formed tomato you have there, Nigella’ is flirting. It’s called ordering breakfast.

And if he is flirting, I’m not interested.

‘Are you OK? You’re really quiet this morning,’ says Rosie, looking at me with a frown. ‘Maybe when we get this finished we can have a talk. I know something’s up.’

I sort of smile at her, but I’m in a bubble of my own thoughts. I’m still thinking of what happened, or rather didn’t happen between me and Will last night, and to be honest? I’m freaked out.

Last night I dreamed I was standing in front of a huge bonfire and chucking my socks (?) into it. I woke up and threw off all the blankets. It was still so stifling hot in The Dungeon.

The dream app said: ‘When we are conscious of feeding a bonfire, the passionate side of our emotional selves needs to be allowed freedom of expression. Old, outdated concepts and beliefs can be let go in order to create something new.’

No prizes for that one. I could have told anyone that.

It’s so scary to think about it, but maybe I am coming to the end of things with Will. I’ve always wished that he talked more. I’ve thought that for a really long time. Now, when I really need him to talk to, because I’m upset about what’s happening to Carmelita and me, I can clearly see he’s not someone I can count on. Obviously I don’t expect him to be able to share my most secret feelings like a girlfriend, but it’s something much deeper than that.

If I can’t share my hopes and dreams with Will along with my disappointments and the things that really worry me and get me down, what’s the point?

This makes me unbearably sad.

Two big fat teardrops roll down my face and land in a tray of scrambled eggs. I hope no one saw that. I’m a health hazard. I’m no use to anyone. I try to brush the tears away but they just keep coming and I end up with an eye full of revolting pink rubber glove.

Off in the watery distance I see the two of them, Carmelita and Bianca, with take-away coffees. Looks like they’ve already had breakfast, then. The two besties have been sitting in a café together chatting away, sending everyone silly texts and pics, while I’ve been stuck here . . .

I think back to the days when there were the three of us. Me, C and B. We were the best girls in the world and it didn’t matter what anyone thought of us. They were amazing times, but that was when I was fourteen.

I’ll be sixteen soon.

What’s that saying from the Bible? ‘Time to put away childish things’. . .

Or, should I say, chuck them into the bonfire.

Then Carmelita waves at me and I burst into full-on howling and rush out of the van.

I don’t mean to be a pathetic blubberer, I really don’t. But it’s all too, too much. I mean, it feels like both Carmelita and Will are drifting away from me. Like they’re both caught in a rip and I’m swimming and swimming to catch them and getting nowhere.

This is now the most wretched summer anyone has ever had to endure.

I’m having a pity-party for one behind the dumpster (with buzzing blowflies instead of sparklers) and wiping my nose on my grot-encrusted apron when suddenly a bit of kitchen towel is thrust into my hand.

‘It’s those two, isn’t it?’ says Rosie. Her face is crumpled in sympathy like an omelette. ‘I’m so sorry for you, Elly. I know what it feels like when you’re the outsider. I remember that I always used to watch you three and I wished and wished I could be a part of what you had. You always seemed to be so happy together.’

We were. Those were happy days!

‘I hated all of you back then.’

This makes me stop sniffling for a minute.

Rosie hated us? Really? We didn’t hate anybody. We were just having a good time. Why would anyone hate us? We were never mean or anything.

‘Yeah, I know, you’re surprised. But I was jealous of you,’ she says as she pulls up her thick white socks and folds them over the top of her clompy work boots.

I can’t believe she just admitted that. I mean, we all get jealous, right? But who ever owns up to it? Rosie Di Masi. That’s who.

She leans back against the dumpster and swats at the flies. ‘It’s a bit like this whole film, isn’t it? Everyone thinks everyone else is having a better time than they are. There are all these little clubs everyone makes – like the extras, the dancers, the actors, the ones who do the lights or make the sets, the director and his gang, and at the very, very top . . .?

‘There’s Mr Jake Blake like the angel on the Christmas tree. Everyone who’s not inside that humungous trailer of his feels like they’re missing out on something.’

I have to say, I feel like that. Tilly feels like that. Everyone wants Jake to look at them, like I said before – to be in orbit around his mega-brilliant sun – and I have a feeling he’d rather be looking at himself.

So why are we all here? Way out near the car park where we might as well be asteroids. What’s the point? I kick an empty cardboard box across the yard and start untying my apron. That’s it. I’ve had it.

‘Hey!’ says Rosie as she grabs my arm. ‘Elly. I know how we could show everyone. What if we were having the most brilliant time in the catering van? What if we were having so much fun that everyone was jealous of us? That’d show them, wouldn’t it? I bet you that if it looked like the Di Masis’ was the best place to be, they’d all be dying to get in here. We could probably sell tickets.’

Oh, come on. This is the kind of reverse psychology they use on every American sitcom. It’s not even up to Tilly’s usual standard. Am I supposed to say ‘Wow, Rosie! You’re right, bring on the coleslaw’?

‘OK,’ she says, smiling. ‘Maybe that’s a bit of wishful thinking right there, but life is what you make it, isn’t it? That’s what my nonna used to say.’

Her ‘nonna’?

‘My grandmother. She lived with us for years and I loved her so much. She died in October and I still miss her heaps.’

I haven’t seen my own nan for over a week now. She always has the best advice. I’m definitely going to visit her soon.

Rosie says: ‘My nonna was the one who I always talked to when everything looked bad. And today I think she’d say: “Meglio essere testa di alice che coda di tonno! ” ’

Er . . .

‘It’s better to be the head of an anchovy than the tail of a tuna.’ Then Rosie laughs and laughs as she heads back to the van and I’m so fascinated to hear what she has to say next that I have to follow.

I’ve made it through the morning with the Di Masis cheering me along. Rosie’s dad Max sang a selection of his favourite tunes (‘I Did it My Way’ was his favourite. He sang it twice!!), and her mum and cousins joined in, banging on saucepans with wooden spoons. The work all seemed to get done and I didn’t even notice how hot it was. And as for thinking about Will?

I might have been, but I couldn’t hear myself think above the noise.

Rosie’s dad is a bit like mine, King of his Castle. He seems happy as can be in this little sardine can . . . or should I say, anchovy tin.

I get it now about the anchovy and the tuna. I can’t see how Jake Blake could be having any better time in that massive air-conditioned trailer of his. And of course, that reminds me, I have to get Tilly’s note to him. When there’s a break just before we set up the lunch table, I tell Rosie that I’m going to the toilet and I bog off.

Looks like everyone is filming down on the oval today. All the extras have been kitted out in sports gear and are waving blue and yellow streamers, so I guess they’re onto that inevitable scene in most teen movies where the hero does battle with the sports jocks.

In Monster Class 3 Joey Willis is into track and field instead of basketball this ‘semester’. I haven’t read the whole script because I don’t want to spoil the end when I watch it, but I imagine it will go something like: one of the jocks rigs the pole vault or puts bamboo stakes into the sandpit for the triple-jump, and Jake stumbles and falls and the crowd goes ‘ooooooh’, and that makes him depressed, then really mad and soon he’s out for revenge.

Until at the end the crowd goes ‘yaaaaay’.

I know I’m sounding cynical, but I just can’t help it. I used to love Monster Class as much as anyone else, but now I’m living it? Not so much.

I’m hoping Jake’s not already down there on the oval and then I see that prison guard in the hair helmet hanging around near the back of the hall in conversation with the director, so I know he must be in his trailer because he never goes anywhere without her.

I skirt around the back of the bushes so I’m not seen (yep, I AM Ms Bond. Ms Jamie Bond) and rap on the door, right in the middle of that silver star.

‘Gigi?’ I hear Jake call and then instantly he wrenches open the door and is standing there, just in a pair of shorts. Oh my goodness, he definitely works out. A very lot. I mean Will has a great body, but he’s not as pumped as Jake. Check those muscles! He is hot!

‘Oh, sorry. I thought . . . Hey. Elly, isn’t it?’ he says and gives me a trillion-volt smile. (OMG. He remembered my name! I practically somersault off the top step and fall on my head, senseless.)

‘Hiya, what can I do for you?’ He smiles again.

I manage to stutter that my big sister Tilly wants him to have this and I thrust the envelope at him.

‘Ah, Tilly! Best-looking girl in Britannia. And you’re cute too,’ he says with a grin. To tell the truth this makes me squirm a bit. Tilly’s more than good-looking. She’s really smart as well. (State Prize for Chemistry? Hello?)

And so am I. That’s what I’d tell him if I could find the words right now. I’d show him some of the books and stuff I’ve won for my writing – but right now I’m concentrating on just breathing.

He takes the envelope and looks at it like he’s never actually held one in his hand. Don’t they get snail mail in Hollywood? Do letters get eaten by raccoons or coyotes or something?

‘She sent a note. Well, how about that? That’s the way you Aussie chicks roll? Cool. Very retro, but kinda cool. Thanks, can’t wait to have a read.’

I can tell he wants to get rid of me now. He’s looking over my head and sees something that he’s obviously way more interested in, but I don’t seem to be able to move.

‘So thanks a million. I have to run some lines with Gigi.’

And then behind me I hear the giggly trill of an ‘excuse me’ which sounds like it comes out of the beak of some kind of parrot and I stumble back down the stairs to make way for . . . Gigi Cantona.

She barges past me, all blonde fluff, beady eyes and claws, and ducks under Jake’s arm. He pats where her bum should be (instead of just a bag of skin and bones) and she squeals in that way she always did on Glossy. That silly squawk that always had Tilly and me climbing up the back of the couch, biting on a cushion and cringing with embarrassment. I still cannot believe she got a part in this movie, let alone a speaking (chirping?) part.

Jake turns back and sees me and then starts babbling: ‘Gigi’s playing Missy. My love interest. Remember? We’ve got to get through a lotta stuff. OK? Say “hey” to your sister for me. See ya and thanks again.’

And then the door closes, at about the same time my mouth does. Ooh, that was some really bad acting right there.

OK. I think I could be a very good spy, because my mind immediately sums up the situation.

You know how spies always do that in the movies? A flick of an eye and they have everything covered – from the snipers on the roof to the empty speedboat at the dock with the keys still in the ignition.

Here are all the scenarios I can see:

1. Jake and Gigi are playing a couple so they have to run lines and develop an ‘on-screen’ chemistry. It’s all very professional and innocent.

2. Jake was waiting for the note and thrilled to get it. He’s as crazy about Tilly as she is about him. This is a real romance in the making.

3. Tilly may as well have put her note into a bottle and thrown it into the ocean for all the interest Jake has in it. He does not care about her one incy bit.

4. Jake is more interested in Gigi Cantona and not in a good way, for Tilly at least.

5. Jake Blake is only in love with himself.

6. Tilly will, no matter what I say, make a fool of herself over him.

There is only one thing I know for absolute SURE and that is that Eddie will come off worse than anyone in this whole soap opera.

I feel sorry for him. He’ll probably read about it in the newspaper. When I break it off with Will it will be face to face.

And I am going to break up with him.

How did I decide that’s what I want through everything that happened this morning? While my brain has been occupied with old Italian sayings, Frank Sinatra and shelling prawns?

I have no idea.

I just know.

It’s like it’s now part of my DNA. I have to break it off with Will. No secrets. Straight up.

And then the full reality of what I have to do hits me right in the stomach.

I drag myself back to the catering van. Maybe I’ll make a vat of greasy mayonnaise that’s so, so deep I can dive in it and never be seen again.

I am hiding in the school library during the lunch session. Dear Max, seeing I was looking so unhappy, gave me the time off and sent me away with a cymbal clash of two frying pans.

Weirdly, not one person stopped me from coming into the library. (Maybe I should get into a little more espionage and break into the principal’s office, get hold of my school report and give myself top marks for everything.)

It’s summer, there’s no one here and it’s so quiet it’s kind of creepy. I now realise this is what a library’s supposed to sound like. The teachers all shoosh us but it’s still like a busy railway station most days.

I’m in my favourite chair under the window and I might as well be under an old oak tree as it drops autumn leaves of lost love on my head.

I’m trying to prepare myself for what’s going to happen when I tell Will ‘goodbye’ so I am surfing (surfing!) the net and reading books, trying to come up with something that can express what I feel.

Ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation. Khalil Gibran

Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss, and ends with a teardrop. Anon

The hottest love has the coldest end. Socrates

There’s this place in me where your fingerprints still rest, your kisses still linger, and your whispers softly echo. It’s the place where a part of you will forever be a part of me. Gretchen Kemp

Let’s face it, every saying about the end of a love affair is depressing. How will I ever find the courage to tell Will it’s over?

They do say that sometimes boys start acting really badly when they want to break up so that the girl dumps them. Cowards.

I could try that, but I can’t think of anything I could do that Will would care about. I could eat like a pig, fart like an elephant or pick my nose . . . like . . . er . . . a llama and he wouldn’t take any notice at all. He’d be too busy thinking about his next surf. I could not return his calls, but he’d probably love that because sometimes he says I hassle him too much when he’d rather be surfing.

I could start seeing someone else, and just let him find out about it on the grapevine, but I’d NEVER do that. That’s so wrong. That’s what Jai did to Bianca and look what it did to her. Totally pushed her over the edge.

I’m thinking about all of this when I notice someone come into the library. You wouldn’t believe it, but it’s Julie Jessop! That’s a coincidence. I was wondering how on earth I was going to meet her and tell her about the locket.

She’s in the classics section and has a thick copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles in her hand. No wonder. The life on a film set can be so tedious she’s probably got time to read half the books ever written in history, starting with the Dead Sea scrolls.

She’s wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, a long string of pearls and has her blonde hair in a ponytail, but she still looks so elegant. As I get nearer I can smell Chanel Christalle . . . my mum’s favourite perfume. Or maybe Mum read it was Julie Jessop’s and copied her.

Julie Jessop looks really lovely close-up. Like I said before, she’s a lot shorter than she looks on TV, but also a bit older. Still, that’s what all the lighting and make-up are for, I suppose.

I can’t imagine she’ll ever agree to a photograph with Dad. But I did say I’d ask. OK, deep breath, here goes . . .

Unfortunately, when I speak, my voice comes out a lot louder than I mean it to, like a honk, and Julie gets such a surprise that she falls back against the book stacks, clutches at her chest, starts panting and looks like she’s about to have a heart attack. Not a very good start to things.

‘Oh my goodness gracious! You gave me such a fright,’ she says. ‘I didn’t expect anyone to be in here. I am SO sorry, I suppose I frightened you too.’

I blurt out what Dad is doing for Mum and that I hope she can help. I think I might sound like a bit of a nutter.

‘Well, of course, darling,’ she says in a sweet voice that is like maple syrup. She reaches out to pat my arm.

‘Isn’t that the loveliest thing? What a thoughtful man your father must be. Of course I’d be pleased to help in any way I can. What should we do next? I do so love surprises.’

Then she smiles at me, steps forward and gives me a hug.

Well, here’s a surprise, because I will say right now that Julie Jessop is possibly the nicest person I have ever met in my whole life. At last here is someone who is as nice in person as they are on the screen. Can you believe it?

I wish she would adopt me.

Except that I’ve always said I can’t stand Us and Them. After this, I might have to have another look. Maybe my mother watches the show as some sort of ‘how to’ video. Maybe she looks at Julie Jessop and thinks ‘I wish I was as nice as that.’

I wish she was too.

We make an arrangement for Friday afternoon. The set closes down for the weekend before lunch tomorrow (thank goodness) and she offers to take me to meet Dad so I can get the photograph.

‘Well, that would be just fantastic,’ says Dad when I ring him. ‘I don’t suppose she could meet some of the blokes from work? They’d love a bit of showbiz excitement in their lives. Then we could take her to lunch after that.’

I think this is pretty crazy, to tell you the truth. As if Julie Jessop would want to come out to lunch with Dad and me? Anyway, I think it’s best to just hand over my mobile to Julie and let her talk to Dad and work it out between them.

After a minute or two of watching Julie Jessop nodding, smiling and saying: ‘Hmm . . . well, that’s just lovely of you . . . thank you very much . . . you’re too kind . . . that sounds like a lot of fun . . . well, why not . . . I’d so love to see more of this fascinating city,’ she hands the phone back to me.

‘Oooh, your father is a charmer,’ she says. A charmer? I mean, I know Dad is fun and everything and good for a doggie scratch, but that’s a new one on me.

Then Julie adds: ‘So, how about I come past the catering van around midday and we’ll head off, Eleanor?’ I just nod, dumbfounded. Truly, I am amazed. I never thought that would happen in a million years.

I seem to be saying that a lot lately.

I wander out of the library and back to the van and when Rosie sees me she says: ‘Wow, are you alright? You look like a stunned mullet.’

Well, I guess a sardine can is as good a place as any for a stunned mullet.

Rosie and I are sitting on the back steps of the van. We have our ugly work boots off and are airing our poor squashed tootsies in the sun. From here we have a good view of the dumpster and can see a fair way across the grounds to the rear of the hall. What a stellar view!

This is about as far off Broadway as you can get.

We’re just washing some utensils in a plastic tub and drying them when Rosie literally kicks the bucket. Filthy dishwater goes all over my feet. Aaagh!

‘Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!’ she squeals and stands to rip off her apron.

Then I see what she sees. Jake Blake is coming towards us. I’m expecting him to take a turn when he sees he’s going the wrong way, but no, he’s definitely heading straight for us. I immediately strip off my rubber gloves and, and . . . oh, just forget it, there’s no way I can beautify myself now.

I’ll have to greet him with my hair tied back with a bit of kitchen string and the tips of my fingers white and wrinkled like prunes. Rosie looks as if she’d like to disappear into a hole in the ground.

‘Yo, Elly,’ he calls and waves. ‘Good-day!’ That’s kind of cute. He’s attempting the local lingo. ‘Nice trailer ya got here, ladies.’

And then he’s smiling, taking off his sunglasses to reveal eyes as blue as the ocean and brushing the hair across his forehead in that casual way that makes most girls on the planet go weak at the knees.

Behind me I feel Rosie stumble off the top step and thrust a hand in the middle of my back to stop herself from falling.

Of course I introduce her and tell him that the Di Masi family is doing all the catering and then he says to Rosie: ‘So your family is the one making this amazing coffee and all these yummy eats? Man, I wish I could take you all with me when I go back to LA.’

Rosie manages to choke out: ‘Thank you very much . . . Jake.’

I bet she’s thinking, right this minute, of how she could possibly get the van hooked up to the back of Jake’s trailer and floated all the way across the Pacific. I think she’d paddle all the way if she could.

It is incredible the effect Mr Jake Blake has on people. Is it because he is really, really handsome? Although he’s not that much more handsome than Will. (Will. Ergh!) Or is it because we have sat and watched him up on that movie screen for so long with the romantic music behind him and the lighting making his eyes sparkle that his beautiful face – his full lips and manly chin – is imprinted into our fevered brains? I don’t think any of us will ever know.

Anyway, next thing, he is holding an envelope out to me.

‘For Tilly. Thank you, Friar Laurence.’ He smiles and winks.

Friar Laurence! From Romeo and Juliet! (I never thought he’d know anything about Shakespeare. But then again, he is an actor. Of course he does! Duh!)

Well, this is quite, quite incredible, because I really didn’t think that he gave a fat rat’s about Tilly. Maybe I have it wrong. Maybe I’m going to have to revise my whole opinion of what’s going on between them.

‘Well, thanks, and keep the coffee coming, Rosie,’ he adds and takes her hand and pulls her face down for a kiss on the cheek. Now it’s her turn today to be stunned into silence.

‘See ya, gals,’ he says and then he’s off, striding back across the yard with his hands in his pockets.

When I turn to Rosie, it almost looks like she needs CPR. I remind her that she’d better breathe sometime soon. And then she exhales with a huge splutter.

‘He kissed me! Jake Blake kissed me. ME. Did you see that?

Oh. My. God. EEEEEEEEEEEEK!’

She falls back on the step and almost knocks herself unconscious and her mother comes rushing out of the van. She screams too when she sees Rosie lying senseless.

‘AIEEEEEE! Rosie! Rosie! What has happened to you?’

Next Max pushes into the doorway, pulls Rosie to her feet and the three of them break into very fast Italian and I can’t understand a word. Now they’re all clapping and laughing and kissing each other. No wonder. Getting a compliment like that for your coffee from a famous movie star must be exciting.

I’m starting to think a little differently about Jake Blake. He didn’t have to say that about the coffee, that was really, really nice of him.

Rosie hugs me with tears in her eyes. ‘I told you that everyone would start thinking that the Di Masi van was the place to be,’ she says and then she waves frantically over my head.

I turn and there are Bianca and Carmelita standing watching everything. They don’t wave back, but turn and walk away.

Rosie is too happy to notice. But I do.

At Buckingham Palace this afternoon I find Dad in the kitchen whistling like a very happy bird on a branch.

He gives me the biggest cuddle. ‘Well, well, well. How about that, then?’ he says. ‘I’m taking the lovely Mrs Kelly Dennis out to lunch. I hope Dazza doesn’t find out and hunt me down.’

Mrs Kelly Dennis. Dazza? What’s he talking about?

‘That’s the name of the family in Us and Them. The Dennis family from Dunlop Road, remember?’

Oh, that’s right, now I remember. I must have been too bored to bother to store it in the easy-find part of my brain.

‘And Dazza’s pretty jealous. Hope he can stand the competition. Heh. Heh.’

I hate to do this, of course, but I have to point out that ‘Dazza’ is on the TELEVISION! The Dennis family is NOT REAL!

‘That’s true, but they’re so much like us. They’ve got three kids, a bit older than you two, but every time I watch it with your mum I sit there and think, yep, that’s exactly the sort of thing we do. Remember when Dazza got stuck up on the roof doing the Christmas lights and had to stay there all night? That could have happened to me.’

Except that it didn’t.

‘True, and I hope your mother doesn’t surprise us all by telling us she’s pregnant,’ Dad laughs.

Oh good grief! Can you believe this? No wonder I prefer going to the movies to watch the zombies and vampires in Monster Class. The plot lines are way more realistic.

‘And now, I’m taking Julie Jessop to lunch. That’s one for the books.’

It’s a plot the writers could never have thought of, for sure. I tell him that it’s entirely improbable.

‘What’s improbable?’ asks Tilly.

She’s sloped into the kitchen wrapped in a towel, with her hair still wet and dripping on the floor, to raid the fridge before she goes off to work tonight. Jake Blake being in love with the water dragon? Now that’s improbable. Or is it?

‘Oh, nothing,’ says Dad. ‘What would you like to eat, Princess? Why don’t I make you some baked beans on toast?’

Tilly’s a bit taken aback with this. Dad hasn’t called her ‘Princess’ or offered to make her a snack since . . . can’t remember.

‘Er, sure. That would be great,’ she says. ‘Elly and I will be in my room.’ She gives me the evil eye and says,‘Come on. Now!’

Once we are in the vile tip that is Tilly’s room – and there is stuff here on the floor that I last saw her wearing on New Year’s Eve – she grabs my arm so hard that her nails dig into my skin.

‘Well, then? Did you give it to him? What happened?’ she barks at me.

I decide this might be worth a few good minutes of torture – if I can bear the smell in her room that long – and so drag out the whole story of how I went to his trailer. (Although I leave out the bit about Gigi Cantona, that would just be cruel.)

By the time I get to the part where he came to the van and handed over an envelope for her, she is hyperventilating. I have it halfway out of my pocket when she snatches it and tears away like she used to with our Christmas presents when she was eight.

She quickly scans the note inside and then springs off the bed and starts leaping over her boots, shoes, clothes and handbags all piled up on the floor like landfill. One hand’s holding up her towel, the other’s clamped over her mouth and spray is flying off her wet hair all over the room and all over me.

At least she’s not screaming and about to pass out. I’ve had enough of that for one day.

But watching Tilly I can’t help but think of the day I first kissed Will and loved him with all my heart. I’ll never forget that, until the day I die. I mean, most of the great writers still remember their first teenage kiss, right?

I realise that it will be one year ago tomorrow, to the day, that we first came Eye to Eye. Heart to Heart.

And I remember that note he wrote me last year: ‘Without my little leg rope, I’m a goner. Stone cold. I love you.’

I couldn’t have ever imagined us not being together, forever.

‘Right,’ says Tilly, interrupting my pity party for one. ‘I’m going to write something back and I’ll leave it in your bag for tomorrow.’

I want to scream, NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

But as if my batty sister will let me off the hook now?

SLAM!

When Mum and Carmelita walk through the door I can feel the happiness in this house evaporate like the steam off a wet towel on Wobbegong Beach.

Even back here, in the depths of The Dungeon, I have a feeling that tonight is not going to be the best one ever spent under the red roof tiles of the Palace.

It was hard enough for us all to get along when everything was boring and normal. Now that the rich and famous have invaded our lives, everything seems bent out of shape.

I remember the good old days when:

Dad went off to work at Ascot Couriers and didn’t imagine that he was starring in some TV drama that’s all in his puffed-up head.

Mum had her own little company called Regal Events and used to argue on the phone about important stuff like gerberas v. carnations instead of press calls and photographs and all that media stuff that I can’t even bear to listen to anymore. (Let’s go back to folding table napkins, pul-eeze.)

Tilly had no idea that Jake Blake might be exhumed from planet Hollywood, zap her brain and turn her into a love-crazed zombie.

Carmelita was my BFF, couldn’t stand Bianca and, even though she didn’t live in Oldcastle anymore, we talked about pigs, Pineapple Head Henry and his unfortunate allergy. (BTW: I liked talking about tractors.)

And – most of all – when I was the dedicated, adoring girlfriend of a surf rat. That was before I realised that it just wasn’t good enough. Before I knew that I wanted more.

But you may as well go back to when I believed in Santa, fairies and the Easter Bunny. Those days are long gone.

I can hear some chat wafting from the kitchen and then up the hall to where I am. It starts out in a quiet murmur and, after not too long, escalates into something that should be accompanied by air-raid sirens.

MUM AND DAD ARE ABOUT TO LAUNCH A FULL-ON GROUND ASSAULT . . . WOO . . . OOO . . . OOO . . . EVERYONE INTO THE BUNKERS.

It’s not that long before Carmelita bursts into The Dungeon and slams the door behind her.

‘Your parents are deranged,’ she gasps. ‘I can’t figure out what they’re arguing about, but I think it’s because your dad was whistling.’

Ah yes. When Dad whistles, it’s the signal to my mother that he is very happy. And when she isn’t very happy, or she’s tired or just generally sick of living, it’s like a little bit of gravel in the toe of a sock. It is irritating beyond belief and not to be tolerated.

So here we are, Carmelita and I, and she’s got her overnight bag with her, so I guess she’s back to stay.

Where are we going to start with all this stuff about Bianca?

‘What was Jake Blake doing at the catering van today with you and Rosie?’ she asks. And I have to say, this is not a good question to begin with. I was hoping for something more along the lines of: ‘Ponsford is a peabrain, how could I have been so dumb as to hang out with her?’

I tell Carmelita that I can’t say. It’s a secret. (And I truly can’t. Tilly would kill me!)

‘Hmm, OK then, but that’s a bit weird because we’ve never had any secrets between us before,’ she says and her tone is slightly accusing.

And then I have to say that it sure looks like she’s got secrets with Bianca and that hurts my feelings.

‘Well, you sure look like you’re having fun with Rosie,’ Carmelita shoots back.

Er . . . we have to do something to make it enjoyable since we are stuck there in that van for so long. She can understand that, surely.

‘And I’m hanging with Bianca because we’re spending so much time together on the film set. It can get really boring when you have to sit around for hours while they get the lights and cameras ready. Bianca’s just someone to pass the time with, and she makes me laugh. That’s all. I don’t really see why you’re upset. It’s no big deal.’

And then I have to point out that it is a BIG DEAL. She’s supposed to be spending time with ME on the summer holidays. I’m the one who’s supposed to be making her laugh. And, also, where was the sympathy when Rosie and I got kicked out of our seats in the assembly hall? That was hideous.

She smiles and shakes her curls as if it’s just a silly joke. ‘Oh that? No one really noticed, Els.’

OH REALLY? No one noticed? You mean apart from all the people who went onto FacePlace to watch that dumb video? I usually love it when Carmelita smiles at me, but tonight it’s just making me madder and madder.

‘You know,’ she says, ‘I’m starting to think you’re just jealous of me and Bianca, and I am a bit shocked because I thought you were happy for me to be in the film.’

Well, well . . . of course I’m happy for her. But . . . but. OK, maybe it’s true. Maybe I am jealous. I keep this information to myself. Rosie might be able to admit it, but I can’t.

So I tell Carmelita that maybe it’s HER who doesn’t have any understanding of what’s happening in MY world because she’s too busy thinking about herself.

As you can imagine, this doesn’t go down too well at all. Neither of us knows what to say next. The Dungeon is now so silent that I half expect to hear water dripping onto blocks of stone and the scrape of a bit of bread and water being shoved under the door.

‘Maybe it would be better if I stayed at Bianca’s until the filming is finished next Friday,’ she mumbles.

Perhaps it would be better, I mumble back.

Then Carmelita starts collecting all her stuff and chucking it into her suitcase. In go her red spotty bathers, her wacky beach hat with the fake flowers on it, her silver shoes and with every ‘clunk’ and ‘thwack’ it feels as if I am being given a kick in the bum.

How did we get to this point? I should say something kind and wonderful to get her to stay, but it’s like I’m paralysed sitting here on the bed. I think I’m right to have said what I did, but is it better to be right?

I’m not going to enjoy being right if it means I am going to be lonely. I can just see nights of misery ahead of me, of feeling bad about this fight with my best friend, and I think I’m going to cry.

Then Carmelita pauses and thrusts a little package wrapped in pink paper and tied with ribbon at me.

‘I forgot to give you this,’ she says, and there are tears in her eyes too.

I open it and it’s a little ceramic pig. Now it means I have 358 of them.

When Carmelita moved to the farm in Queensland (almost eighteen months ago now) she gave her pig collection to me because, at last, she had her real pig, Viscount. I still have lots of little porkers – plastic, plush, china – on display shelves and they’ve always reminded me of her. (Some, I have to admit, are now in boxes in the garage.)

Of course, this little gift is overwhelming and immediately I’m up on my feet and crying, telling her how much I love her and saying don’t go, don’t go, don’t go!

‘I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,’ she cries too. ‘I love you too, Elly! I love you with all my heart.’

Then in an instant we are whirling and twirling and doing our happy dance.

PHEW! We’re back together. Thank goodness! This is the happiest I’ve been in days. HOORAY.

This glorious moment is interrupted by the SLAM of a door in the hallway and then an echoing SLAM from the front door.

UH OH! Sounds like Mum and Dad have had a nuclear meltdown.

I untangle myself from Carmelita’s arms and go to investigate.

Mum’s in her bedroom, still furious from the fight with Dad. She’s banging wardrobe doors and chucking shoes and sort of growling low like an angry Siamese cat. Yikes!

‘Your father is SO selfish. I ask him to go to the supermarket after he gets off work and pick up a few simple things and of course he forgets,’ she rants. ‘He’s just off in his own little world, as happy as can be, and hasn’t a clue about how hard I’m working or how important this job is for me!’

Of course, I know this isn’t true. I wish I could tell Mum about Julie Jessop and the locket.

Then she stops, steps back, sort of crumples and sits heavily on the end of the bed. Her shoulders droop and her chin drops. She looks like an old rag doll slumped there.

‘I don’t know, Eleanor. Sometimes I think your father and I . . .’

I really don’t want her to finish this sentence.

‘. . . perhaps want different things out of life. It’s hard to be married as long as we have been. More than twenty years.’

I sit next to her and throw my arms around her, and give her a kiss. Poor Mum. She’s just tired. I have a brilliant thought and I mention that Kelly and Dazza Dennis of Dunlop Road have been married a long time too.

‘Yes . . . but that’s the thing,’ she says sadly. ‘It looks like Dazza might be having an affair. What will happen to Kelly if it turns out to be true?’

Gee, I hate secrets.

After scavenging what we can find for dinner from some leftovers in the fridge (bit of pizza, some fried rice and cold barbecue chicken – not a bad haul), Carmelita and I are in The Dungeon and we still have some stuff to talk over.

We are top-and-tailing on the bed and holding hands. Ahh, this feels better.

I tell her again that I can’t reveal the reason that Jake came to see me, but I do swear her to utter secrecy and say that it’s something between him and Tilly and that she must not tell anyone, ON PAIN OF CERTAIN DEATH!

‘I promise, I promise, I pinky promise,’ she says and we lock little fingers.

She just has to trust me that I’ll tell her when I can. She seems happy enough with this, although I know she’s desperate for the gossip.

Then she tells me some stuff about Bianca. ‘It’s not very good at her house. Did you know that her father moved out a few months ago?’

No, I didn’t know that, but I’m not surprised because Rosie did tell me they were getting a divorce.

‘Yeah, her mum is really sad and she just walks around the house crying a lot. It really is depressing. It’s kind of gloomy and her mum plays these love songs over and over again.

‘Bianca wanted me to stay for the whole holidays with her and she was pretty upset when I said that I didn’t want to. I’m here to be with you, right? I feel sorry for Bianca. Maybe we should all try to be friends again.’

Well, that’s all very well for Carmelita, but after the holidays she’ll go home and I’ll be stuck with Bianca again. She’s been particularly painful lately and I just don’t feel ready to forgive her yet, although maybe it won’t be so bad now that I’m friends with Rosie. Maybe if all four of us can go out . . .

‘Do you like Rosie heaps?’ Carmelita asks. I tell her that Rosie’s kind and funny. But the best thing? She doesn’t seem to care much what people think about her. I wish I could be more like that.

‘Do you like her better than me?’ Carmelita says in a small voice.

NO! What’s she thinking? And then of course I realise that at the same time I’ve been worried about losing Carmelita she’s been thinking the same thing about me.

We have another massive cuddle and tell each other that we’ll be besties forever. When we’ve calmed down a bit and are once more relaxing in the warmth of our friendship, I know there’s one more thing to talk about.

Will Phillips.

I list all the reasons why I think I want to break it off with him . . . Almost all of them come back to the same thing. I don’t think he cares enough about me.

‘You’ve been thinking about this for a long time,’ Carmelita reminds me. ‘I remember when you got back together after that whole ring incident at the end of last year, and you were so in love with him again. And, for sure, it was a really gorgeous thing for him to get it replaced for you . . .’

At this moment I take a look at my ring. A small circle of gold decorated with emerald stones. Dark emeralds the exact colour of my eyes. I remember so clearly the day he posted it to me and how it sent me running up to Winchester Headland and into his arms.

What a day that was!

‘. . . but really, you have been saying for ages that Will’s selfish with his surfing. Seems like it’s that surfboard first and you come way, way second. You never seem to me to be really satisfied. I think it might be a good thing for you to break it off with him.’

But how? How can I tell him? It will be the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

‘You never know, he might reckon it’s a good thing too. He’s always saying that he’s got better things to do than see you.’ And then Carmelita has a bright thought: ‘Maybe he’ll fight to get you back and then you’ll know how much he loves you.’

And instantly the thought flashes into my head that I don’t want him back. No matter how much he loves me because I don’t love him.

There it is, I’ve thought it. And now I’ve thought it I don’t think I can un-think it.

Then I confess to Carmelita that I have been thinking about Tyler.

‘No surprises there,’ she laughs. ‘Every time he gets the chance he comes up and asks me about you. Of course, I tell him you’re a hideous cow!’

This deserves a very mighty whack with my pink stuffed pig.

‘OW! Or should I say, Ay Caramba!’ she squeals.

And then we have a session about Tyler. Carmelita tells me that one day he brought all the girls some chocolate brownies that he made himself, and he lends books that he likes to everyone. How about that?

‘I think he’s cool and really fun to be with,’ Carmelita continues. ‘He likes hanging out with the girls, which is so different from a lot of the boys at Oldcastle. Like Will and Bombie Logan . . . sorry.’

No. It’s true. Of course it’s true. As I think I’ve said many, many times before, Carmelita is the voice of truth. I may not always want to hear it. But when I do listen, I’m always the better for it and it’s why I love her madly.

And as if on cue, my mobile rings and it’s Will.

‘Hey, you want to go for a surf tomorrow?’ he asks.

And of course I have to explain to him that I’m working.

Doesn’t he remember?

‘Oh yeah, sure. Can’t bear to be away from your boyfriend, Jake,’ he spits out.

What?

‘I know that he comes to see you when you’re working. Everyone’s talking about it.’

I know that means Bianca has been spreading rumours. She’s never liked Will. She’d love to see us bust up. Looks as if she might get her wish.

I should tell Will right this second that I want to break up with him, but I can’t. The words just will not form in my mouth. I’m too weak and gutless.

Instead, I spin this whole story that Jake came to see me with a message for my mum. Carmelita sits up on the bed and is listening, rolling her eyes and pretending to choke herself.

‘Yeah, right. Whatever. See you later then,’ he says and hangs up.

I wonder how many more times I will give him the chance to do that to me?

Friday.

January 16.

Yippee! It’s Friday, Friday, Friday! (In the immortal words of that Rebecca Black song. BTW, where’s her career at now, hmmm?)

Last night I dreamed about being in a pen with a pig!

My dream app said: ‘This dream will bring to a young woman a greedy companion. Perhaps it is someone who is dirty or chauvinistic, though the chances are that he will be wealthy.’

What on earth does that mean?

Rosie and I are in top form dishing out the breakfast this morning. Slinging pancakes and stewed fruit like a couple of experts.

Pancakes, whump! Yoghurt, dollop! Berry and plum compote, splosh !

We are working really well together until Gigi Cantona comes and puts a spanner in our spokes and we screeech to a halt.

‘I can’t have any of that coffee that’s out there on the table,’ she pouts with lips so big it looks like she’s swum into a swarm of bluebottles at Gummy Beach. I’m wondering whether I should offer her some vinegar to get the swelling down.

‘I want a grande, skinny, soy, de-caf, vanilla latte, extra hot.’

(No ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, we note.)

Exactly what does she think we’re running here? Where do I start with what a stupid order this is?

‘Grande’? Does she think we’re in Spain or somewhere?

Why order ‘skinny’ and then ask for a slug of vanilla sugar syrup that is loaded with calories?

Why order coffee at all if you want it de-caf with soy and vanilla so that it won’t taste anything like coffee?

Why ask for extra hot? It already comes hot. Does she want us to move the van a little closer to the sun?

This is such a ridiculous order that Rosie and I look at each other and both burst out laughing.

Gigi looks murderous. (If it’s possible for a giraffe to look like that.)

‘Hmmmph, ergh, sorry,’ says Rosie, trying to be serious. ‘We haven’t got skinny soy milk or vanilla syrup. We could make you a marshmallow hot chocolate.’

Gigi reels back in horror as if she’s been attacked by a giant fat-making sugar monster and stalks off, her long legs taking enormous strides.

‘Who’s next?’ calls Rosie and Ponsford steps forward. Obviously she hasn’t been to the make-up department yet for five hours of renovations. Her hair is even flatter than the pancakes we are serving and her face is pale like a slice of white bread.

‘Hey, is that Rosie and Smelly? Hard to tell with your hairnets on. You look like two fat mushrooms,’ she says with a stupid grin.

Immediately I want to tip yoghurt over her, but I try to remember what both Rosie and Carmelita said about her probably being sad and how that makes her mean and so I smile and wish her good morning.

‘You’ve run out of spoons. You better put some more out, Smelly,’ she flings at me and then just walks off.

‘Thanks for letting us know, Bianca,’ Rosie calls out to her back.

IS THERE A RUDER PERSON ON THE PLANET THAN BIANCA PONSFORD?

If it wasn’t for the fact that Carmelita is next in line, shrugging her shoulders and sort of smiling, I would run out of this van and put Ponsford in a headlock.

‘Morning, girlies,’ says Carmelita with a grin. ‘One pancake, please, and just a small spoonful of berries.’

I see that Carmelita is still trying to watch her diet. Although she was happy enough munching down on pizza and fried rice last night. Still, I can’t really blame her for wanting to be slim. If I had to be in the same film as Gigi Cantona, I probably would have asked for surgery to remove a couple of my ribs.

I’m going to have a good long talk to Carmelita about this, because she is fine just as she is. I don’t want her to get some awful eating disorder.

On balance, I’d probably rather not be in the movies and still eat pancakes. They are delicious. Really delicious, and Rosie and I have been scoffing our fair share. That’s for sure.

Next up, it’s Tyler.

‘These pancakes look so scrumptious I want to marry them,’ he says and laughs. He’s handsome. He really is very handsome behind those glasses and that long fringe.

One day I’ll tear my stupid hairnet off and he’ll say: ‘Kiss me. Kiss me quick.’ (EEEK!)

I give him the works and he smiles happily.

‘Are you around all morning, Elly?’ he asks. ‘Can I come and see you at around, say, ten o’clock?’

I’m about to say something terribly witty in reply when I hear Rosie stifling a giggle. Then she nudges me and just about ruptures my spleen. I can only nod at Tyler as I clutch at my side.

He must think I’m a total idiot.

A swift kick in the ankle with my big kitchen boot is Rosie’s reward.

As soon as the breakfast things are cleared away I hunt out the note Tilly has left in my bag. I have to go over to Jake’s trailer and deliver it.

I so loathe having to do this.

‘O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar

Where is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?’

Duh. He’s in that ginormous trailer over there that’s big enough to have its own postcode.

Still, if I can get the deed done-th, my lord, there will be time for me to get back here and make myself look presentable before Tyler comes by.

Wonder what that’s all about? Of course I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it for the past hour. Maybe he’s bringing me a chocolate brownie. That would be nice. But I hope it’s something a bit more interesting than that.

(If he brings me a note, I’ll vomit.)

From far away I can see that woman in black leather guarding the drawbridge on Jake’s trailer. Oh no! She’ll give me a hard time, I just know she will.

I have to try to make her listen. I approach the steps where she’s standing, trying to look rather casual.

‘Yeah, whaddya want?’ she says like some kind of leatherback snapping turtle. I can feel my knees start to wobble as if I’m a mosquito she’s about to swallow.

I tell her that I have to see Jake and that it’s important.

‘He can’t be disturbed, so you’re gonna have to—’ I’m just about to give up when, praise be, at that precise moment, the door swings open and there’s Jake.

WITH A CIGARETTE IN HIS MOUTH??? Eeeyew!

He sees that I’ve seen it and quickly whips the cigarette from between his lips and hides it behind his back.

‘It’s fine, Kaz, I’ll handle this,’ he says to the woman, and I have a very distinct feeling that I have now become a problem that has to be fixed.

Then he turns back to face me. ‘Elly!’ he says with that big, dazzling smile of his. He’s faking it, for sure.

‘Hey, I’d invite you in, but . . .’

Your trailer reeks of cigarette smoke? No thank you.

‘Lemme just put some shoes on and we’ll take a walk.’

Look, I would run a million miles if I didn’t have Tilly’s note in my hand. But I stand there and wait as the snapping turtle glares at me.

Next second Jake’s out the door; he takes my elbow and is steering me towards the oval, chattering all the way.

‘Nice day, huh? Such a beautiful part of the world here. I so, so love it. I really do and all you guys have been so cool. Can’t wait to tell everyone back home all about it. Even went for a surf the other day. That was great. You name all your beaches after sharks, that’s really cool . . . really . . . very cool . . . and really great.’

Honestly, if he says ‘cool’ or ‘really great’ one more time . . .

I give him the note.

‘Ah, the Tillster! She’s so . . .’

‘Cool’, or ‘really great’, I wonder?

‘Rad.’

Pardon? Does he mean ‘rad’ as in ‘radical’? That might be surfer talk back in Malibu, but I haven’t heard Will say that in years. Maybe Will’s right and the whole ‘surfer dude’ thing is just for publicity.

Will would know. He’s always suspicious of anyone who pretends to be a surfer. He gets it from his dad, Took, who hates it when people are hypocritical and just do stuff for how good it looks. He truly lives the surfer life there in the shack on Hammerhead.

(I suffer a little stab in the heart here when I realise, once again, that if I break up with Will I won’t get to see his parents anymore . . . or his little sister, Pookie – and I adore Pookie.)

I also wonder what Mum and Dad would think of Jake if Tilly ever brought him back to Buckingham Street . . . not like that would ever, ever happen.

‘Anyway, gotta get back. Thanks for the note. I’ll see you round and keep that coffee coming,’ he says and kisses my cheek. Then he heads back to his trailer leaving me stranded, as Took would say, ‘like a shag on a rock’.

(A shag being a sea bird known for being left on rocks, apparently.)

As I am walking back to the van thinking about everything that just happened, I notice someone duck behind a building. It’s a bit too far away for me to see clearly who it is . . . it could be Rosie who followed me, or Jake’s minder, or another one of the film crew. And then my heart sinks at the thought that the person most likely to be spying on me is Bianca Ponsford.

‘Do you like poetry? They’re having a slam at the Britannia Library on Sunday afternoon. My friend Jazzy’s in it. She wants to go all the way to the Urban World Teen Poetry Slam in New York.’

Tyler looks straight at me and it’s like there’s a whole world he views through his glasses that I’ve never seen before. But I have heard of poetry slam competitions. It’s where you get up in front of an audience, they give you two minutes with the microphone, and you go for it. You can present your original poetry any way you want. In a rhyme, a story, you can sing it, bash it out, scream it or whisper it. The judges are chosen from the audience and it goes off.

If I wasn’t too chicken to get up in front of everyone, I bet I’d love it too.

‘Carmelita says you’re a great writer,’ says Tyler.

I do want to be a writer one day, that’s what I’ve got my heart set on. I got top marks for my writing with Mr York last year. But the idea that someone from Oldcastle could ever end up winning a poetry competition in New York? Against the best people in the world?

Really?

‘Look at me!’ says Tyler. ‘I started out in a corn chip ad and now I’m in a big-time movie with Jake Blake. Ay Caramba!’ He laughs. ‘Seriously, I can’t believe I just said that.’

He smacks his head with his hand and his glasses fall off. He’s kind of clumsy and a bit short-sighted and I like that, it’s cute.

Yes, ‘cute’ is the word that popped into my head. Hmmm. Not devastatingly, OMG, I’m-in-love-and-I-might-die-this-instant cute. Just sort of cute. I can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad thing.

We’re sitting on the lawn in a corner of the school gardens under a gum tree. It’s strange because I have been at Oldcastle High for a few years now and I’ve never sat in this spot before. Being here with Tyler I’m getting a whole new perspective – in more ways than one.

He pulls at his jeans – he’s wearing red ones with white stitching on the pockets today – and says thoughtfully: ‘Who knows where I’m going from here. Or where you’re going. You have to have dreams, right?’

I say ‘yes’ but that I’ve never known the difference between a dream, a wish or a miracle.

‘That’s an interesting way to look at it,’ he replies. ‘That would be a good topic for a poem.’

It would, you know. I have to agree with Tyler there.

‘So what do you think . . . can you make it?’ he asks. ‘We could go out for pizza afterwards.’

I think he’s asking me to go on a proper date. Oooh! No boy has asked me to go on a date for-ev-er because everyone knows Will and I have been a couple. (In my mind I trip on the past tense in that sentence.)

As much as I’d like to say ‘yes, I’ll be there’, I can’t. Not until I break it off with Will, it just wouldn’t be fair. Everyone deserves to hear it straight when a relationship ends. Not find out in a hurtful, cruel way. So I owe that to Will at least.

I tell Tyler that I can’t go this Sunday, but I’d love to come another time. Will the poetry slam be on again?

‘Sure will. This is only the first heat and there’s another one on Tuesday, so we could go to that one. I’ve got that night off. So . . . uh oh, I just realised, what’s the time?’

I tell him it’s now ten-thirty.

‘Crap! I’m supposed to be in wardrobe right now. Sorry, Elly, I have to run.’

He scrambles to his feet and brushes grass from his jeans.

I yell Ay Caramba! after him.

As he runs away and across the path he calls over his shoulder: ‘You have to promise me that when you’re my girl, you’ll never say that again.’

Before my mind realises what he just said about being his ‘girl’, I call out that I promise.

And then as I lie back against the grass and look up into the branches of the tree heavy with orange-flowering gumnuts, I wonder what is it that I’ve promised? And, even more than that, if I want to promise anything to any boy, ever again?

Maybe I should take a break from boys for a while.

I’ve been going out with Will for . . . it’s one year today, I suddenly realise.

I have no idea what his dream is, apart from finding the perfect wave. He says he just wants to dissolve and be a random drop in the ocean.

Does Will know what my dreams are? I don’t think he’s ever asked.

Uh oh. I don’t like the way this lunch with Dad and Julie Jessop is going. Not one little bit.

We are sitting at a table in a back room at The Tower restaurant. (It’s another one of those stupid royal names that everyone in Britannia loves and is so unoriginal it makes you embarrassed for the entire population.)

The food has been OK – I had spaghetti marinara and they’re both eating steaks and sharing a bottle of wine – that’s not the problem.

The problem is that these two are flirting with each other like a couple of lovestruck kids in Year Eight. It’s sick-making. They think they’re just being friendly, but I’m worried it’s way more than that. Lucky I’m here to keep an eye on them.

Dad’s in a shirt and tie – which is incredible since I cannot remember the last time he wore one, maybe to Pop’s funeral – and he has resisted the urge to pick up the bone from his plate and gnaw at it like a starved bear. He really is on his best behaviour.

Julie Jessop is in a tight top that’s a bit too low-cut, if you ask me, and is laughing at Dad’s ‘jokes’, which are so dopey it’s all I can do to stop myself from chewing the tablecloth. She’s fluttering her false eyelashes at him so hard I can feel the breeze from across the table.

‘So come on now, Julie, a few secrets from the show. Does Dazza take that mower back to next door’s and admit he broke it, or not?’ Dad then flashes what he thinks is a winning smile. Unfortunately he has a bit of green pea stuck between his teeth, but I’m not going to tell him.

‘Oooh, Rick,’ she says, wriggling in her chair and fiddling with her pearls. ‘I am not at liberty to say. I’m sure you can understand that.’

‘Of course I can,’ he replies, ‘but you can’t blame a man for trying.’

And boy, is Dad trying. He’s doing all he can to charm this particular bird out of her tree.

What a sad conversation. Why would anyone give a rat’s about a broken mower? I tell you, that’s how bad the scriptwriting is on Us and Them. It’s cringe-worthy.

I have to interject that MUM (remember her?) thinks Dazza is having an affair and is very worried about Kelly.

‘Well, I’m sure he’ll do the right thing,’ sniffs Dad and then goes off on another topic.

They talk about Oldcastle and acting and Julie’s career, which apparently began when she was THREE.

That takes up waaay too much time, and I’m starting to wonder if Julie Jessop is as nice as I thought. I have to say, I find that spending time with actors is really confusing for the fairly obvious reason that you don’t know when they are acting and when they are being real.

I still can’t make up my mind about Jake and Tilly. But one thing I have decided is that I don’t want to be adopted by Julie Jessop anymore. I think I’ll stick with Mum. She may not be the world’s best mother right now, but hopefully when she gets back from planet Hollywood, she will go back to being just plain old happy Mum with bad hair and boring clothes.

I sit and sit and sit until I am about to fall over with boredom.

It’s getting on for about 3 p.m. when I decide to put a stop to all this rubbish and announce that I have to get home to see Carmelita and so we’d better take this photograph RIGHT NOW!

Of course Julie Jessop hurtles to the toilets to put on a kilo of make-up (which is pretty stupid, seeing that the picture in the locket will be about the size of my fingernail).

‘Oh, isn’t she just terrific,’ Dad sighs. ‘So down to earth and real. Such a nice person. She reminds me so much of your mother when . . . Anyway, never mind. Let’s get this picture done. How do I look?’

Whatevs, I shrug. I think Dad is being really disloyal to Mum. Of course Julie’s all lovely and blonde and has perfect plastic fingernails – she’s an actress. She has to be superhuman. I tell you, if Dad falls for this act, then he’s not the man I thought he was.

I fell for it for a while there, and I believed everything I read about Jake Blake, but now I’ve got my eyes wide open.

When I get home Carmelita and Mum are there in the kitchen peeling potatoes and neither of them looks very cheery.

‘Where have you two been?’ Mum fires. ‘Why are you in a suit, Rick? Have you been to a wedding, or did somebody die?’

Dad doesn’t miss a beat. ‘There was a presentation on at work for a bloke who’s leaving and I asked Elly if she could come and take a few happy snaps, right, Elly?’

Erk! Now I’m being dragged into his lie. I can only nod to the floor. I can’t look my mother in the eye.

‘I don’t remember you telling me that.’ Mum takes another bite out of Dad’s hide.

‘You might have forgotten, love. You’ve been pretty busy lately. It’s hard for you to keep on top of everything at the moment.’

‘Yes. You’re right. It is hard, so did you book the car in for a service like I asked?’

‘Er . . . no. I’ll do it on Monday.’

‘You see, Rick? THIS IS WHY IT’S HARD! Because you DO NOT LISTEN to a word I say. I am trying to be professional in this job. I was hoping that everyone in the family would be supportive of me and instead . . . Blah, blah, blah . . .’

Carmelita and I scram out of that kitchen like two frightened rabbits. Even Camilla and Harry head for the hills.

Once inside The Dungeon, Carmelita says: ‘Um, Els, you’re not going to like this, but there are some pictures of you on FacePlace.’

NOT AGAIN! What am I doing this time? Have I been outed as the ‘other woman’ in the marriage of Prince William and Kate Middleton?

‘Close,’ says Carmelita without a hint of a smile. ‘They’re on Oldcastle’s Jake fansite.’

Sure enough, there are some pictures of me with Jake on the school oval. From the angle they have been taken it totally looks like he is kissing me . . . on the LIPS! OMG!!

We look like lovers. That’s not how it was, but that’s sure how it looks.

Bianca took those photos. I just know she did.

‘Well, I think you’re right, Els, because she sent me a text telling me they were there and it looks like these were posted about the same time. About an hour ago. What are the chances of that happening?’

Sure enough, there are already tons of comments.

Wow, so it’s real, Jake and Elly? How about that.

Does Will know? Bet he dooooooesn’t.

They make a cute couple.

Are you kidding? This will last a weekend, tops.

I hate you, Pickering!!!!!!!

I thought Gigi was his love interest? Settling for second-best there Jakey-boy.

She’s from Oldcastle and he’s from LA . . . what’s he thinking?

What’s Will Phillips thinking, more like.

Yeah, can’t wait to hear what the seaweed head reckons.

I am SO hoping this not true ♥ ♥

I am NOT going to look on my mirror. I can’t face it. Lucky Mum can’t see all this. She’d kill me and I’d have to tell her about Tilly and then she’d kill her too.

We have both been warned, over and over, to stay away from Jake. Mum doesn’t want any publicity about her daughters being involved with him because it doesn’t look professional. (That word she’s using every two minutes.) I hope she isn’t reading any of the official fansites, because this piece of gossip is bound to end up there soon. Then how will I explain things?

I’ll just have to dob Tilly in.

My mobile rings and, sure enough, it’s Will.

‘What’s the go?’ he says.

I tell him over and over again that it’s NOT TRUE! I tell him that I can’t tell him why, but that I had to give something to Jake and . . . and . . . what’s the point, it sounds like the most stupid story and I just can’t tell him about Tilly.

He just has to trust me.

‘Uh huh,’ is all he says.

WHY, OH, WHY don’t I just tell him now that I want to break it off with him? Now would be the perfect time, wouldn’t it?

Except that it wouldn’t be fair. I have promised myself this. I owe it to him to tell him face to face.

‘We started going out one year ago today,’ he says. ‘Did you remember that?’

Of course I remembered.

‘I thought you might call or something. Anyway, I’m going for a surf up the coast and I’ll be back Sunday afternoon. You want to catch up then? Come to mine in the afternoon?’

I say that yes, that would be fine. And now I have a time and a place for the deed I am dreading.

‘Love you, babe,’ he says.

In the space he leaves for me to say ‘I love you too,’ there is just a sob that surges up in my throat. By the time I have found my voice to say something, anything, he’s gone.

And then I fall on the bed and cry. I cry with an intensity that I didn’t even know I had in me. Carmelita comes over and brushes away the hair that sticks to my wet and sweaty forehead and holds my hand as I cry some more.

There is nothing she can do for me.

‘What are we going to do about her?’ says Carmelita.

‘I don’t know,’ Rosie replies. ‘But she’s out of control. It’s so awful. Jake is so nice and he doesn’t deserve all this gossip.’

‘Well, at least he’s used to it, Rosie. But Elly isn’t. The poor thing.’

‘Of course she isn’t! I mean, I’m sorry for Elly too,’ Rosie corrects herself.

Carmelita puts her hand over mine and then Rosie plonks hers on top. I have a horrible feeling that they’re having a ‘who’s Elly’s best friend’ competition and it’s about the last thing I can cope with right now.

In truth, I need all the friends I can get, so I’m glad I’ve been dragged out to Cromwell’s Café this Friday night. The first suggestion was a movie, but I don’t think I ever want anything to do with the film industry again.

I might even try to start a worldwide boycott of popcorn.

Rosie looks at her phone for the hundredth time. ‘She’s still not answering.’ Then she turns her attention to the basket of hot chips and picks at the ones with the most tomato sauce on them. Normally I’d be chowing down on some too, but I haven’t got any appetite tonight.

‘Figures she’s too scared to talk to us about those photos,’ Carmelita growls. ‘I know we’ve both said she’s going through a hard time at home, but there’s no excuse for this. This is plain spying, stalking and sneakiness. Why you, Elly, I wonder? Why does Bianca always go after you?’

‘Easy,’ Rosie replies. ‘Because Elly’s the smartest girl in our year. Bianca sees everything as a competition. She can’t help herself. It’s because she’s got low self-esteem.’

‘Huh, that’s the excuse they always have for bullies,’ snorts

Carmelita. ‘But she seems pretty sure of herself. She always seems confident when she’s being a bully.’

‘But I don’t think she’s confident inside. It’s all an act,’ says Rosie. ‘Her mum picks on her a lot and tells her she should be better at her schoolwork and that she should lose weight.’

‘Lose weight? Her mother says that? Really? Oooh, that’s so awful.’

Carmelita is shocked and I have to say I am too. I’ve never thought of Bianca as being overweight. And even if she was, her mum picking on her wouldn’t help.

‘I think it’s because her mother’s always on a diet and she wants some company. Did you check out their fridge, Carmelita? There’s never anything in it. Like maybe only some carrots and salad stuff. Not like our fridge at home – you can hardly close the door, there’s so much food in there.’

We both watch Rosie as she pushes away the bowl of chips.

‘You’re not fat either, Rosie,’ says Carmelita kindly. ‘You’re lovely and healthy and beautiful. You’re a great cook and you enjoy your food. What’s that thing they say? “Never trust a skinny cook.”’

‘Well, you can trust me then,’ says Rosie and she laughs heartily.

I can tell that underneath that laugh she’s really very grateful for Carmelita’s compliments. That’s Carmelita for you – she always knows the right thing to say at the right time.

While we’re all thinking about what’s to be done about Bianca, I notice a woman down the back of the café who’s staring straight at me.

She’s got this mop of black curly hair caught up in a big . . . Hey! I know who that is. She’s the one who asked me the question on the red carpet outside the Crown Hotel on the night of Jake’s VIP party.

The one who asked me: ‘You scored the first kiss from Jake Blake. How does it feel?’

And now I think of it, her photo was beside that stupid story about me and Jake being Romeo and Juliet, the one that got me sacked.

She’s a reporter with the Bugle.

By the time I tell Carmelita and Rosie this information and we all look up, she’s vanished.

Where on earth did she go?

Saturday.

January 17.

This morning Carmelita went to stay at her Auntie Isabella’s for the weekend (she’ll be back Sunday night) and I caught the bus here to Nan’s.

If you were trying to show a classic grandmother’s kitchen on TV or in a movie, then this would be it. The carved kookaburra chair, the wooden dresser, the lace tablecloth, the willow-pattern teapot and the matching plate with scones on it – it’s all picture-perfect.

My nan is also perfect. She wears her hair just like the Queen of England, in a silvery perm, and is always in a flowery or bright dress that is nicely ironed and set off with a small, pretty string of beads. She’s old-fashioned in the best kind of way.

The only thing that has changed in this kitchen in the past little while is that now she has a tea towel commemorating the marriage of Prince William and Kate Middleton hanging on a hook near the sink.

I love my Nan. When I am at her place it’s like I go back in time to when I was little. When standing in her backyard under the hose in summer and eating her homemade orange cordial iceblocks was about the best fun anyone could have.

Today is boiling hot and the sun is belting down on the tin roof of Nan’s cottage. I’m probably too old to strip down to my undies and stand under the hose, so we sit out the front in the shade of the veranda where Pop used to sit every afternoon and watch the comings and goings on the docks before he died.

Nan’s made some of my favourite lemonade to go with her savoury scones and butter. There’s no one who can cook like Nan. Max Di Masi is a good cook too, but I’ll bet he wouldn’t know where to begin with making a cheese, carrot and pumpkin scone.

There are so many things I want to ask Nan about, it’s hard to know where to start. But perhaps I’ll start with secrets.

‘“If you reveal your secrets to the wind you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees” – that’s a quote from Khalil Gibran,’ Nan says as she fans herself with the newspaper.

I see that she’s using the dreaded Britannia Bugle. They’re always telling secrets . . . and lies.

I tell Nan I already know about Khalil Gibran, from my research in the library.

‘Good for you. He was a very clever chap. What I think he’s saying is that if you tell your secret to even one person, don’t be surprised if one day everyone knows it. In my experience most secrets will be revealed one day. I’ve always thought you should have as few as you possibly can.’

I agree with that, but what happens when other people ask you to keep their secrets?

‘Well, that’s very difficult, and you should in no way keep a secret that might be harmful or endanger someone’s life. They’re not secrets like that are they, Elly?’ Nan turns her faded green eyes on me and frowns.

No. They’re nothing like that, but sometimes I think I’m the one who’d like to jump off a cliff. Why do people keep telling me things I don’t want to know?

‘Well, perhaps you could see it as a compliment, darling. They must be telling you because you seem to be a trustworthy sort of girl. There are some secrets that do make friendships even stronger and you should try to keep them, at all costs.’

But what if I think the secret I’ve been asked to keep (like with Tilly and Jake, although I don’t reveal this to Nan) will end in tears? What then?

‘Well, I think you can only give them the benefit of your own wisdom and then leave it to fate. If it’s a secret that never should be kept, then chances are it will make itself known. Bad secrets have a way of becoming headline news.’

I think I will tell Nan a secret. The one about Dad and the locket. I want to tell her this one because I think there may be a chance Dad is falling in love with Julie Jessop.

‘Julie Jessop!’ Nan shrieks with laughter and slaps her hands on her knees. ‘Not a chance. Not a chance in the whole wide world!’

Really? For sure?

‘Nothing surer. Your father is very, very much in love with your mother. He worships the ground she walks on. They might have their little squabbles, but he’s there until the end. That’s the kind of man he is. Very loyal to his family. I can’t imagine that silly woman Julie Jessop could turn his head. She’s got hardly a brain to bless herself with.’

I LOVE hearing this.

‘Oh, did you see her on Million Dollar Match? She could not answer one question! Lost all the money for her home viewer, sat there and carried on like a birdbrain. No, darling, you’re on the wrong train there, so don’t even give it another thought. As for that Us and Them? What a load of tripe.’

Nan and I then spend a few good minutes laughing together about Dazza, Kelly and the dropkicks of Dunlop Road.

‘Now I’ll tell you a secret,’ says Nan, ‘I’ve never told anyone before.’

I’m not sure I want to hear this, to tell you the truth. I hope it’s not one that’s hard to keep.

Nan smooths her dress, coughs a little and then begins: ‘Years ago when your mum and Auntie Marg were little I thought I didn’t love your Pop anymore.’

What? That can’t be true. Nan and Pop always loved each other. We all know that.

‘There was this lovely man who lived just up the street there, in Number 17 and, my word, he was, as they say, tall, dark and handsome. Ted Jennings was his name. He was quite the man around town and managed the Horse and Carriage Hotel.

‘He was charming. He didn’t go to work until late afternoon and when I’d be out with the girls in the morning, he’d always help me with the pram and my parcels. Well, to cut a long story short, I thought I was falling in love with him.’

Uh oh. I don’t like the sound of this. Maybe I should ask Nan to stop. But then, when I think about it, she and Pop were married forever, so it must have a happy ending.

‘One night I told your Pop a lie. I said that I had to go to a meeting for the tennis club and instead I went to have dinner with Ted Jennings at the hotel. It was upstairs in a private dining room and there were candles and champagne and I thought it was wonderful. We kissed and I thought he was the man for me.’

I’m a bit shocked at this.

‘The next morning, after your Pop had got up early to go down the docks, I wrote him a goodbye note and I left it on the kitchen table. I packed a few things, took the girls and I was off.’

A note! Aaargh, not a note! NEVER write anything in a note. What happened next?

‘Well, I got halfway up the street when it started to rain and the girls were wailing and I realised I was being a very stupid woman – how could I leave your grandfather? He was my own true love. So I hightailed it back home, only to find your Pop had come home early with a strained back.’

Oh NO! What did Pop say? It must have been a terrible shock for him to find that note sitting there. I bet Nan and Pop had the most massive fight.

‘Well, do you know, Eleanor, I could not find the note. I looked everywhere. I thought it must have blown out the window or the dog must have eaten it. Your Pop never mentioned it, so we just got on with things and I thought I was very lucky indeed that he’d never found it . . . or so I thought.’

Huh?

‘When your Pop died I was looking through his private things and in an old notebook where he kept various bits and bobs, there it was. The note I had written all those years ago. And he’d written underneath: “Never forget how lucky you are.” It was, I suppose, a reminder to him to be a good husband, and for all those years, he was the best a woman could have. That’s one secret that I’m very, very glad your grandfather kept.’

At the finish of this story Nan is quiet and so am I. We sit and hold hands until it’s time for me to go.

It’s about 8 p.m. and the Palace is still like an oven. Mum is plodding around the kitchen in her old frayed swimmers (I wish she’d buy a new pair that doesn’t have bung elastic in the legs), her eyes are swollen from crying and she tells me that Dad has gone out.

Where? She doesn’t know. If it wasn’t for what Nan said about Julie Jessop I might be worried he had gone to see her.

They’ve had a whopping fight.

I wish, I wish I could tell her about the locket! But Dad says it’s a secret and so I have to keep it. But, I swear, if it looks like Mum is going to write a goodbye note and leave it on the kitchen table I will eat it myself.

I’m not sure Dad would be quite as understanding as Pop.

He was a one in a million, my grandfather.

I’m about to settle in to keep Mum company for the night with a chicken salad and a packet of chocolate biscuits. (Yes! I hear you. What is the logic in having a salad and then finishing up with a packet of biscuits? My mother’s in denial about her dieting habits. Like most mothers I know. Still, I decide not to nag her tonight, she does look really tired. At least she’s not on the net and hasn’t found out about the pic of me kissing Jake.)

Tilly barges into the kitchen, all dressed up in the outfit she wore for New Year’s Eve, which she has magically resurrected from the bottom of the tip.

It’s a short white halter dress that has silver threads running through it and she’s wearing a new pair of red glitter platform shoes. Under the lights in the kitchen she looks like an angel. There’s no doubt about it, when the bandicoot wants to shine, there’s no one who can match her (even Gigi Cantona).

‘Elly, come here, please,’ she says and it looks like she means business.

I follow her as she clomps up the hall, into her room and slams the door behind us.

‘Jake and I are going on a date.’

She is? He is? They are? She is actually going on a date with Jake Blake? Well, how about that? Cut off my legs and call me Shorty! PS: I hope Tilly knows that in her new platforms she’s about twice as tall as he is.

‘But you can’t tell Mum.’

Here we go again. No one in this house has been telling Mum anything for days now. But maybe it serves her right. She hasn’t been telling me anything from the set of Monster Class 3 – no gossip, nothing. It’s no wonder she’s being kept in the dark by her entire family.

‘I’ve told her I’m going out with Eddie to a party, because if she finds out I’m seeing Jake she will have a meltdown. Remember how she sacked you?’

Huh! Can’t forget that.

‘The thing is, if Eddie rings here on the landline – and you know how he does sometimes when he’s at home – you have to tell him that I’m out with the girls and you don’t know where I am. You can NOT let Mum pick up that phone.’

Where will she be? I mean, Britannia is a small place. I can’t think of anywhere she could go with Jake and not be seen. They’d be a beacon that would attract every biting insect in town! The place is full of spies – and now I’m one of them, so it seems.

‘Oh, it is SO romantic,’ she squeals. ‘He’s picking me up in a limo and then he’s hired a boat down on the marina at South Britannia. We’ll be alone. Just a private dinner with the two of us. Isn’t that amazing, Els? Just like you read about in the magazines.’

Down on the South Britannia marina? I hate it there. It’s right next to the stinky fish market and is covered in seagull poo. Doesn’t sound too romantic to me.

Do I have to lie to Eddie? I mean, I’ve kept her secret about the notes. (OK, I sort of told Carmelita, but she pinkie-promised.) I haven’t even blabbed to Will, and look how I’ve suffered for that!

‘Actually, it’s good everyone thinks it’s you that Jake’s interested in. It’s a good cover for us.’

HEY! HANG ON A MINUTE! All my humiliation on FacePlace and in the Bugle means nothing to Tilly? She just thinks I’m a ‘good cover’, like, what? A knitted blanket?

‘I’m giving you these sandals, for services rendered,’ she says and hands me what I know are her most-prized shoes.

Wow! I’ve always loved these bronze sandals with the gold jewels on them. Funny how the standard currency between us is footwear. (I’m remembering the night when I wrecked that silver pair straggling through the park looking for Bianca last year. I barely survived with my life after that.)

‘So the thing you have to do is distract Mum when I go out the door, because Jake’s going to park a little way up the street and I don’t want her to see it’s not Eddie’s car.’

These shoes really are gorgeous, I might get a bag to—

‘ELLY, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?’

I am, I am. OK, I get it. Distract Mum. Sheesh! No need to yell at me.

Then Tilly pushes me down the hallway to where Mum is in the kitchen. She’s opening a bottle of wine.

‘Bye,’ Tilly calls, then twirls out the door.

‘Say “hello” to Eddie for me and you be back at midnight, please,’ calls Mum after her.

Hah! Since when did Tilly ever take notice of any curfew Mum put on her? Especially when she turned eighteen and became nocturnal. But I do what I’m told so Mum can’t look out the window. I ask her to come up to my room and peruse the new pig Carmelita gave me. (Pretty pathetic effort at distraction. I’m never getting a job in espionage.)

‘Not now, Elly. I’m tired. I’ll have a look later. I’m going to watch some television. Are you going to sit with me?’

I have a quick peek through the curtains and it looks like the coast is clear, so phew.

Mum comes into the room with her glass of wine and for the next few minutes we are hunting for the remote, which seems to just turn up and then vanish again on a whim.

What is it with remotes? Where do they go? We’ve turned over all the cushions, the cat and the dog and are just about to pull the couch out from the wall to have a proper search when my mobile rings.

It’s Tilly.

‘Elly, I forgot my evening bag. It’s the red quilted one. Can you go get it and bring it to me? We’ll be parked just a bit up the street in Jake’s limo. Just come and throw it in the window.’

Groan. I tell Mum that Tilly’s left her bag behind and that I’ll be back in a few minutes. At least I hope that’s all it will take. If she hasn’t left the bag on top of the pile of rubbish in her room, by the time I hire the earthmoving equipment and start excavating, I could be days.

Mum hardly looks up. Now she’s on her hands and knees searching under the bookcase and swearing a lot.

So I have the bag in my hand and I’m running up Buckingham Street looking for a ‘limo’. Should be fairly easy to spot around this part of town. Where is it? It’s hard to see because it’s getting dark but the streetlights haven’t come on yet. Oh, I think that’s it up ahead, that sleek-looking black car. It’s not quite what I was imagining. When Bianca hired a limo for her birthday it was white with flashing disco lights and about a block long.

I can’t believe I’m going out of the house looking like this, especially since Jake Blake will see me. I’m just in a ratty pair of jeans, an old T-shirt with ‘Hug Bunny’ written on it and some scuzzy flat shoes. My hair is a mess and I’ve got it caught with a hideous old plastic hairclip of Mum’s.

So there’s the car and—

KAPOW! FLASH! KAPOW! FLASH! WHIRR! FLASH!

OW, MY EYES! I can’t see where I’m going and I put my hand up to shield my face from the blinding light. I stumble off the path and into the gutter.

FLASH! WHIRR FLASH! FLASH!

YOW! I can’t see a thing!

OMG! I’m being photographed! Someone’s jumped out from behind a fence with a camera. I’m being ambushed by . . . it’s got to be the paparazzi! AAARGH!

Then the door of the limo swings open and Jake is yelling: ‘GET IN, GET IN, GET IN!’

I launch myself into the back seat and right on top of Tilly, who’s curled up just below the height of the window.

‘OW! You’ve got your elbow in my eye!’ she screeches.

Jake leans across both of us and slams the door and the car speeds off. The force of the acceleration throws me forward into the back of the front seat.

It’s mayhem in here. The three of us are tangled up. We are all trying to sort out our arms and legs. I realise I’ve bumped my head on the top of the door and I can feel it’s already starting to swell. Ouch!

‘Lose that guy! LOSE him,’ Jake shouts at the driver. A screeching turn throws me off the seat again. This is like a Hollywood action movie. And I don’t like action movies. I hate watching car chases on the screen. Actually being in one is even worse.

In a minute we are in a dark side street and the car turns again and comes to a dead stop in someone’s driveway, at least I think that’s where we are. Jake looks out the back window.

‘It’s OK. We’ve lost him,’ he says, breathing heavily.

‘Phew! That was close,’ says Tilly as she sits up and smooths her hair.

CLOSE? Is she a nut case? I JUST GOT PAPPED. That was probably someone from the Bugle. Which means the pictures will be in the paper!

‘Don’t worry,’ Jake says with a sort of laugh. ‘It’s not like anyone is going to think we’re really having a scene. You’re the same age as my little sister. What are you, like, fourteen? If anyone asks I’ll just say you were showing me the sights.’

On a Saturday night? At 8.30 p.m.? And I’m not fourteen! I’m nearly sixteen!

AND LOOK WHAT I’M WEARING!

The story will have the headline: JAKE BLAKE DATES BAG LADY.

I can’t help myself; I start to sniffle and I tell them I want to go home. Right now. This is a nightmare.

‘We can go up the laneway and drop her off at the back gate,’ says Tilly. ‘And then we’ll keep going.’

‘Cool,’ says Jake and puts his arm around Tilly. He puts his sunglasses on. What a jerk!

When the car stops in the back lane, Tilly almost pushes me out the door.

‘And keep this to yourself. Or else,’ she hisses in my face.

Mum hears me burst in through the back door.

‘Elly. Is that you? What took you so long?’

I stand in the lounge-room doorway, crying and rubbing my head.

‘Oh. My. God . . . What happened to you? You look like you got mugged or something. What happened? Why are you crying?’

I can’t help it. It all comes pouring out. I tell Mum everything. About the notes. How Tilly and Jake are on a date. Where they’ve gone. Everything.

Nan says to keep a secret unless it’s life-threatening, but this is. If Mum sees that picture in the paper of me near Jake’s car she will murder me, and I wouldn’t blame her. It will look bad, no matter what Jake says. He might be used to living with this kind of publicity, but I’m not.

Tilly’s gone too far this time. She’s just using me and it’s not fair. I should not have got myself involved in this stupid love story in the first place. Look at Romeo and Juliet. Practically everyone ended up dead.

Mum is stunned for a minute. Just stunned. I can tell she doesn’t know what to do first.

At this moment, Dad walks in the door, smelling of fish. So that’s where he’s been. He always goes fishing after he and Mum have a fight.

Mum, of course, tells him everything in a flash.

‘What’ll we do, Rick? Should we ring her? I tell you, I do not trust that boy. You know all the bad stories I’ve heard about him. That’s why he always has a minder. Elly’s been caught up in it and now Tilly.’

Bad stories? What bad stories? Mum tells me nothing.

‘Get in the car, Libby,’ Dad says tersely. ‘Get in the car, now.’

I haven’t exactly been invited, but I get in the car too. They can’t leave me out of this now.

Dad is slowly driving past the fishing boats, houseboats and huge motor cruisers moored at South Britannia marina and flashing a torch out the window.

It’s a moonless night and the circle of light swoops over snow-white sails and gleaming steel rigging clink-clanking against the masts. Then the beam moves down to inky-black water reflected in an oily sheen.

I hate it here. Lucky we can’t see the fish guts and seagull crap, but I can still smell them. Gross.

We’ve been searching for half an hour now for a yacht or a boat where Tilly might be having her private dinner for two. There are all these little walkways everywhere that are roped off and we can’t get past.

The wind has just begun to blow. The southerly buster is finally here and I hear a rumble of thunder far off.

Dad is looking for the biggest, flashiest boat that might have its lights on. Maybe it’s right down there at the very end of the marina, past these boom gates. Mum and I are craning our necks looking too. There are hundreds of boats here and Tilly could be on any one of them.

Then I see her. In the distance. My sister Matilda is walking barefoot down the boardwalk, carrying her red glitter shoes in one hand and she’s crying.

What could have happened?

Dad accelerates towards her, reaches back, flings open the car door and says: ‘Get in.’

It’s the third time I’ve heard that tonight.

Tilly falls into the car and, between sobs, tells us a sorry tale.

There are six girls on that boat tonight with Jake, she tells us. I can see the one she means now, about a hundred metres up ahead. It’s probably the biggest one here. Looks like all the lights are on and I can hear the ‘doof, doof ’ of loud dance music even with the windows wound up.

It sure wasn’t the romantic evening Tilly had been expecting.

Gigi Cantona is on board with about five of the models from Glossy.

And there are some older men on that boat too, she says.

Some looked like bodyguards or something and one was that comedian from Show Us Yer Jokes. The tall, fuzzy-haired one.

‘He was so drunk,’ says Tilly. ‘And he was mixing all these full-on cocktails for Jake and telling disgusting jokes to all the girls—’ ‘Jake’s seventeen,’ Mum interrupts. ‘He’s not allowed to drink alcohol.’

‘—then he tried to kiss me and got mad when I pushed him off. He’s disgusting.’

I thought that boy was funny. Not anymore, I don’t.

‘Was Kaz there?’ Mum asks.

‘Who? Who’s Kaz?’ Tilly echoes.

‘An older woman, thin, mid-length black hair, probably dressed in leather.’

‘No. No one like that.’

‘Jake’s minder. He must have gone out without her. She will be furious. Absolutely furious.’

Mum whips out her mobile phone, quickly punches in a number and starts yabbering, telling the snapper turtle woman everything. Even from the back seat I can hear her New York accent yelling from the other end of the phone. She’s mad alright.

‘She’s coming fast as she can.’ Mum is breathing fast. ‘She wants us to stay put until she gets here.’

‘Right,’ says Dad. ‘You’re the boss. Although I wouldn’t mind going up there myself and . . .’

‘Richard! Stay exactly where you are,’ warns Mum.

So we’re sitting there in the car with Tilly snivelling and no one saying a thing to her – ‘awkward’ doesn’t even come close – when suddenly a car comes barrelling past us. It stops in front of the boom gates with a screech of brakes. Up ahead is the boat Tilly’s just come from.

Out jumps a photographer and he’s screwing a long lens onto his camera as he runs. Next out of the car, you guessed it, is the reporter from the Bugle. That woman with the crazy hair. She’s running too, her topknot bobbing.

‘Sheree Hooper. I KNEW she’d find out,’ Mum says and slaps the dashboard with both hands. ‘One of those models on that boat would have her on speed dial. Probably Gigi. Wouldn’t they just love to see a story in the paper about them partying with Jake Blake, along with a few photos?’

‘That would have been them out the front of our place too,’ says Dad. ‘How did they know to come to Buckingham Street?’

‘Might have followed the car from the hotel or got a tip-off from the limo company about where Jake was headed,’ says Mum. ‘You would not believe the gossip network when there’s a star about. Everyone notices. Nothing’s secret in this town.’

‘Really?’ says Dad. And then he goes quiet.

I’m wondering whether he’s thinking that Mum knows about him going out with Julie Jessop. Mum hasn’t said anything. If she does know he was out with Julie and hasn’t said anything . . . funny, but it reminds me of when Nan left that note for Pop.

‘I’m going to have a word with that Sheree Hooper.’ Mum pole-vaults from the car, lands and marches down the boardwalk. Well, as much as you can march in a pair of orange velour slippers. I think she’s forgotten she’s still wearing them.

‘Look at that woman go.’ Dad shakes his head in admiration. ‘I wouldn’t like to be Miss Hooper when your mother catches up with her.’

I wouldn’t be so sure. This is probably the biggest scoop an entertainment reporter has ever come across in all of the 130 years the Britannia Bugle has been in print. Sheree won’t be giving up that scoop in a hurry.

‘Mum won’t be able to fix it. It will all be in the newspaper.’ Tilly says out loud what I wouldn’t dare say.

Sure enough, Dad gives her a blast.

‘As for you, Matilda Pickering, you’re an IDIOT!’ he turns and shouts from the driver’s seat.

‘Not only have you lied to your mother and sneaked around behind her back, putting her job in jeopardy, but what about Eddie? Last time I heard, he was your BOYFRIEND. Where’s your loyalty? You’d better hope your mother sorts this out and YOUR name doesn’t end up in the newspaper, because if I was Eddie I’d drop you like a hot rock back into the swamp you came from!’

As expected, Tilly howls again.

‘You can stop that pathetic crying. AND you owe your sister an apology for putting her in the middle of this ridiculous fantasy. You’re not in a Hollywood romantic comedy. All your secrets and intrigues are not in any way amusing. You’re hurting people’s feelings with your stupid behaviour.

‘GET REAL! What’s got into you? Have you got rats in your brain?’

Tilly gulps and is silent.

Dad turns back to the scene up ahead and to my utter amazement, Sheree Hooper and the photographer climb back in their car and drive away slowly with Mum watching them go.

We haven’t seen Jake or any of the people on the boat stick their heads up, so there can’t be much of a story . . . or any photos.

‘Would you look at that! Attagirl,’ Dad cheers and bangs the steering wheel with his fists. ‘GO, Libby Pickering!’

The next thing, a car with the windows blacked out pelts up the road, under the boom gates and stops near Mum. Kaz (Darth Vader’s lesser-known first cousin) springs from the car, dressed from head to toe in black and wearing thigh-high studded boots. She has a brief talk with Mum, then she shakes Mum’s hand and sprints across the concrete, climbs over a railing, and up and onto the boat.

Now Mum is shuffling back to the car in her slippers. She gets into the front seat, sighs and says: ‘Time we all went home, I think.’

On the drive back to the Palace, it’s so quiet we may as well be riding in a hearse.

What I’m wondering is, what on earth could Mum have said to convince the team from the Bugle to go home?

Does that mean my picture will be in the paper?

Or not?

Sunday.

January 18.

I wake up early from a dream where I was being attacked by seagulls as if I was a bucket of hot chips. It was very stressful.

I reach for my mobile and check out my dream app and this is what it says:

‘To see seagulls in your dream indicates a desire to get away from your problems or the demands of your waking life. The dream may also be a pun on “see go” and indicate that there is something you need to let go.’

Tell me about it. I have to go and see Will today and . . . I suddenly remember that I’m probably on the front page of the newspaper and scramble out of bed to have a look.

The dreaded thing is lying on the kitchen bench.

There is nothing in the Sunday Bugle.

I frantically search Every. Single. Page. Nothing.

My face is not there. Tilly’s not there. Jake isn’t even there.

The only story is about a girl who says she served him at Palatial Pizzas (he likes marinara topping with extra anchovies and a thin and crispy crust, we’re told) and says she’s never going to wash her hands again. (Yuck!)

And that’s about the usual level of celebrity reporting we have come to expect from the Bugle. Poor Sheree Hooper has been done out of the best story of her life. How did Mum pull off that one?

And why is she suddenly vacuuming the lounge room like a demon at 8 a.m. on a Sunday? She normally sleeps until at least nine. What’s she up to?

Next she’s ripping all the covers off the cushions and then she tears past me into the laundry yelling: ‘TILLY! Get out of bed!’

I follow my mother and she’s in a demented frenzy. The washing machine is on full bore and now she’s heading for the bathroom with an armful of cleaning products.

‘ELLY! You start scrubbing the bath and I’ll do the sink.’

What’s going on?

‘The newspapers and the TV cameras will be here this afternoon. They’ll be coming inside the house, so get to it. TILLY! TILLY! RICK!’

The media? Coming inside our house? What’s she on about? Didn’t she just get rid of them?

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Just get scrubbing that bath. When you’ve done that, start on vacuuming the hallway! NOW!’

Wha . . .?

And then she races out of the room screeching: ‘RICK! There’s a list on the kitchen bench and I need you to get down to the supermarket. Get going! MATILDA! Start cleaning your room.’

Huh? She’s kidding, right? As if she’ll get Tilly to do that. Then I hear Mum banging on her door.

THUMP! THUMP!

‘GET UP RIGHT NOW. I MEAN IT. I AM YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE!!’

Yikes! I shut the bathroom door and start scrubbing.

Mum is on the warpath this morning and no one’s safe. What on earth is going on? Why is the media going to be taking pictures of our sink?

When Tilly gets up she stumbles into the bathroom looking like she’s been dug up in a quarry and kicks me out. I’m standing waiting outside the door when Mum sees I am doing nothing and screeches at me again.

‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING JUST STANDING THERE? COME AND UNPACK THIS DISHWASHER, WASH THE KITCHEN FLOOR AND GET THE WASHING IN OFF THE LINE. GET YOUR BOTTOM INTO GEAR, YOUNG LADY.’

Yikes again! I get down to the kitchen and there’s Mum, already going at the benches with a bottle of industrial-strength bleach that’s making her eyes water.

Soon enough Tilly and I are both staring at her like she’s lost it.

Like, I mean, lah-de-dah.

Off with the pixies.

‘What’s going on?’ asks Tilly. Good question, brainiac. I already asked and the reply I got made no sense at all.

Mum stops what she’s doing for a moment and it all comes out in between puffs. She’s either out of breath or she’s gassed herself with that bleach.

‘I need the house to be spotless because Sheree Hooper—’

Sheree Hooper? The pest from the Bugle? She’s no better than a stalker.

Mum rolls her eyes. ‘The “stalker” as you call her, Eleanor, is a member of the media. The people I have been dealing with daily – no, make that every five minutes – for days now. Without them there will be no hit movie and I will be out of a job. No one will ever hire me again.’

Mum’s eyes are bulging. Really popping out of her head. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this angry. It’s almost like she could evaporate us both with her high-voltage Death Stare.

‘I TOLD YOU to stay away from Jake, didn’t I? WELL, DIDN’T I?’

We both nod and look at the floor. Yes, she did.

‘Well, now . . . Guess what? You’ll both get your wish to be up close and personal with Jake, because he’s coming here. To our house.’

JAKE BLAKE IS COMING TO THE PALACE? NO!

‘Yes. He’s coming for a barbecue this afternoon. Sheree Hooper is bringing a photographer. I have said she can report on and photograph anyone and anything in this entire house.’

Just next to me Tilly lurches sideways and falls back against the fridge, sending magnets clattering on the tiled floor.

‘I’m sorry, Matilda, but that’s the deal I had to make to get you both out of this ridiculous situation you put yourselves in. Sheree gets an exclusive feature article. Never-before-seen photos . . . and some of them will be of you. And I told her Eddie would be here too, so you’d better hop to it.’

Huh? I have to ask. Why would Sheree Hooper give up the best, most scandalous story she has EVER had for a few soppy snaps of Jake at our house?

‘Let’s just say she was made an offer she couldn’t refuse,’ says Mum. ‘Won’t she be happy to have exclusive access to Jake when he comes back to Australia for the movie premiere?’

How will she do that? No one will give her an exclusive. She’s from the crappy Britannia Bugle!

‘Maybe she is right now, but watch out for our Sheree Hooper. She’ll be popping up on the Channel Eight news sometime soon.’

Really?

‘I’m not quite sure how it’s happened myself, but everyone knows everyone in the entertainment business. Festive Films is a very influential company and they do not like any scandal whatsoever about their stars. Anyway, Sheree just scored a job as a roving entertainment reporter for Channel Eight.

‘Today I’ve given her an “access all areas” pass to our home and that means your bedroom too, Matilda.’

Tilly makes a small noise like when our guinea pig, Pippa, used to get the door of her hutch closed on her teeny furry foot.

Still, Mum hasn’t finished. She’s now at the bench again, sloshing some disinfectant around that has a pine tree on the bottle and makes our kitchen smell like a railway station toilet.

‘AND,’ she says . . . slosh, glug . . . ‘I have also allowed in a camera crew from Channel Eight who will be driving from Sydney with all their gear and coming to this house. They will be setting up their lights in this kitchen and at exactly 6.30 p.m. they will be doing a live cross for How Was Your Weekend? ’

Hey! Wow! How Was Your Weekend? is my favourite TV show. I watch it every Sunday night. Everyone watches . . . UH OH!

‘Exactly,’ says Mum, and I swear she is enjoying torturing us like this. ‘It will be seen right across the country. Jake Blake will be front and centre and you will both be standing next to him.

‘Any more questions?’

I turn to Tilly who, like me, has her mouth hanging open and we do an impersonation of the new freeway tunnel at West Britannia.

That’s all we need to know. We both make for the exits.

‘We’d better have a talk. I can come over if you like,’ says Will.

I tell him, no. I’ll come and see him. Not only would we not be able to hear each other over the sound of Dad cleaning the back deck with a high-pressure water hose, but Mum would soon have Will licking clean the inside of the wheelie bins.

Wonder if Jake knows he’s coming to visit an intensive care unit. It’s so clean in this house, that’s what it feels like. All except for Tilly’s room, and as I walk past her door I can hear her sobbing. I shouldn’t feel sorry for her, but I do. It must have been awful to find everyone on the boat. Jake’s horrible to lead her on like that. It’s something Joey would never do in Monster Class.

Mum is arranging more and more vases of flowers. Yes, this house is starting to look like a hospital, alright. I tell her I have to go out for a bit.

‘Don’t be long,’ she gripes. ‘I want you back here by three so you can get started on making some salads.’

MORE coleslaw, I suppose. I swear I’m never eating the rancid stuff again after this summer.

Up on Winchester Headland it’s perfectly still. It’s a beautiful, warm afternoon. Not too hot, just a gorgeous day. I’ve decided to take the walk along the shore to the end of the beach where Will’s place is and I suppose that it’s the last time I’ll walk this way along Hammerhead to see him.

There are tons of people on the sand and in the water, but no surf. It’s flat and calm and, oddly, that’s how I feel.

Am I doing the right thing? I’m sure I am, but that’s not going to make it any easier. How will I tell him? We have had the most brilliant time together, Will and I.

We have hung out at this beach together on the most boiling days when the sand was like lava and we had to walk on our towels to stop our feet from blistering.

We’ve been here together to watch the full moon rise and shine a silvery path across the sea to where we sat. We were sure that pathway was made just for us.

We watched, holding hands, as huge banks of black and purple clouds swept in from the horizon, the wind urging them forward and the sand stirred into a stinging madness.

And we have been here at dawn to catch the sun turning the edge of the ocean gold and then to a precious silver as it rose and warmed our upturned faces.

But now, I can’t explain exactly why, I’d like to do all that by myself.

With just me for company.

I’d like to hold my own hand for a bit.

It’s like . . . With the silhouette of Will always up close and in my eye – his tall frame and mop of ringlets – I can’t quite see past him to what comes next.

Halfway up the path to his house, I spot Will on the veranda sitting on the old green wooden bench where we have spent so much time together. He’s got his long legs stretched out and has his arms crossed over his chest, head down, thinking, like he always is.

I pause in the wild and lovely garden in front of the pottery shrine dedicated to Amathaunta, ancient goddess of the ocean. Jasmine’s decorated it with shells and there’s a little vase there, so I find a sprig of bright pink bougainvillea and leave it as an offering.

Today I ask the goddess to bear me up and stop me from sinking to the bottom. I ask for the tides to wash in and out and keep my heart light and sparkling.

Will glances up, sees me and smiles only a half smile. He looks sad today. I perch myself on one end of the bench, not next to him or with his arm around me, as I’ve always done. He sighs very deeply and it’s as if the world is sitting there on his chest.

‘I’ve been thinking, Elly,’ he says, not looking up at me. ‘We’ve been with each other a year now and you know that I love you. I really do, but . . .’

Then he finally does catch my eyes and I can see his have tears in them. My heart tumbles and is caught in a rolling wave.

‘I’ve been thinking about us a lot in the past couple of days. This is hard to say, but I think we should just be by ourselves for a while. I don’t think I can do another year of having the responsibility of a girlfriend. Sometimes I just want to take off and go and I’m always thinking: “I have to tell Elly where I am” or “I’d better ring her.” Sometimes I’m out there in the surf and I think: “I better go back in, Elly will be waiting for me” . . . and . . .’

His chin drops to his chest and his arms fall by his side.

‘I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.’

I can’t think of what to say. I just stay quiet as my heart is dumped in the sand and then picked up and swept out to sea again.

‘Do you mind?’ he says. ‘There isn’t another girl. I don’t think there is another girl in the whole world like you. Maybe there never will be . . . but for now can we be just really good friends?’

I take his hand in mine and tell him that it’s fine. It’s OK. It’s alright. But then I can’t help crying too.

‘Sweet,’ he sniffs and squeezes my hand, but I tear it out of his grasp.

And then I run.

I tear off my shorts and top as I go and dive into the water.

I swim out to meet the Goddess of the Ocean, towards the horizon where the sea meets the sky, trying not to fall off the edge of the world.

When Carmelita barges into The Dungeon at about 5 p.m., back from her Auntie Isabella’s, her eyes are as big as a possum’s.

‘What is going on out there? There’s a big truck from Channel Eight in the street with a satellite dish on top and power cords running up the path and two blokes setting up lights and a camera in your kitchen and . . .’

I tell her: Not only that, but right now in our very bathroom, Megan Harrison is putting hot rollers in her hair.

‘Megan Harrison. You mean from How Was Your Weekend? She’s in your bathroom? NOOOOO!’

I nod. I love teasing Carmelita. And sure enough, her hands fly up to her mouth and she starts hopping from foot to foot and bouncing on the blow-up mattress wanting to know all the details.

I tell her everything that happened and of course she just can’t believe it.

‘What a rat. That Jake Blake. What a low-life! Still, he’s coming for a barbecue . . . that’s amazing, and it’s going to be on TV? Everyone in Oldcastle will go off their brains!’

Carmelita says I should put it all on FacePlace right now, but I think I’d rather surprise everyone. This should give them something to think about.

Which reminds me, I think I’ll ring Rosie and ask her over. She would just love to be here.

Then I tell Carmelita about Will.

‘Are you alright?’ she asks, her huge brown eyes searching mine for any sign of sadness.

Funnily enough, I am. I’m fine. I remember last year when I thought Will was seeing another girl and I cried and cried. Never thought I’d stop. But this time, it’s so different from that.

‘You are being so brave,’ says Carmelita. ‘But the fact that he got in first says something, don’t you think?’

It does. It’s funny to think that just a few weeks ago Will and I were in love with each other and, now we’re not. It’s like we were both thinking the same thing at the same time. I feel strange more than anything. Maybe I’m in some sort of delayed shock.

I’ve taken a few of Will’s pictures down from the wall already . . . although not all of them. I wonder who will replace him there one day. I just wonder. And you know, the not-knowing is kind of exciting. I don’t think I can picture Tyler there . . . but, we’ll see, won’t we?

Carmelita hugs me and then, all of a sudden, her entire body goes stiff and she screams in my ear: ‘EEEEK! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO WEAR?’

When Carmelita and I finally emerge from The Dungeon and go down to the kitchen, it’s in chaos. This is really weird. It’s like the Palace is now a film set too.

Out on the back deck my very own father is chatting with Megan Harrison (who is every bit as gorgeous as she is on TV. Although, again, she’s a lot tinier that I thought she’d be). Dad’s wearing his favourite stupid barbecue apron which has ‘tongs for the memories’ printed on it. Oh my dear lord. He’s not going to wear that on national television, surely?

Still, Megan’s nodding and laughing. My father certainly seems to be able to charm these TV types. How he does it is all a bit of a mystery to me.

In the kitchen Mum is still fussing about, only she looks like she’s off to a cocktail party rather than just having a barbecue at home. She’s wearing one of her vintage floral dresses and even high heels as she checks on some potatoes in the oven. She’s got a pair of pink oven mitts on. Never seen them before. Dad must have bought them down at the shop especially for the occasion. Truly, she looks like she’s come straight off the cover of one of Nan’s 1950s cookbooks.

In the lounge room, Tilly and Eddie (!) are perched on the couch and talking to that Sheree Hooper woman. (She’s in my own home. Grrr.) A snapper from the Bugle is taking photos of them. No doubt Tilly is going on about how much she lurvs Eddie. I wonder if she’ll ever tell him about her little adventure with Jake. I wouldn’t think so.

Carmelita and I are wearing just casual stuff – jeans and nice tops – but we have so much make-up on that if we smile our faces will crack and crumble. But hey! It’s television, people.

There’s a knock at the front door and when I answer it, Rosie is here.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, Elly!’ she raves and thrusts a bunch of flowers at me. (Unfortunately I can’t imagine where I’m going to put them – I don’t think there’s a spare vase in the house.) I have to say Rosie looks great. She’s done her hair in that way I showed her and it looks really pretty, she’s wearing a white shirt and a short black skirt and I adore her shoes. They’re pink flats with blue ankle straps. Loving them.

‘Thanks for thinking of me. This is brilliant. I can’t believe it. Jake Blake! He’s SO gorgeous. He’s SO lovely. Oh, I’m SO nervous,’ she chatters away.

I won’t tell Rosie anything about what happened, of course. I’ll just let her keep her fantasy about Jake. Let’s just say I’m getting better at choosing which secrets are best kept.

So Rosie, Carmelita and I are hanging in the kitchen and checking out the wall clock every five minutes when Mum comes barrelling down the hallway with her mobile to her ear. It’s now about 6.30 p.m. and we’re going live after the Channel Eight news.

‘HE’S HERE. HE’S HERE. HE’S HERE,’ she yells at everyone and then flings herself at the front door. We all crowd after her. Sheree Hooper abandons Tilly and Eddie mid-sentence and she and the snapper bring up the rear of the welcoming party.

‘You girls, step back, please,’ says Mum. So we shuffle back a bit, but not so far back we miss any of the action.

‘Sheree, are you all ready to go? Is your photographer in place? Good. You get all the pictures you need, and then we’ll do the live cross for How Was Your Weekend? ’ That’s Mum taking charge, being, as she says, ‘professional’.

She opens the front door and there stands Jake with a bouquet of flowers almost as big as him. (Did I mention he’s not very tall?)

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Pickering. Thanks so much for the invitation,’ he says with a broad, cheesy smile.

KAPOW! FLASH! KAPOW! FLASH! WHIRR! FLASH!

Funnily enough, he doesn’t even blink. He just turns his face a little bit one way, no doubt so that the photographer can get his best side. Actually, both his sides are good. He might be a bit of a love rat, but my, my, that boy is handsome. Hollywood heart-throb handsome. He flicks his hair and bites his bottom lip.

Behind me Rosie and Carmelita both let out a huge, adoring sigh.

‘Hi everyone,’ says Megan Harrison to the camera. ‘Tonight I’m at the home of Elly and Tilly Pickering. They’ve got to be the luckiest sisters in Australia, because we’re here at their house in Oldcastle, Britannia and they’ve got a very special guest for the evening . . . none other than Jake Blake!’

‘Good-day,’ says Jake with a very cute smile and a wave.

‘Well, Jake, you could be in any five-star restaurant in the country, but I can smell the snags sizzling. What are you doing here at the Pickerings’ place? Right here in their kitchen?’

‘I know, smells great, doesn’t it?’ Jake dazzles the nation with a blinding smile. ‘It reminds me of the family cook-outs my mom and dad have every weekend back in LA. I was missing some home cooking, so the Pickerings invited me over and I’m ready for some Aussie barbie action.’

He waves a pair of tongs at the camera and Megan laughs on cue.

I’m standing by the bench. I can’t quite tell when the camera’s on me, but I just keep on smiling as hard as I can, even though I’m so nervous I might throw up in the sink.

‘How’s filming on Monster Class 3 coming along?’ Megan asks.

‘Well, we’re just about to start on the night shoot, so that’s exciting. I’m about to channel the old inner werewolf. Gotta love that! Everyone here has been so cool, especially the dudes from Oldcastle High, and playing opposite Gigi Cantona has been a blast . . . she’s got a real future in movies ahead of her.’

‘That’s all brilliant. OK, so, let’s eat.’ Megan beams. ‘What have we got here?’

The camera is aimed at a couple of dishes on the bench. One of them is my bowl of coleslaw.

‘Well, who would have thought I’d have to come Down Under to find the world’s best chicken wing marinade,’ Jake laughs. ‘It’s something you guys are experts at, right? And I’m in the home of the Marinade Master, Rick Pickering, so let’s get this lot on the barbeee. And Elly, you got the coleslaw there?’

I’m on. I’m on. I’m really on! Just smile, Elly, smile.

‘Elly’s been working in catering, which is always my favourite department on set, and has been making this coleslaw for all the cast and crew. It’s so great I have to kiss her.’

And, yes it’s true. Jake Blake kisses my cheek on national television.

‘I’m not sure what she does with her recipe, but it might even be better than my mom’s . . .’

‘So what makes your coleslaw so good, Elly?’

I say I can’t tell. Because it’s a secret.

WHAT A TOTALLY DUMB THING TO SAY!

Jake and Megan laugh. Thank goodness.

The camera and sound men then swing around in an expert manoeuvre and head in the direction of our deck. Behind them is Jake, then there’s Megan and me. I wish we could all detour for a moment and take some footage of Tilly’s room. It would make people living in natural disaster zones feel they weren’t alone.

When we step outside, everyone sitting around the table waves to the camera. It’s quite a rollcall: Mum, Dad, Tilly, Eddie, Carmelita, Rosie, and Nan’s popped over too.

Just off to the side, Kaz is lurking in the bushes like a ninja.

Megan talks to Dad first.

‘Well, Rick, Jake Blake says you’re the country’s Marinade Master – how does that make you feel?’

‘Very, very proud, Megan. I think it’s about time that we Aussie blokes were recognised on the world stage, or should I say, hotplate. All natural ingredients, nothing out of a bottle, not the way the Yanks make it—’

Jake interrupts him. ‘Hey, man, looks like we’re ready for a marinade smack-down!’

Then he and Dad pretend to have a sword fight with the tongs.

Everyone laughs a lot . . . a bit too much, in my opinion.

‘And Libby, how are you enjoying having Jake here with you tonight?’

‘He’s been just lovely. And he’s been helping me in the kitchen, doing some dishes – that’s one thing he could teach my husband.’

Everyone laughs again. Honestly, this is like some American sitcom. And I’m in it! Yipes.

‘And we have to talk to Nan too. What do you think of Jake?’

‘He’s a lovely young man, although I don’t think he needs to wear his sunglasses on top of his head. It’s almost dark.That looks a bit silly.’

Now that makes me laugh. Hahahaha!

‘And just before I hand back to you guys in the studio,’ says Megan. ‘There’s one person here I’m sure many of you have recognised: Eddie Menzies, captain of the famous Britannia Sovereigns.’

The cameraman and the sound guy loom over Eddie, who has been conveniently placed at the end of the table.

‘Eddie. How’s the day been?’ asks Megan.

‘Good. Been chucking the footy around the backyard for a while with Jake. I’d say as a footballer . . . he makes a very good surfer.’

Oooh, this is SUCH a lie, but again everyone laughs and Rosie even yells ‘WOOT’ and then turns the same shade as the beetroot salad.

‘Seriously, I’d like to say thanks to Jake and to everyone who brought this film to Britannia and Oldcastle – it’s really put us on the map. It’s great for local business here. So, you know, thanks, mate.’

Then he turns and looks adoringly at Tilly. The camera swivels in her direction and she tosses her hair like . . . a professional. (It must be in the genes.)

‘And Tilly, I know Eddie’s your boyfriend, but hey, Jake Blake! He’s just a little bit cute, isn’t he?’

‘Sorry?’ she says and puts on her best pout. The one that she knows the camera just loves. ‘Is there some other cute guy here? I hadn’t noticed.’

Then Jake makes a sad face, pulls his apron over his head, waves and snaps his tongs and does a sort of weird crab (!) impersonation. Everyone claps.

Well, that’s Jake Blake. What a humble, sweet guy. GAG!

‘Hah, hah, hah!’ laughs Megan. ‘Well, I think we’ll leave the Pickerings and Jake to enjoy the world’s best coleslaw and chicken wings . . . and a good old Aussie snag too. Over to you guys. Bye!’

‘And . . . We’re clear!’ announces the cameraman.

The lights are snapped out. It’s like we’ve been plunged into the darkness of a solar eclipse.

The ninja darts from the bushes and is at Jake’s side in a flash.

‘Gotta go. Car waiting,’ Kaz says to him and I watch his face fall as he slowly unties his apron.

In this moment I have to feel sorry for Jake. He would have had a great time here with all of us, just kicking back and laughing. He would really love talking to Nan, I’ll bet. Where will he go now? Back to his boring hotel room at the Crown and ordering room service for one.

Who’d want to be a movie star? Not me.

‘And thanks so much, Libby,’ Kaz says. ‘The way you’ve handled everything has been above and beyond. Truly appreciate it. Head office will be pumped.’

‘No problem at all,’ says Mum. This is the understatement of the century.

‘Don’t get up, folks, we’ll see ourselves out. Have a great night,’ says Kaz as she takes Jake by the arm and hustles him away.

We’re too stunned to even say ‘goodbye’. He was here for, like, less than half an hour and that was it.

Just as we’re all breathing out and starting to get some feeling back into our fingers and toes after all the excruciating tension, Mum says: ‘Now, Tilly, darling. Sheree and the photographer would like to finish their interview. Can they get some photographs of you in your room?’

Tilly looks truly homicidal.

I think this could be my favourite moment of the entire day. I’m starting to appreciate Miss Sheree Hooper.

Carmelita, Rosie and I just can’t resist heading for The Dungeon and checking out FacePlace and my mirror. The reaction has been instantaneous.

Wow! That was amazing! How cool is Elly’s dad?

ALL HAIL THE MARINADE MASTER!

Love that lipstick u wearing, Elly, what brand is that?

I saw Rosie Di Masi on TV. Way to go, Rosie!

Didn’t see Ponsford there. I thought she was Jake’s bestie?

I reckon Tilly Pickering was rude to Jake, didn’t u?

Nup. She was just being loyal to her man, what’s wrong with that?

Eddie Menzies is the best. GO SOVEREIGNS!

Jake Blake or Eddie Menzies. Huh? No contest. I LOVE Eddie. He would so put that Hollywood noob in a headlock.

Hey, Carmelita, big hello from everyone at macadamia nut central.

What’s your secret with the coleslaw, Elly? Everyone wants to know.

OMG! Imagine if Jake Blake came to my house? ♥ ♥

So that’s why he was kissing you, for your salad recipe?

Bad luck Elly. ROFL

This was the best. It’s so cool when movie stars are just real people. Jake did ur dishes? Waaaay cool.

Where was Will? Didn’t see him there.

I hate you, Pickle-head !!!!!!!

That was so nice of your family, Elly. Jake must get lonely when he’s away from home. Send him to my house next.

LOL

Then Rosie’s phone rings. She puts her hand over the mouthpiece and tells us it’s Bianca. She puts it on speaker and Carmelita and I listen, careful not to make a sound.

Bianca: So, what’s the go?

Rosie: I’m having a barbecue at Elly’s place.

Bianca: Der! I saw that. You were on television, remember? Is Jake still there?

Rosie: I have to get back, everyone’s waiting for me.

Bianca: I reckon that whole thing was faked.

Rosie: No, it wasn’t. How could it have been? I’m here. You saw I’m here and so was Jake.

Bianca: So he’s left already? Thought so. You should have told me he was going to be there. You’re supposed to be my best friend.

Rosie: Look, Bianca. Like I said, I have to get back, so thanks for ringing.

Bianca: Smelly rigged the whole thing, just to try and make everyone jealous.

Rosie: It’s all real. Sometimes you have to believe in stuff, Bianca.

Bianca: Yeah, that’s what my dad always used to say. Then he left.

Rosie: You know how sorry I am that happened, but the worst thing would be that you want everyone to be as unhappy as you are. You should think about that.

Bianca: And you should think about being my friend. Because as of now, you aren’t.

Rosie: Goodnight, Bia—

And then Bianca hangs up.

None of us knows quite what to say.

I’m sure we did not know anyone could be so sad and unkind, and it’s like the bad fairy in Sleeping Beauty who’s not invited to the party and casts a bad spell over everyone.

For the rest of the night we keep one eye out in case Ponsford’s pile of yellow hair appears over the fence like a Halloween moon.

Monday.

January 19.

‘I’ve decided that for this last week of filming you can be my assistant, Elly,’ says Mum as she pings off the walls of the Palace getting ready for work.

Now this is a strange thing, because last night I dreamed I was sitting down to eat a big slice of cake and drinking a glass of milk in Rosie’s catering van.

I looked it up immediately on the dream app and found two things:

Milk: ‘This is a very propitious dream for women. To dream of milk in large quantities signifies riches and health. It also denotes human kindness, wholesomeness and compassion. It can also represent a requirement for simplicity and a return to basic ideas and knowledge.’

Cake: ‘The dream may represent your accomplishments and achievements. Consider also the metaphor “piece of cake”, or some situation that is easy. To dream of cakes means that you will have good fortune in your undertakings.’

If Mum had asked me, even days ago, what I’d like most of all, I would have said that it was being her assistant.

Now, I want to keep working with Rosie. Not only because she makes me laugh and we have the best times pelting each other with potato peel and soggy sponges, but also because it feels like we are doing real, useful work.

We’re the ones who keep this whole movie going, I reckon. And without us . . . well, don’t even think about it!

And there are another couple of reasons I want to keep my job in the catering van.

The money’s really good, a LOT better than I thought it would be, and I know Mum will expect me to work for free, or she will just pay my phone bills with my wages and I’ll never get to see a single note. (I have earrings, handbags, candles and stuff to buy!!)

But more than that, the rest of this week will be a walk in the park compared to what I was doing before. From today I’m on late afternoon shift in the van because they’re filming at night. I don’t have to start until three o’clock; then we only have to get dinner ready and we finish at 8 p.m. Just five hours and I’m out of there.

SO that means I can go to the beach or to the mall and start enjoying my summer holiday. Carmelita’s not needed during the day either. At last! Me, Rosie and Carmelita. The three of us just hanging out together. Yahoo!

This is the last chance we will have for some fun because it’s the full moon on Friday night and that’s the night the filming is going to finish. There will be a massive afterparty too.

And the next morning Carmelita’s going home. I HATE the sound of that sentence.

I Just. Hate. It.

So, I tell my mother, no thank you very much, I’d like to keep perfecting my coleslaw skills. Maybe I’ll even sell my own range of dressings. The Pickering Collection: For an award—winning salad . . . that sounds pretty good.

‘Well, have a wonderful day, darling, and I’ll see you two girls later,’ says Mum, who seems to have a smile on her face for once, even though her phone is vibrating like a Mexican jumping bean. Ay Caramba!

And that reminds me, Tyler texted and asked me to go to the poetry slam tomorrow night and I better start working on something. Yep, I’m going to get up there and perform. Why not?

There are about a million reasons why not, but I try not to think about them. I’ve promised myself to start doing more daring things in my life, now Will and I are not together, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Will and I are not together! How does that feel?

I do a mental check and listen to my heartbeat. Actually, it feels just about right.

Working in the catering van in the afternoon is hard work. It’s even hotter inside after the sun has been beating down on it all day long.

Still, I don’t mind so much, because we three had an amazing day together. We went to the mall and I bought some candles (one coconut and lime and the other vanilla) at Cathedral Candles and then I did a massive raid on Tiara with the money I’ve earned. Two new tops, three pairs of earrings and a new necklace and I have stacks left over for my phone bill.

The other thing that’s made it great is that people have been dropping by all afternoon to say they saw Rosie and me on How Was Your Weekend?

Remember when Rosie said we should make the catering van THE place to be? It sure is now. Everyone who walks past waves at us. It’s like we’re the celebrities around here instead of Jake Blake.

Although I catch a glimpse of myself in the side of the toaster and remember that I do look like a mushroom. Oh well, at least I’m a famous fungus. Hah!

Carmelita drops by to say hello.

‘Bianca is being totally ignored,’ she tells us. ‘Word got around that she took that picture of you and Jake down the oval and put it on FacePlace and everyone thinks that sucks.’

Then Rosie says: ‘I feel sorry for—’

‘DON’T,’ yells Carmelita. ‘It was only last night that she was being horrible to you. Let her suffer for a bit.’

I have to agree. Just a few more days and I won’t have to hear her name again until school starts.

School! Erk. I’m going to really make the rest of my summer holidays rock!

For the rest of the night while I’m serving and doing the dishes I have a poem starting to form in my head. Maybe I’ll write it down when I get home.

Tuesday.

January 20.

OMG! I can’t believe I ever said I would get up and perform at this poetry slam. Why did I agree to do it? I should never have asked to leave DiMasi’s van early.

The reading room at the Britannia Library is packed out. Almost every space is taken up on the floor and there are chairs even back in between the book stacks. There must be a hundred people here!

I wish Carmelita could have come, but all the extras are doing a big dance scene tonight.

The trip over in Tilly’s bomb of a car didn’t help calm my nerves. My sister drives like a nut case. Like she’s being pursued by the police. I was gripping the seatbelt as if my life depended on it (which it did) and keeping a lookout for flashing lights and sirens.

I couldn’t believe it when she offered to bring me here. She said she had the night off from the Earl Bistro, but she must have some other motive. Maybe there’s another boy she’s got her eye on. I’d like to think it’s remorse for all the stuff she put me through with the notes and everything. I dunno, maybe it is. You never know with Tilly. She’s secretive. A bandicoot.

‘Calm down, you’ll be fine, El,’ she says as we walk in the door. ‘I can already tell there’s no competition here, kiddo. You’ll blitz it.’

(She is totally lying here. She hasn’t even seen the competition and whenever I read my poetry to Mum and Dad at home she looks totally bored and rolls her eyes. Still, I’m going to just enjoy her being nice to me for once.) Tyler sees me, waves and makes his way through the crowd. He’s free tonight too. So maybe after this we can go out together. Just us.

‘Is that him? Oooh, he’s pretty cute,’ mutters Tilly.

OK, so here we go again . . .

‘Or he would be if he lost the weird clothes, got a decent pair of glasses and a haircut.’

Honestly, would you want to be Matilda Pickering’s boyfriend? I sure wouldn’t. She’s so bossy.

‘Hey, Elly. Great to see you,’ says Tyler and kisses me on the cheek.

‘I’m her sister. My name is Matilda. I’m driving her home tonight, straight after this,’ says Tilly, barging in front of me.

Whaaa . . .?

‘Er, OK, sure. Pleased to meet you, Matilda,’ Tyler replies and I can tell he’s a bit surprised that I have a bodyguard with me. So am I, to tell the truth.

‘I saved some seats for us, over there,’ Tyler points.

As he heads off and I go to follow, Tilly squeezes my upper arm, bends down and whispers: ‘He’s an actor, remember? Do not trust any of them. That’s why I’m here. To protect you.

‘And if that idiot comedian with the frizzy hair and the face like a busted pineapple is here – the one who tried to suck my face – I’m going to punch him. So if we get chucked out, I’m apologising in advance.’

Well, that’s just great then. So Tilly’s actually here to find that comedian and smash him. That’s made me feel nice and relaxed. I scan the crowd and there are lots of people here around my age, with their parents I’m guessing, and quite a lot who are older than me, but thankfully no one that looks remotely like a busted pineapple.

We head over to where Tyler is now sitting with someone who must be his friend, Jazzy. She’s wearing a polka-dot dress and, weirdly enough, an aeroplane pilot’s hat with two plaits sticking out from under it that end in white ribbons. She smiles at me with cherry-red lips.

‘What a kook!’ Tilly mutters.

You have to remember that my sister studies chemistry. She’s hardly what you’d call the ‘arty’ type. I don’t think she’s ever been to a play in her entire life, apart from some puppets that came to Queen Elizabeth Public School when she was in Year Six and the end-of-year concerts at Oldcastle High. The only thing she did that was even a teeny bit creative was paint the sets.

She plonks herself right in between me and Tyler. So that’s that then. No chance of any hand-holding tonight. I mean, even if I did want to hold his hand. And I kind of do, but . . .

The lights go down and there is a spotlight on a small stage. You would not believe who steps up. It’s Mr York, my English teacher! Wow! He’s grown a moustache over the holidays (or is that a caterpillar that’s crawled onto his face?) and he’s wearing a T-shirt and cargo pants. He looks almost cool. Or at least somewhere in the car park of cool.

The crowd bursts into applause and a man calls out: ‘Go Gary! Love you!’

Mr York laughs and blows a kiss to . . . MR BATTENBURG! My multimedia teacher. I suddenly realise they’re gay. They’re partners. Of course they are! Why didn’t I ever notice this before? Too busy sitting on the beach putting conditioner in my hair, probably. Wow! The things you see when you come in from out of the sun.

The whole crowd laughs, then cheers and claps. I clap too. Like mad.

‘We’re here this evening for the second heat of the Urban World Teen Poetry Slam,’ announces Mr York. ‘Heats are taking place all over the country right now and, as you probably know, first prize for the national winner is a ticket to New York for the grand final.’

More cheers.

‘Now I don’t see any reason why someone from Britannia couldn’t represent this country and then take out the title, can you?’

Everyone in the library shouts: ‘NO!’

‘That’s what I thought. So, my friends, let’s get slammin’. Your judges for tonight are . . .’

I barely hear a word of this, because my legs have turned to jelly. No way am I good enough to even be on this stage tonight, let alone win anything. I’ve never, ever done this before. Am I an idiot? Why am I going to do this?

Although I did dream last night of lighted candles and when I looked up the dream app it said: ‘To see candles burning with a clear and steady flame denotes the constancy of those about you and a well-grounded fortune.’

I lean back and look at Tyler behind Tilly’s back and he stretches his arm out to me and smiles. I reach out too. Then Tilly sits back smartly and crushes both of our hands. What are we? Twelve? Busted for trying to pass a note in class? Oops, that’s right, I forgot, it was Tilly who got busted. Not me.

Anyway, it’s best this way. Like I said, I’m not ready for a new romance right now.

Everyone who gets up on that stage is brilliant, I reckon. I mean, really amazing, just for getting up there. I could try to describe it, but it has just gone by in a blur. How can the slammers make you feel all that they do when they only get two minutes each to perform?

Sometimes I was laughing my head off and then, a second later, I was crying. Even when there were a couple of people who weren’t that good, the crowd just poured love on them and that made me cry again.

Tilly has had her hand on my leg the whole time and hasn’t let go except to clap.

‘And now, please welcome a first-time performer here at the slam. She is a wonderful girl, a lovely writer, and I know that because I have the absolute pleasure of being her teacher at Oldcastle High. Please, everyone, welcome Eleanor Pickering, who is going to perform for us.’

If I live to be one hundred years old I will never, ever be able to tell you what happened out there on that stage. I remember the lights were hot and bright. I remember seeing a few upturned faces down the front and that . . . is . . . all.

I don’t know what my hands did, or what my legs did or what my face did. I only know that people clapped a lot when I finished and I don’t know how I got back to my chair. I think I stood on some grandma’s foot and said ‘sorry’. But I might not have.

But anyway, here’s the poem I performed and I only know it’s what I said because I have a copy of it in my bag. It’s one of my favourites.

‘What-Ology’ by Elly Pickering

Here’s an apology for my mythology

I’m not how you’d like me to be.

You tell me I’m pretty,

You tell me I’m nice,

It’s just how we should be: all sugar and spice.

But that’s your pathology, not my ideology.

That ‘girl’ stuff is just a device.

Here’s an apology for my anthology.

Read into me all that you’d like.

Tell me I’m clever,

Tell me I’m wise,

You can see what I’m thinking by the look in my eyes.

But that’s just biology, a pretty poor-ology,

I keep secrets. Sometimes I tell lies.

Here’s an apology for my seismology.

You know that I rattle and hum.

Tell me to settle,

Tell me to calm,

Use my wide smile to flirt and to charm.

But that’s just geology, not my cardiology,

’Cause sometimes my heart’s an alarm.

Here’s an apology for my chronology.

I don’t run according to time.

Tell me to grow up,

Tell me to stop,

Tell me to live by the hands of the clock.

But that’s just technology, a very weird-ology.

You don’t have the key to my lock.

I won’t make an apology for my genealogy.

Just one of me, that’s all that there is.

I’ll take your advice,

I’ll listen well,

And when the time’s ready I’ll ring my own bell!

Don’t study my psychology, try Eleanor-ology

’Cause, I’m unique – me – in every cell.

‘ELLY! How did you do that? No really, HOW did you do that? Oh, oh, oh! Listen, everyone’s cheering for you. You are the best! I love you so much, Elly. You are the best girl, the smartest in the world!’

That’s what Tilly said to me.

She squeezed me so hard that I couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t matter because I’d forgotten how.

‘She WON! Mum! Dad! Elly WON!’ Tilly falls in the front door shouting. She’s dragging me behind her.

‘Wha . . . She did?’ Dad jumps up from his favourite armchair and I can tell he’s been having a bit of a snooze in front of the telly. He takes a moment to get us into focus.

‘You won, ma belle? You really won? You won the poetry thingo?’ He grabs me in a bear hug and lifts me right off the ground.

OOOF! Dad, put me down. You’re crushing my ribs.

‘Gee, Tilly, I wish you’d have let me come and watch her in action.’

‘Well, I couldn’t let you, because it was supposed to be a sort of a date.’

‘With Will? I didn’t think he liked poetry. He only likes surfing, doesn’t he?’

‘She’s not going out with Will anymore, Dad. Keep up.’

‘Really, since when?’

‘Since Sunday.’

‘She isn’t going out with Will anymore?’

‘No. She dumped him.’

‘Well, if that’s what she wanted, that’s alright. Probably a good thing. He was always a bit rude, that boy. So who was the date with, then?’

‘She got asked out by some actor.’

‘Not another bloody actor!’

‘That’s what I said. So I got her straight in the car and brought her home.’

‘Good thing, too.’

‘He’s too nutty for Elly. Anyway, she doesn’t need a boyfriend right now. She needs to concentrate and get on with her writing. I reckon she should start on a poetry collection, or a novel. She’ll be famous one day, Dad.’

‘I reckon you’re right, love. Nothing surer.’

HELLO! I AM STANDING RIGHT HERE IN FRONT OF YOU. WOULD YOU STOP TALKING ABOUT ME AS IF I AM IN BUENOS AIRES?????

They both pause for a moment, look at me, and then just keep on talking.

‘Where’s Mum?’ asks Tilly.

‘Still at work, poor thing, and look at the time. It’s half-past ten. She’s working like a dog. Still, just a couple of nights to go and then she’s finished, and we’ll get her back with us.’

‘Yeah,’ says Tilly. ‘Poor Mum, she’s doing a good job, isn’t she, Dad?’

‘She’s showing them, alright! They could have got anyone to do that job, but they chose your mother and she’s done us all proud. In fact, all the Pickering women do a man proud! Who’s for some pancakes and ice-cream?’

Yeah! That’s more like it.

I wake up later in The Dungeon and Carmelita is sleeping. I didn’t even hear her come in. She sighs, rolls over and the air mattress lets out a teeny fart. Or was that Carmelita? Heh.

I lie there in the dark for what seems a very long time. I know I’ll be dreaming about that poetry slam. So why don’t I check out what dreaming about poetry means now instead of in the middle of the night?

‘To see or read poetry in your dream signifies inspiration and idealistic notions. It also suggests that you need to improve your lines of communication with someone.’

There are a few people that prediction could be about.

I might think about them tomorrow.

For now I’m just going to lie here and think about me, and only me. And what it would be like to be a poet and fly to New York City.

Friday.

January 23.

It’s the final night of filming for Monster Class 3 at ‘Back Beach’ High. It’s the last time all the extras will be here. After tonight, this location gets packed up and will be reincarnated as dreary Oldcastle.

All the film crew will slink away when the sun rises – just like vampires avoiding the deadly daylight.

The assembly hall is decorated for the big Halloween Ball scene with skeletons, spider webs and bats hanging everywhere. When the lighting technicians throw the switch, the place looks incredibly spooky.

Finally. Finally I’m seeing the magic. It really is much more amazing when they’re shooting at night. Sometimes it gets really creepy, and makes me shiver, even though I know it’s all fake.

And this is even before they do the close-up stuff on a sound stage in Sydney and then send the footage back to America to add all the special effects and music.

Monster Class 3 has to be the best one yet, because we all helped make it.

Everyone’s tense. No joking around tonight. The crew are all working against the clock and I’ve seen the director kicking a wall a couple of times and punching a ghost balloon.

I swear I saw that Kaz woman rise out of a coffin and yell: ‘JAKE’S STILL IN MAKE-UP. FIVE MORE MINUTES ALREADY. SOMEBODY GET THE GUY A CUP O’ CAWFEE!’

Even though we could have gone home at eight o’clock, for the last two nights Rosie and I have hung around on the set until 1 a.m. Mum is here on stand-by and has let us go anywhere we want: into wardrobe, even into make-up where Jake spends three hours being transformed into a werewolf. We also watched a camera crew doing some filming as the full moon rose over the gum trees near the tennis courts.

And, what a moon! As big and round as you ever saw. There was some smoke in the air from a bushfire over in the state forest that made the moon look like a massive orange pumpkin.

I’ll never forget this time, ever.

The whole of the school grounds have been lit up like the annual Easter Show at Commonwealth Oval. They’ve had to call in the police to control traffic, there are that many people who’ve come from all over Britannia trying to geek at what’s going on.

Not that anyone can see much from the road. There was a giant traffic jam outside the school gates last night and it wasn’t too long before an ice-cream truck and a kebab stand set up for business.

Gigi Cantona went out there to sign autographs last night and practically started a riot. The police told her off and warned her not to come out again. Mum had to handle all that with the media because Gigi got photographed being sniffed by a police dog. She ran away and it chased her.

Rosie and I laughed a lot over that one.

(BTW, I found out how Cantona dies in the movie. She’s a harpy, right – a horrible creature with the body of a woman and the claws and wings of a giant budgie – and she gets her head ripped off by Cerberus, the three-headed dog of the underworld. I mean, what a coincidence.)

Julie Jessop got killed off two nights ago. That was hilarious! She is playing a witch who poisons the punch at the ball. Some of it spills on her and she dissolves in a steaming, noxious fog, or at least that’s what I’m told it will look like when they do all the final special effects.

What Rosie and I saw was Julie screaming like a maniac and the director yelling at her and telling her to do it over and over again until she finally started sobbing and lost her voice. The director didn’t look very happy. Don’t suppose we’ll be seeing Julie Jessop in another big-time film anytime soon.

How fun is this?

Rosie and I have been watching everything. It’s a shame it has to all end tonight, or then again maybe not. We’re both getting really exhausted.

We’ve managed to get together with Carmelita for another session on the beach during the day. But really, we’ve all been so tired that the most we’ve been able to do is lie there on the sand like washed-up clumps of seaweed and pass the bottle of water between us.

It’s about 9 p.m. now and all the extras are sitting outside the canteen in the dark, ready for the big scene.

That’s where Carmelita is. Rosie and I went to say hello a little while ago and we didn’t even recognise her at first. Her face is painted deathly white, her neck glistening with fake blood, and her hair is teased up on her head into a mass of pitch-black curls. She’s wearing this magnificent flamenco dress – all black ruffles and crimson gore.

She told us she’s supposed to look like a Spanish vampire and that she’s going to be in a few close-up shots, right next to Jake. No wonder. She looks fantastic. Olé !

We couldn’t see Ponsford at first. Then Carmelita pointed her out.

Whoops! Poor old Bianca. What happened there?

She’s a zombie.

She’s bald except for a few strands of hair hanging down, in a filthy nurse’s uniform and wearing a surgical mask over most of her face. She didn’t look very happy. Not that you could really tell in that revolting disguise.

Hey, what can you say?

Not much when you’re laughing so hard.

It’s easy to say you could be an actor too, until you see what it is they do.

Rosie and I are standing back in the shadows, just beyond the lights, and now know why Jake Blake is one of the best actors in the world. ‘The leading light of his generation. ’That’s what the mags and the TV shows and all his fellow actors say.

For the past hour he has been playing the same scene over and over again. Caught halfway between werewolf and teen, covered in hair and dripping with blood, he is clawing at his shirt and emitting a bloodcurdling howl until Rosie and I are clutching at each other and almost cannot bear to look.

How can he go on? He must be about to collapse.

It must be twenty times that the director has said: ‘Cut! Can we go again, please? Stand by, Jake. Thank you. Stand by.’

Then people rush at him with make-up and water bottles.

And he has not complained. Not once.

Every time the director calls ‘CUT’ it’s something different.

The lights aren’t right; someone in the background moves at the wrong time; a piece of the set falls down; something gets stuck in the lens; someone looks at the camera; the camera track wobbles; a balloon bursts and everyone gets a fright; a cockroach flies through the window, into the light and causes a crazy shadow; someone has a coughing fit . . .

‘CUT!’ the director calls again and everyone groans with frustration. What is it this time? It’s almost midnight. At this rate we’ll all be dead. Or undead. Whatever. Just kill us now.

‘Get rid of the zombie in the nurse’s uniform,’ I overhear the director mutter to the assistant director. ‘I do not know whether it is a male or a female, but whatever it is, it is RUINING this scene. I’ve had to start over FIVE times now because of that zombie.’

The assistant director goes over to Bianca and points to the back of the room.

Bianca bursts into tears and flees from the hall. Everyone watches her go.

Rosie, of course, goes running after her.

Let her. My feet are stuck to the floor. I’m not going anywhere right now.

‘And . . . ACTION!’ the director calls again.

It’s hard to believe, but this time Jake is even more terrifying than the last. His screams of agony are chilling. Everyone in the hall gasps and takes a step back, for real.

That has to be the one. It’s got to be.

‘Wait, everyone. Do not move a muscle. Let’s check that,’ the director cautions.

There is an agonising minute when no one dares breathe . . .

‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a WRAP! Congratulations to everyone! Well done. Marvellous, just marvellous. Thank you, one and all.’

There is a round of spontaneous clapping and cheering that rings up to the roof.

It’s done. It’s finished. I can hardly believe it. Time to party!

Which means that I have to get to work.

It’s 1 a.m. and it feels like this celebration has just started. Most of the kids from Oldcastle High are still in costume and we’re all in the hall in the middle of the Halloween set, so it’s kind of surreal.

There must be about three hundred people here, including the kids, their parents and all the cast and crew. The noise is deafening. Everyone’s yakking their heads off, and in such a good mood.

Rosie and I are passing along dozens of platters of food, which are coming out of the catering van at an incredible rate to an army of waiters in white aprons who scurry off with them. They’re offering cartons of prawn noodles; curries; satay sticks; trays of oysters. Everything looks delicious. Mary and Max have been slaving for hours. They’re such hard workers. No wonder Rosie is so proud of them.

After about another half-hour it looks like the food preparation is finished and Rosie and I can get back inside the hall and join the party. Wahoo!

There’s Mum and Dad! And Tilly and Eddie! They’re all enjoying a glass of wine, so I grab a fruit punch and go to join them. I turn around and bump into Tyler, who’s got out of his ghoul costume, but his face is still painted like a skeleton . . . wearing glasses. Ay Caramba! He looks utterly weird.

We’ve had a couple of conversations on the phone. He told me he was thrilled I won the poetry slam, but he’s been so busy we haven’t been able to catch up in person.

‘Elly!’ he shouts over the noise. ‘Guess what? I got another part in a movie with Jake. I’m going to Hollywood!’

I knew that would happen. I just knew it. Tyler’s really talented.

I tell him that I’m so happy for him and that I bet his chocolate brownies will be the best in LA. I thank him for encouraging me to perform my poetry. I’m going to do lots more slams, I’ve decided.

‘You will, because you’re going to New York. When you’re there, maybe we can catch up somewhere in the middle of the USA – meet you in North Dakota!’

Yep, he’s an odd one.

‘I’m not going to kiss you,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to find out what I could be missing.’ He smiles. ‘You’re such an amazing girl . . . maybe one day . . .’

I just laugh. I know those long-distance romances never work out. That’s what I was trying to tell Tilly about Jake.

Tyler will be the one that got away, but like Nan says: ‘Plenty more fish in the sea.’

(Except there won’t be if people don’t stop over-fishing.)

Hey, there’s another good slam poetry idea, right there, about the boyfriend who got caught in a Taiwanese fishing net.

I can see now that the world is full of ideas for poetry. I just can’t stop thinking of stuff to write about.

We hug and and say ‘see you later’. And Tyler disappears off into the crowd.

Then there’s a tap on my shoulder and it’s Kaz, in midnight black, of course, but without her headset or phone in her hand for once.

‘Hey, I wanted to give you this as a “thanks”. I know you had a hard time there with Jake and I probably yelled at you a lot. You’ve been so great. Appreciate it. Thanks for the coffee, girl, and thanks for not blabbing.’

Kaz noticed me? I never knew that.

I unwrap a piece of tissue paper and inside is a thin cord ankle bracelet with a tiny silver skull on it. Uh huh. Every time I look at it, I’ll think of her.

She gives me a bony hug and then pushes off through the crowd.

‘HEY, EVERYONE!’ TWAAAANG! The whole crowd goes ‘OWWWW’ and we turn to the stage at the front of the hall. They must be using the school PA. It always goes bung and hurts everyone’s ears.

It’s the director. He gives a speech that goes on for a bit as he thanks the crew and everyone who made the Monster Class 3 shoot ‘such an amazing success’. There are gifts for lots of people. Huge amounts of clapping. Then it’s . . . ‘And someone else we can’t thank enough is Libby Pickering. Come on up, Libby!’

I tunnel my way through everyone until I am standing next to Dad, who is on his tiptoes and craning his neck for a better view. He sees me and wraps his big arms around me.

‘Well,’ says the director into the microphone, ‘we really did take a chance on Libby. When our plans fell through with a much bigger public relations company, we decided to go local and we just could not have made a better choice. Libby, you have been truly professional, always gracious and calm, and, really, we can’t thank you enough. So from all of us, good luck for the future and it would be my pleasure to work with you again, anytime.’

He hands over a massive bottle of champagne and some flowers and Mum steps to the microphone. Honestly, it’s like the Academy Awards tonight.

‘Thank you, everyone, for giving me a chance,’ says Mum. ‘I’ve learned so much from everyone and you have all been so kind. Most of all, I’d like to thank my wonderful family who have been so supportive of me. Guess what, Rick, Tilly and Elly? Mum’s coming home!’

Well, the crowd just goes wild and I have tears streaming down my face. Dad can’t speak; he is completely gone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy.

The last on stage is Jake Blake.

‘I want to thank everyone here at Oldcastle High—’

Jake has to stop here because he gets drowned out by the cheering and a chant of ‘JAKE BLAKE! JAKE BLAKE! JAKE BLAKE!’

‘Hah hah! You guys are the coolest and the best monster class . . . EVER!! Goodnight and see ya. Hope you enjoy the movie.’

Then out of the shadows steps . . . our school band! They’re all dressed in Halloween costumes and they launch into ‘Time Warp’ from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Everyone, even the mums and dads (who know all the words), ‘jumps to the left’ and the place is ROCKIN’.

I think the roof just lifted right off!

I push my way right down the front and start dancing like a maniac. Carmelita is in her flamenco dress; Rosie’s still in her apron and . . . there’s Bianca. She’s out of her zombie gear and her hair is newly restored. She’s teased it up and it looks like a humungous mango soufflé!

What can you say about Bianca? She looks at me and I see her eyes are puffy, from crying, I guess.

I should be so mad at her. But for some reason, I just can’t be.

Maybe it’s because I feel sorry for her now that I know everything about her mum and dad.

Maybe it’s because the best part of me knows that everyone deserves another chance.

Maybe it’s because I’m so happy tonight that I just can’t let anything ruin the moment.

When the sun comes up, there’s all the time in the world for me to try to make it better between us.

Bianca reaches out to take my hand and . . . What the hey!

Tonight I’m friends with everyone in this world . . . And the underworld.

Let’s just dance.

It’s close to 3 a.m. and we are all waiting by Dad’s car in the school car park. We’re about the last to leave and I wish Dad would hurry up. He’s talking to Tilly and Eddie and some security guard near the back door of the hall.

My feet are killing me. Carmelita is holding her flamenco dress in a bundle in front of her.

‘This thing weighs a ton,’ she moans. ‘It’s like pushing a wheelbarrow full of bricks.’

I’m dreaming of The Dungeon. Pul-eeze. Let’s get going. I want to be in bed right this instant.

Dad comes back to the car, huffing and puffing.

‘Tilly! Bloody stupid girl. Apparently she kicked that comedian bloke right where it hurts. Eddie’s trying to help her explain her way out of it.’

‘She’s got a lot of explaining to do,’ says Mum.

Carmelita and I look at each other with raised eyebrows. She sure has.

When we are finally all in the car, Dad starts fishing in the glovebox. What for? Come on! Let’s get moving.

‘This is for you, love,’ he says to Mum. ‘Just a little something to help you remember that we are all just so proud of you.’

Mum holds up the gold locket to the car’s interior light.

‘Oh, Rick, it’s beautiful.’

‘Have a look inside.’

‘Oh, it’s you and . . . Julie Jessop! Ugh! Gee, that woman was a pain. I’ve gone right off her.’

‘Really?’ says Dad. He sounds so disappointed.

But then Mum leans her head on his shoulder.

‘Maybe I’ll just put a photo of you in there,’ she says. ‘Because you, my darling, my only one, will always be in my heart.’

And then they kiss like a couple of teenagers in a movie – tongues and everything – forgetting that we are in the back seat and trying to keep our curried prawn noodles down.

Saturday.

January 24.

The rest of the family is still sleeping when Carmelita’s Auntie Isabella comes to take her to the airport.

I’d like to think it’s because we’ve only had five hours sleep that we are so emotional, but I think we could sleep half our lives away and still cry buckets when we have to say goodbye.

We’ve made a promise that when Monster Class 3 comes to the Majestic Movieplex we’re going to walk together up that red carpet at the premiere.

This morning, instead, Carmelita walks down the broken concrete of our front path, climbs into the front seat of the car and, with a cheery toot, toot from her Auntie Isabella, she is gone.

I’m hoping that ‘toot, toot’ is just a little punctuation mark for us. That the story of our friendship goes on and on, forever.

I go back to bed.

And as I lie here in The Dungeon I try to think what I was dreaming about and . . . I can’t remember.

Maybe I won’t use that app to interpret my dreams anymore.

Maybe, from now on, I’ll make my own.

What’s the difference between a dream, a wish and a miracle?

I don’t know.

I’m going to write a poem about that.

I get out of bed.

I’m going to do it now.

Acknowledgements

It is a thrill to have the further trials and tribulations of Elly ‘pickle-face’ Pickering in print.

I thank Richard Walsh and all the team at Allen & Unwin for their stellar encouragement and support.

Also I thank my team at home (particularly Maeve) for being best friends with Elly. Sometimes the girl needs all the help she can get!

As do I, so I thank all my friends and family for their forbearance too as I spent time with all at Buckingham Palace.

Wendy XXXX

PRAISE FOR I LOST MY MOBILE AT THE MALL

‘Wendy Harmer’s first teen novel holds a mirror up to the trials and tribulations of technology.’ Courier Mail

‘With her keen comic eye, Harmer makes lots of funny observations about teen life in suburban Australia.’ Sunday Telegraph

‘Wendy Harmer has completely nailed the crazy world of teen angst, drama and hilarity in I Lost My Mobile at the Mall. The focus on friendship and love interests is real and emotionally satisfying.’ Australian Women Online

‘I Lost My Mobile at the Mall is fantastic, utterly believable story that has lots of laughs and surprising depth.’ girl.com.au

‘so interesting . . . so different. I have never really read a book before that connects with a teenage girl’s mind and life so well.’ Amber (6th grade student), Book Trends

‘a sparkling tale of a teenager in distress . . . I recommend this book to each and every teenager out there! Every one of us will be able to relate to the protagonist! This book is simply addictive.’ Bookaholics Oye!!

‘a romantic novel with drama and comedy. This book has to be rated at 10/10 and I recommend it for people aged 10 to 80 years . . . it will bring a smile to your face as you read it.’ Melanie (6th grade student), for Penrithstar.com.au

Table of Contents

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

DEDICATION

CONTENTS

SATURDAY MORNING. JANUARY 3.

SUNDAY NIGHT. JANUARY 4.

MONDAY MORNING. JANUARY 5.

WEDNESDAY. JANUARY 7.

FRIDAY. JANUARY 9.

SATURDAY. JANUARY 10.

SUNDAY. JANUARY 11.

MONDAY. JANUARY 12.

TUESDAY MORNING. JANUARY 13.

WEDNESDAY. JANUARY 14.

THURSDAY. JANUARY 15.

FRIDAY. JANUARY 16.

SATURDAY. JANUARY 17.

SUNDAY. JANUARY 18.

MONDAY. JANUARY 19.

TUESDAY. JANUARY 20.

FRIDAY. JANUARY 23.

SATURDAY. JANUARY 24.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS