Girls in Love

by Jacqueline Wilson

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Praise for the Girls Series

  Girls in Love

  Nine Dedication

  Nine Major resolutions

  One Girl

  Nine Heroes and Heroines

  Two Best Friends

  Nine Wishes

  Three Boyfriends

  Nine Thing i Hate About School

  Four in the Family

  Nine Dreams

  Five Alive

  Nine Parties

  Six Letters

  Nine Unexpected Odd Facts

  Seventh Heaven

  Nine Favourites

  Eight till Late

  Nine Most Embarrasing

  999

  Nine Romantis Couples

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781407043005

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  GIRLS IN LOVE

  A CORGI BOOK 978 0 552 55733 7

  First published in Great Britain by

  Doubleday an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

  A Random House Group Company

  Doubleday edition published 1997

  First Corgi edition published 1998

  This Corgi edition published 2007

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Jacqueline Wilson, 1997

  Illustrations copyright © Nick Sharratt, 1997

  The right of Jacqueline Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  The Random House Group Limited makes every effort to ensure that the papers used in its books are made from trees that have been legally sourced from well-managed and credibly certified forests. Our paper procurement policy can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/paper.htm

  Set in Bembo

  Corgi Books are published by Random House Children’s Books,

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  THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD

  It’s great when you have a best friend. It can be even better when you have two best friends. Ellie, Magda and Nadine are in Year Nine and they make a fantastic threesome. I invented them in the space of half an hour! I was staying at my daughter, Emma’s flat, and she was patiently teaching me how to use her computer. I am a total technophobe and a very slow learner. I found myself getting very upset and irritable as I struggled with her unfamiliar keyboard, making all sorts of silly mistakes.

  I decided to distract myself by making up a new story. I wanted to write about teenagers for a change. I typed Three girls on Emma’s computer. I thought about my first girl. I liked the name Ellie so I typed that too. I decided she would tell the story. I wanted her to be lively and creative and very good at art. I didn’t want her to be a super-girl with a fabulous figure and absolutely everything going for her. I decided she’d be an ordinary comfy girl size – so she’d worry a bit about getting fat. I gave her little round glasses and a lot of wild, curly dark hair. I liked her a lot.

  I felt that Ellie might have a weird, cool gothic girl as one of her friends. I found my fingers typing the name Nadine. She’d be into alternative music and wear black all the time and be much more daring than Ellie. She’d also be one of those irritating girls who could stuff Mars bars all day and still stay as thin as a pin.

  I wanted my third girl to be a bright, blonde, bubbly girl, full of fun. I called her Magda. I thought she’d be boy-mad, a little bit spoilt, but basically a great friend to Ellie and Nadine.

  There! I had my three girls sorted out by the time I’d typed a page. I found I’d mastered the new keyboard – and I was all set to start my story!

  There are four stories about Ellie, Magda and Nadine. The first is Girls in Love. Magda has a boyfriend, Nadine has a boyfriend – and Ellie wishes she has a boyfriend. She’s met a weird, geeky younger boy called Dan on holiday, so she says he’s her boyfriend, but she pretends he’s really this fantastic, gorgeous looking guy. Not a good idea . . .

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JACQUELINE WILSON is one of Britain’s most outstanding writers for young readers. She is the most borrowed author from British libraries and has sold over 25 million books in this country. As a child, she always wanted to be a writer and wrote her first ‘novel’ when she was nine, filling countless exercise books as she grew up. She started work at a publishing company and then went on to work as a journalist on Jackie magazine (which was named after her) before turning to writing fiction full-time.

  Jacqueline has been honoured with many of the UK’s top awards for children’s books, including the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award, the Smarties Prize, the Red House Book Award and the Children’s Book of the Year. She was awarded an OBE in 2002 and was the Children’s Laureate for 2005-2007.

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  NICK SHARRATT knew from an early age that he wanted to use his drawing skills as his career, so he went to Manchester Polytechnic to do an Art Foundation course. He followed this up with a BA (Hons) in Graphic Design at St. Martin’s School of Art in London from 1981–1984.

  Since graduating, Nick has been working full-time as an illustrator for children’s books, publishers and a wide range of magazines. His brilliant illustrations have brought to life many books, most notably the titles by Jacqueline Wilson.

  Nick also writes books as well as illustrating them.

  PRAISE FOR THE GIRLS SERIES:

  ‘This sequence . . . is far more believable and emotionally valid than other fiction of its ilk’

  Scotsman

  ‘Wilson has street cred and a sure touch for writing on contemporary subjects without patronising’

  Independent

  ‘The portrayal of the girls’ relationships and of their love lives is agonisingly accurate. No wonder girls cannot get enough of Jacqueline Wilson’

  Good Book Guide

  For Girls in Love:

  ‘An absolute must’ Daily Telegraph

  For Girls under Pressure:

  ‘As usual Wilson gets right inside her characters and their feelings, portraying them with understanding and sympathy . . . excellent and timely book’

  Kids Out Book of the Month

  For Girls out Late:

  ‘A surefire bestseller for everyone’ Bookseller

  For Girls in Tears:

  ‘An easy-going, humorous tale’ Publisher’s Weekly

  Stephanie Dummler and Year Nine Venus (1995), Coombe Girls School.

  Becky Heather and Year Nine Chestnut and Beech (1995), The Green School for Girls.
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  Jane Ingles and the pupils of Hillside School.

  Claire Drury and the pupils of Failsworth School – especially Jackelyn and Rachel.

  Sarah Greenacre and the pupils of the Stoke High School.

  De Reading and the pupils of St Benedict School.

  Angela Derby.

  Becki Hillman.

  To all the other schools who made me so welcome in 1995 and 1996.

  The first day back at school. I’m walking because I missed the bus. Not a good start. Year Nine. I wonder what it’ll be like.

  Number nine, number nine, number nine . . .

  It’s on that classic Beatles White album, the crazy mixed-up bit at the end. I’ve always felt close to John Lennon even though he died before I was born. I like him because he did all those crazy little drawings and he wore granny glasses and he was funny and he always just did his own thing. I do crazy little drawings and I wear granny glasses and my friends think I’m funny. I don’t get the opportunity to do my own thing though.

  It’s half past eight. If I was doing my own thing right now I’d be back in bed, curled up, fast asleep. John Lennon had lie-ins, didn’t he, when he and Yoko stayed in bed all day. They even gave interviews to journalists in bed. Cool.

  So, if I could do my own thing I’d sleep till midday. Then breakfast. Hot chocolate and doughnuts. I’ll listen to music and fool around in my sketchbook. Maybe watch a video. Then I’ll eat again. I’ll send out for a pizza. Though maybe I should stick to salads. I guess it would be easy to put on weight lying around in bed all day. I don’t want to end up looking like a beached whale.

  I’ll have a green salad. And green grapes. And what’s a green drink? There’s that liqueur I sipped round at Magda’s, crème de menthe. I can’t say I was that thrilled. It was a bit like drinking toothpaste. Forget the drink.

  I’ll phone Magda though, and Nadine, and we’ll have a long natter. And then . . .

  Well, it’ll be the evening now, so I’ll have a bath and wash my hair and change into . . . What should I wear in bed? Not my own teddy-bear nightie. Much too babyish. But I don’t fancy one of those slinky satin numbers. I know, I’ll wear a long white gown with embroidered roses all colours of the rainbow, and I’ll put a big flash ring on every finger and lie flat in my bed like Frida Kahlo. She’s another one of my heroes, this amazing South American artist with extraordinary eyebrows and earrings and flowers in her hair.

  OK, there I am, back in bed and looking beautiful. Then I hear the door opening. Footsteps. It’s my boyfriend coming to see me . . .

  The only trouble is I haven’t got a boyfriend. Well, I haven’t got a Frida Kahlo outfit or a bedside phone or my own television and video and my bed sags because my little brother Eggs uses it as a trampoline whenever I’m not around. I could put up with all these deprivations. I’d just like a boyfriend. Please.

  Just as I’m thinking this a beautiful blond boy with big brown eyes comes sauntering round a car parked partly on the pavement. He steps to one side to get out of my way, only I’ve stepped the same way. He steps to the other side. So do I! We look like we’re doing a crazy kind of two-step.

  ‘Oh. Whoops. Sorry!’ I stammer. I feel my face flooding scarlet.

  He stays cool, one eyebrow slightly raised. He doesn’t say anything but he smiles at me.

  He smiles at me!

  Then he walks neatly past while I dither, still in a daze.

  I look back over my shoulder. He’s looking back at me. He really is. Maybe . . . maybe he likes me. No, that’s mad. Why should this really incredible guy who must be at least eighteen think anything of a stupid schoolgirl who can’t even walk past him properly?

  He’s not looking up. He’s looking down. He’s looking at my legs! Oh, God, maybe my skirt really is too short. I turned it up myself last night. Anna said she’d shorten it for me, but I knew she’d only turn it up a centimetre or so. I wanted my skirt really short. Only I’m not that great at sewing. The hem went a bit bunchy. When I tried the skirt back on there suddenly seemed a very large amount of chubby pink leg on show.

  Anna didn’t say anything but I knew what she was thinking.

  Dad was more direct: ‘For God’s sake, Ellie, that skirt barely covers your knickers!’

  ‘Honestly!’ I said, sighing. ‘I thought you tried to be hip, Dad. Everyone wears their skirts this length.’

  It’s true. Magda’s skirt is even shorter. But her legs are long and lightly tanned. She’s always moaning about her legs, saying she hates the way the muscle sticks out at the back. She used to do ballet and tap, and she still does jazz dancing. She moans but she doesn’t mean it. She shows her legs off every chance she gets.

  Nadine’s skirts are short too. Her legs are never brown. They’re either black when she’s wearing her opaque tights or white when she has to go to school. Nadine can’t stand getting sun-tanned. She’s a very gothic girl with a vampire complexion. She’s very willowy as well as white. Short skirts look so much better with slender legs.

  It’s depressing when your two best friends in all the world are much thinner than you are. It’s even more depressing when your stepmother is thinner too. With positively model girl looks. Anna is only twenty-seven and she looks younger. When we go out together people think we’re sisters. Only we don’t look a bit alike. She’s so skinny and striking. I’m little and lumpy.

  I’m not exactly fat. Not really. It doesn’t help having such a round face. Well, I’m round all over. My tummy’s round and my bum is round. Even my stupid knees are round. Still, my chest is round too. Magda has to resort to a Wonderbra to get a proper cleavage and Nadine is utterly flat.

  I don’t mind my top. I just wish there was much less of my bottom. Oh, God, what must I look like from the back view? No wonder he’s staring.

  I scuttle round the corner, feeling such a fool. My legs have gone so wobbly it’s hard to walk. They look as if they’re blushing too. Look at them, pink as hams. Who am I kidding? Of course I’m fat. The waistband on my indecently short skirt is uncomfortably tight. I’ve got fatter this summer, I just know I have. Especially these last three terrible weeks at the cottage.

  It’s so unfair. Everyone else goes off on these really glamorous jaunts abroad. Magda went to Spain. Nadine went to America. I went to our damp dreary cottage in Wales. And it rained and it rained and it rained. I got so bored sitting around playing infantile games of Snap and Old Maid with Eggs and watching fuzzy telly on the black-and-white portable and tramping through a sea of mud in my wellies that I just ate all the time.

  Three meals a day, and at least thirty-three snacks. Mars bars and jelly beans and popcorn and tortilla chips and salt and vinegar crisps and Magnum ice-creams. Gobble gobble gobble, it’s no wonder that I wobble. Yuck, my knees are actually wobbling as I walk.

  I hate walking. I don’t see the point of going for a walk, lumbering along in this great big loop just to get back to where you’ve come from. We always do so much walking in Wales.

  Dad and Anna always stride ahead. Little Eggs leaps about like a loony. I slouch behind them, mud sucking at my wellies, and I think to myself: This is fun??? Why have a holiday cottage in Wales, of all places? Why can’t we have a holiday villa in Spain or a holiday apartment in New York? Magda and Nadine are so lucky. OK, Magda was on a package tour and they stayed in a high-rise hotel and Nadine was only in Orlando doing a Disney, but I bet they both had brilliant sunshine every day.

  In our little bit of Wales it’s always the rainy season. Black clouds are a permanent fixture, like the mountains. It even rains inside the cottage because Dad thinks he can fix the roof slates himself and he always makes a total botch of it. We have buckets and bowls and saucepans scattered all over upstairs, and day and night there’s this drip-tinkle-splosh symphony.

  I got so utterly fed up and depressed that when we paid the usual visit to this boring old ruined castle I felt like casting myself off the battlements. I leaned against the stone wall at the top, my heart still
banging away like crazy from the awful climb, and wondered what it would be like to leap over into thin air. Would anyone seriously care if I ended up going splat on the cobblestones below? Dad and Anna had a firm grip on Eggs but they didn’t make a grab at me, even when I leaned right over, my head dangling.

  They actually wandered off hand-in-hand with him, mumbling about Bailies and Boiling Oil. They are overdoing the involved-parent act. I doubt if Eggs can spell castle yet so he’s certainly not at the serious project stage. Dad never did all this stuff with me when I was little. He always seemed to be working or busy. When we went on holiday he went off sketching. But I didn’t care. I had Mum. Then.

  Thinking about Mum made me feel worse. People don’t expect me to remember her still. They’re mad. I can remember so much about her – heaps and heaps of stuff. The games we used to play with my Barbie dolls and the songs we’d sing and how she let me put on her make-up and try on all her jewellery and her pink silk petticoat and her high heels.

  I want to talk about her so much but whenever I try with Dad he goes all tense and quiet. He frowns as if he has a headache. He doesn’t want to remember Mum. Well, he’s got Anna now. And they’ve both got Eggs.

  I haven’t got anyone. I started to feel so miserable I mooched off by myself. I walked to the other side of the battlements and found a crumbling turret. The entrance was roped off, with a warning. I ducked under the rope and climbed up all these dank steps in the dark. Then I put my foot on a step that wasn’t there and tripped, banging my shin. It wasn’t really that painful but I found I was crying. You can’t really climb when you’re crying, so I sat down and sobbed.

  After a while I realized I didn’t have a tissue. My glasses were all wet and my nose was running. I wiped and sniffed as best I could. The stone steps were very cold and the damp spread through my jeans but I still sat there. I suppose I was waiting for Dad to come looking for me. I waited and I waited and I waited. And then I heard footsteps. I sat still, listening. Quick, light footsteps. Too light for Dad. Too quick for me to get out of the way in time. Someone tripped right over me and we both screamed.