Lottie Biggs is (Not) Desperate

by Hayley Long

  ‘OH … MY … GOD!’ said Goose. ‘I used to go out with him! I’VE SNOGGED HIM LOADS OF TIMES!’ In a whisper, she added, ‘Does that mean I’m bisexual?’

  I burst out laughing. For someone who is really clever, Goose can actually be incredibly stupid sometimes. ‘Don’t be daft,’ I said. ‘It’s not like a cold. You can’t catch it off him.’

  Goose went quiet for a moment and then she said, ‘I suppose that was a bit daft but it’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  Even though she could barely see me, I nodded sympathetically. ‘I know. I was a bit shocked too when he told me. But the more I think about it, the more it all seems to make sense really. I’m glad he told me.’

  There was another long pause and then I cleared my throat and said, ’Goose, can I ask you something?’

  Sure.

  ‘Have you done it with Spud?’ Even though we were protected by the privacy of my wardrobe, I decided to whisper this just in case my mum was sitting on the other side of the door with an undercover surveillance secret listening device. You can never be too careful. Not when your mum is a police sergeant in the South Wales Police.

  Goose said, ‘What? It?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  There was a silence. Then Goose said, ‘You mean the Grand Slam?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘The Full Monty?’ said Goose.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘The Humpty Dumpty?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  Then she went quiet for a moment.

  ‘No.’

  In the darkness, my mouth fell open with surprise. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ said Goose. ‘I don’t fancy that yet. Spud is really nice and everything but I’m not so desperate that I’m ready to give away my gold to him. He’s only sixteen. Anything could happen to him. What if he turns out to be a total numpty or something? I might regret it forever.’

  For someone who is incredibly stupid sometimes, Goose can be extremely wise. I frowned and then, in a slightly tetchy tone, I said, ‘But you let him give you a colossal great love bite.’

  Yeah,’ said Goose, ‘but I wasn’t too chuffed when I saw how blinking hideous it looked. He won’t be doing that again in a hurry because I told him he’ll get dumped if he does.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said and frowned again.

  ‘Have you done it?’ asked GoOSC

  I fiddled with the lace of my trainer and felt myself blush. Then I said, ‘No, but Gareth and I have discussed it and we’re probably going to do it on Tuesday when his parents are out line dancing.’

  ‘REALLY?’ said Goose. Even though it was dark, I could tell that Goose’s eyes had gone really wide because I could just about make out the white bits. She looked like this:

  After another pause, she said, ‘Do you want to?

  And this is where it gets totally weird. Because ever since I saw Gareth in those Britney Spears boxer shorts I’ve been unable to think of anything else EXCEPT wanting to, but all of a sudden, right then and there in the inner calm of my wardrobe, I wasn’t exactly sure any more if I actually did want to. I’m not desperate, you know.

  Goose must have noticed my silence because she said, ‘Gareth’s not putting pressure on you, is he?’

  ‘NO!’ I said. ‘NO WAY IS HE! In fact, it’s Gaz and his busy rugby schedule causing all the delay.’

  ‘But he does want to do it, doesn’t he?’ said Goose.

  ‘He’s fifteen and he’s male,’ I said. ‘Of course he does!’ And then, all of a sudden, my mouth dropped open in shock and a blinding light of revelation was abruptly switched on in my dull brain. It was just as if somebody had walloped me over the head with a sledgehammer. But before I could say anything more to Goose, I heard a noise outside. ‘Shh,’ I said. We both fell silent and listened as my bedroom door creaked open. Then we heard my mum say, ‘I’ve brought you up some tea and some …’ Her voice trailed off into silence.

  Goose giggled.

  ‘We’re in here,’ I said.

  ‘What? Both of you?’ said my mum.

  ‘Yep,’ I said.

  ‘Hi,’ shouted Goose.

  My mum made a huffy-puffy noise and I heard the sound of a tray being placed on my desk. ‘Suit yourselves,’ said my mum and then she went back downstairs.

  I pushed open the wardrobe door. ‘My mum’s brought us some cake,’ I said. I inched forward on my knees and then clambered out of the wardrobe. ‘Come on, Goose,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit too cramped in there for two of us.’

  Goose clambered out behind me and then, back in the real world, she blinked her eyes and frowned. ‘What’s happened to your hair?’ she asked.

  ‘Gareth’s mum did it,’ I said. ‘I’ve been working at her salon and she keeps trying things out on my hair.’

  Goose eyed my layered, textured and volumized hair suspiciously. ‘You’ll have to leave,’ she said.

  I nodded in agreement. ‘Don’t worry, I’m going to.’

  We sat on the floor of my bedroom eating cake. Goose waved at Winnie and said, ‘I haven’t actually even met your chinchilla yet. He looks a bit old.’

  ‘He’s ancient,’ I said proudly. ‘But he’s totally lush. I love him.’

  Goose looked at Winnie enviously. ‘I wish I had one.’

  I shrugged. ‘They’re terrible at night though. I haven’t had a decent night’s kip since I got him.’

  Goose put her cake down, confused. ‘Why don’t you just put his cage in another room?’

  I looked at Goose. Then I looked at Winnie. And then, almost unable to believe how colossally thick I’ve been, I said, ‘Oh yeah!’

  Goose said, ‘Hey, I nearly forgot. I’ve brought you a present. A sort of peace offering.’ She leaned over and reached for her bag. Then she pulled something out of it and handed it to me. It was a CD.

  I took it and looked at it. There was a hippy woman and a cat on the cover.

  I stared at the CD in disbelief and said, ‘Is this a joke?’

  Goose’s cheeks went purple. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I love that album! My dad plays it all the time. Did you know that Carole King’s Tapestry is the thirty-sixth greatest album ever made? Honestly, Lottie, you should listen to it. It’s got some really sweet songs on it.’

  I could tell my reaction had upset her a bit. Quickly, I said, ‘I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just that Gareth’s mum plays this all the time in the hair salon. But thank you.’

  Goose said, ‘I wanted to give you this because I’ve been feeling so bad about all those terrible things I said to you on the phone the other day – not to mention the catty comments we made to each other in English via that Oscar Wilde book.’

  I bit my lip. Me and Goose have been quite horrible to each other in English recently.

  Goose continued, ‘I think Oscar Wilde is a good writer and everything but I don’t necessarily think he’s as incredibly wise as Mr Wood thinks he is. I can imagine he might have been a bit annoying if you actually knew him.’ She tapped the CD which was still in my hand. ‘Whereas Carole King really knows what she’s talking about. There’s a song on here called ‘You’ve Got a Friend’. I wish I’d written that song – and I’d have written it for you.’ And then, with no warning whatsoever, she threw her arms around me and gave me a massive tight hug and I actually almost very nearly started to cry because I realized then that I am one of the luckiest fifteen-year-olds in Cardiff. If not the whole world.

  aND hOw Gareth stINGeCOmBe Gave me a QuICk POke whILe his PareNts were LINe DaNCING

  I am an astronaut surfing a wave on the Sea of Tranquillity. I have driven too fast down the motorway to Misery, sailed too far on the sinking ship to Stress and almost lost my head on the bullet train to Oblivion. But that’s all in the past. What really matters is now. And right now, I’m feeling utterly fantastic. Because I’ve kept my balance and surfed my way to the calmest coastline in the galaxy.

  And Gareth Stingecombe is waiting on the dust
y moon beach to meet me …

  Or rather, he’s not on the dusty moon beach, he’s in his house. And he’s opening the front door to me and standing to one side so I can come in from the street. And instead of a surfboard, I am carrying two portions of sausage and chips all wrapped up in newspaper. And instead of a spacesuit, Gareth is wearing his smartest jeans and a U2 T-shirt. I don’t really like U2 but he still looks sexadelic.

  ‘All right, Gaz?’ I say.

  ‘Pretty good,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve brought us sausage and chips,’ I say.

  ‘Cracking!’ he says. And then he looks apologetic and adds, ‘So my mum has messed your hair up again?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I say. I glance around the hallway and, ever so casually, I ask, ‘So your mum and dad have gone line dancing, have they?’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Gareth and he looks a bit embarrassed.

  I follow him through to the living room and we both perch on the edge of the big sofa and unwrap the parcels of food.

  Gareth Stingecombe is quieter than usual. He picks up the remote control and turns on the television. A programme about cooking appears on the screen and Gareth leaves it there and pretends that he’s watching it. I can tell he’s got something on his mind. I’ve got something on my mind too. Mostly it’s this:

  And in the very back of my head, I’ve also got this niggling feeling that I can be a bit selfish too at times.

  I stare down at my food and try to think of something to say which will make things easier. But nothing comes to me. Sighing, I spear my sausage with my white plastic fork and, nudging Gareth, I say, ‘It seemed a good idea at the time but I’m not really in the mood for a sausage now, Gaz.’

  Gareth stares at me and his cheeks go red. He looks at the sausage and then he looks at me and then, nervously, he clears his throat. ‘The thing is, Lottie,’ he says, ‘at the end of the day – looking at it from every available angle – when all is said and done – I just don’t think I’m ready.’ He goes even redder and stares down at the floor. ‘I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I really like you, Lottie, and I don’t want to mess things up by rushing into anything.’ And then he takes a deep breath and just shrugs.

  My cheeks have gone very red too. I know they have because they feel hot enough to fry a couple of eggs on. To be honest, I’m not really surprised by what Gareth has just said. At some point when I was in my wardrobe, I think I worked it out for myself. I suppose you could say that I’m finally learning how to see things from a different angle. Carefully, I put my chips on to the coffee table and then I bite my thumbnail for a moment. In a very small voice, I say, ‘Actually, I’m not ready either.’

  For a moment, Gareth stares at me in disbelief and then, slowly, a little smile starts to spread over his lovely face. Relief floods over me. In fact, I feel as relieved as the most relieved person in the whole of Relieved-Land. I give Gareth a little smile back and then, because I know I’ve been a bit of a numpty, I whisper the word, ‘Sorry.’

  Gareth’s smile breaks out into a big grin. I grin back at him. Then I remember something. I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper which I hand to him. Gareth’s forehead crumples in an expression of puzzlement and he takes the paper from me and reads it. It is the sonnet I wrote the other week when I wasn’t able to sleep. I hold my breath and cross my fingers, hoping desperately that he won’t think I’m a stalker. Finally, he says, ‘Do you know what? You rock my world, Lottie Biggs.’ And then he gives me a quick poke in the ribs. Not hard. Just friendly.

  And if I had a pause button which could freeze me forever at one specific moment in time, I’d have definitely pressed it right then. But I haven’t. So instead, I’m sitting in my bedroom and living the whole scene all over again in my head as I tap away on my computer. In the background, the Carole King CD that Goose gave me is softly playing and I’m really really starting to like it. And there’s nothing more I can think of to say right now other than THAT was how Gareth Stingecombe made me feel like a natural woman!

  haYLeY LONG has a Massive List Of thaNk YOUs, startING with:

  haYLeY YeeLes, mY aGeNt, whO has LOaDs Of GOOD IDeas aND aLwaYs seNDs me CheerY eMalLs; emMa, ruth aND raCheL at MaCMILLaN fOr aLL their heLP aND LOveLY LuNChes; LaUreN reeves, mY halrDresser, fOr teLLING me aLL her fuNNY halrDressING stOrles; CarOLe BUrtON aND MeLaNle westLake fOr taLkING tO me aBOut COGNItlve BehavlOUraL theraPY aND stuff; meL aND sCOtt thOMas fOr BeING mY hOtLINe tO sCleNtlfIC wlsDOm; GweN Davles fOr BeING mY weLsh LaNGuaGe eXPert aND aLsO fOr LeNDING me her tOtaLLY LUsh CaravaN; sweeeet INkY MOLe fOr DrawING the GrOOvY COvers, aND PastON COLLeGe, NOrfOLk BeCause I tOtaLLY LOve It there.

  aND Gt as aLwaYs XXX

  aBOut the author

  haYLeY LONG was born in Ipswich ages ago. She studied English at university in Wales, where she had a very nice time and didn’t do much work. After that she spent several years in various places abroad and had a very nice time and didn’t do much work then either. Now haYLeY is an English teaCher and works very hard indeed. She lives in Norwich with a raBBIt called Irma and a hUSBaND. The Lottie books are her first for young adults – and there will be more from LOttIe (and haYLeY) COmING sOON.

  INtervlew with the authOr

  Do you use your own experiences in your books?

  Yes, all the time. Actually almost everything I write about is either inspired by something which has happened to me or something which I’ve heard about from someone else. I couldn’t possibly write some off-the-wall fantasy novel because I don’t think I’m imaginative enough. But I do have a really good memory for collecting strange useless pieces of information – stuff like funny things I’ve heard people say, song lyrics, weird objects … they all seem to get stuck in my brain forever. I can remember a talking doll I had when I was about five and every single weird thing she said. So I put that doll into the first Lottie Biggs book.

  Then there are bigger experiences like how I worked in a shoe shop on Saturdays when I was a teenager and even how I started to feel really miserable a while back. Obviously that wasn’t a good state to be in, but by writing Lottie Biggs it helped me to make something worthwhile out of even that rubbish time.

  Having said that, I’m definitely not Lottie Biggs, and what I write is always fiction and not autobiography. Lottie would be a lot more boring if she merely represented me at fifteen. She wouldn’t have a lush boyfriend like Gareth for a start!

  Did you think you had a chance of becoming an author?

  Um, I never really thought about the end result of actually being an author. To be honest, I don’t really think of myself in that way even now. If anyone asks me what I do, I usually say that I’m a teacher. I find it easier! But I’ve always wanted to write novels since I was in primary school. When I was about eight, I even typed one up on my mum’s typewriter and sent it to a publisher. In my head, it always seemed to be a question of when I get published, rather than if. But that’s because I was always writing something.

  Who inspired you to write?

  That’s difficult. I’m not sure really. In my family nobody other than me was a big reader and certainly nobody else ever wrote anything down just for the fun of it. But I’ve always been reading books. When I was really young, my mum used to make me put my book down and go out to play more with the other kids in my road because otherwise I would have just stayed indoors all the time. I don’t know where I got that reading habit from. But I suppose I should thank Enid Blyton really. Although her books are not really fashionable now, I read hundreds of them when I was a child. So perhaps it was her who made me want to tell stories of my own.

  Are there any recent books that you admire?

  Well it’s quite a few years old now but Holes by Louis Sachar is one of my favourite ever books and definitely my favourite book for young people. In fact, it was reading that book a few years ago which encouraged me to write for a younger audience. Until then, I’d only ever written for adults. I haven’t read anything to topple Holes
from my number-one spot. I do read some teen fiction, but I try to avoid anything which looks remotely like what I’m writing. I wouldn’t want it to influence how I write. Some readers have suggested that I’ve adopted the style of Louise Rennison. I take this as a compliment because she is hugely successful, but the truth is — I haven’t actually read any of her titles.

  I know that books about vampires are very popular at the moment and I did give a couple of these a go but didn’t really get on with them. However, there is a book called The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova that came out a few years ago which is absolutely stunning. It’s very exciting, very frightening and very intelligent. I definitely admire that book.

  Interview by Sasha, reproduced with kind permission of the utterly fantastic Chicklish website: www.chicklish.co.uk

  Endnotes

  1 This is what American people call bumbags. They also think that Randy is a perfectly acceptable name for a male human being. I know a lot about this subject because I’m a keen follower of American Idol.

  2 Apparently, this is how people from New Zealand say ‘good’.

  3 Cardiff is the capital of Wales – whereas the capital of Egypt happens to be Cairo. I suppose, on paper, they look fairly similar.

  4 I think this means BIG WOW! in New Zealandish. I shan’t be saying it myself.

  5 They have a picture of Justin Timberlake on them. YES, I KNOW I’M TRAGIC. But when I’m wearing them, I feel like I’m bringing sexy back.

  6 This has got something to do with geography. Don’t ask me what, though.

  7 Unfortunately, this is no longer a possibility because, as I mentioned earlier, Jimi is sadly no longer existing in our earthly mortal dimension.

  8 I know it’s not really for me to say – but in real life I am better looking than this picture suggests.

  9 I would have thrown her chair out too but I couldn’t make it fit through the gap.