The Real Rebecca

by Anna Carey

  FIVE MINUTES LATER

  Except I won’t, because I’ll be at that stupid book party! My mother is wrecking my entire life!

  SATURDAY

  BESTSELLER DISCOVERS NEW DIRECTION

  Rosie Carberry is set to win a whole new generation of fans with the publication of her first book for teenagers. May the Best Girl Win is flagged to become a Christmas bestseller. Rosie is the mother of two teenage daughters, 16-year-old Rachel and 14-year-old Rebecca, and says the story was inspired by their antics.

  Antics. ANTICS! I don’t have antics! Or make antics. Whatever. I hate my mother. I can’t believe I was trying to help break her writer’s block. I’d rather she had writer’s block forever and ever if this is what she’s going to come out with. A teen novel! Officially inspired by my ‘antics’!!! I can’t believe she has done this to me. I will never, ever live this down. I thought Mrs Harrington was bad enough, comparing me with those horrible little ringleted loons.But now my evil mother has admitted to the world that she has based a character on me! And Rachel too, but it turns out that Ruthie O’Reilly (that’s the heroine of this hideous monstrosity of a book) is fourteen, which means everyone will just think it’s me anyway.

  Anyway. As you can tell from that newspaper report, which I have stuck in this diary just to prove that last night wasn’t all a hideous dream, Mum had a lovely surprise for us at the book party. In fact, it turned out that the party wasn’t just to celebrate her twenty years as a published writer. It was also to celebrate her ‘new venture into the exciting world of young adult literature’. At least, that’s what it said in today’s Irish Times.

  Last night was the worst night of my entire life. And today is looking like being the worst day. It started with me opening the door in my pyjamas to find Paperboy standing just outside it (the door, that is, not my ’jamas). I was letting out our cat Bumpers, who hates going to the toilet in his litter tray like a normal cat and always demands to leave the house first thing in the morning, and I was still in such a daze after last night that I forgot it was Saturday, the only day we get the papers delivered. So when I saw Paperboy standing about six inches away from me with some papers in his hand I actually shrieked. And then I stepped back and stood on Bumpers, and Bumpers shrieked too and ran out the door and between Paperboy’s ankles. It was like something out of a very, very crap circus.

  And of course the door suddenly opening and me shrieking (with my hair sticking up all over the place, I might add) and a cat wailing and practically running him over gave Paperboy a hideous fright, so he yelled and fell off the step. And he dropped a whole pile of papers and bits of them fell all over the place and on one of the pages was a huge colour photo of me. Well, me with Mum and Rachel anyway. On the third page of the Irish Times. We were sort of grimacing at the camera and Mum was beaming from ear to ear like a lunatic. I was so horrified by this I forgot to say sorry to Paperboy for scaring him. In fact, I nearly shrieked again. Unfortunately Paperboy, who was picking up the papers and putting them back in his bag, noticed what I was staring at and said, ‘Hey … sorry for giving you a fright. Is, um, is that you?’

  ‘Is that me where?’ I said, idiotically.

  ‘On this paper,’ said Paperboy, helpfully picking it up and holding it out to me so I could see myself and my evil traitorous mother in glorious technicolour. ‘And … this one.’ He held up a copy of the Irish Independent which had fallen to bits. On one of the pages that had dropped out was a huge photo of me and Mum. I can’t describe the freakish expression on my face in that photo. It was too hideous for words.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said.

  ‘I thought I recognised you,’ said Paperboy, sticking the last of his papers into the bag. And he grinned at me. ‘See you!’ he said. Then he went off. And I was left, standing there, staring after him like a pyjama-wearing freak. And now I am hiding in my room. I am never coming out again. Mum keeps knocking at my door and saying, ‘Oh come on, Bex, you’ve got to eat some time’. She’s right, actually, I’m starving, but I’m not going to eat any of her horrible food. I’ll go out and buy my own.

  FIVE MINUTES LATER

  Except all my money (such as it is) was given to me by her and Dad (who is just as bad as her, I might add, because of course it turns out he knew about her evil book all the time!). So technically it would still be their food. Huh.

  To distract myself from my agonising hunger, I will finally write about what happened last night, aka the worst night of my life. Mum was all flustered and frantic beforehand, which isn’t like her at all really, although of course now I know that it was her GUILTY CONSCIENCE because she knew what was coming. Rachel and I got dressed up, and the gorgeous Topshop dress I got for my birthday and haven’t had the chance to wear much yet actually looked really nice and my hair was behaving itself for some miraculous reason (probably because when I was washing my hair yesterday I nicked Mum’s expensive Bumble and Bumble conditioner that she keeps hidden under her bed). So I actually felt quite good when we left the house. But little did I know the hideous nightmare that awaited me. We arrived at the hotel (oh yeah, the publishers had rented a really gorgeous room in a posh hotel) and there was Lucy who edits Mum’s books at the publisher and Mum’s agent Jocasta and lots of journalists and friends of Mum. In other words, it was the usual rubbish. There were photographers and we had to pose for a few photos with Mum (we didn’t know then where they would end up). Rachel and I had to be polite and say hello to people, and a waiter was handing around champagne and Rachel asked if she could have a glass and Mum said no, maybe later if there were toasts, and then Rachel asked if she could have a glass of wine and Mum said no again, so me and Rachel sort of skulked off and hid behind a pillar where hopefully no one would notice us and start talking to us about Mum’s books.

  ‘God, this is boring,’ said Rachel, looking at her watch. ‘I wonder how soon we can leave.’

  ‘Not for hours and hours,’ I said gloomily. ‘Are there any mini-burgers left?’ Mini-burgers are the only good thing about these launches. For some reason they are nicer than ordinary-sized burgers. Why? Who knows? I thought eating a few of them would ease my pain, but even that pleasure was denied me.

  ‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘I just saw Dad eat the last one. Oh, look, I think Lucy’s going to say something now.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Speeches. My favourite things.’

  Little did I know how bad this particular speech was going to be.

  It started in the usual way – Lucy went on about Mum’s brilliant career and the contribution she’d made to Irish writing, and how she was one of the first international Irish bestselling authors (a slight exaggeration – if she was really such an international bestseller, we wouldn’t live in a three-bedroom semi in Drumcondra; we’d live in some sort of palace in Killiney. Not that I’d want to live in Killiney, but I wouldn’t mind having a bigger house. And a view of the sea would be nice. Although I suppose I could get that in, like, Clontarf or somewhere. Anyway.). So this went on for a while, and I sort of drifted off and was gazing longingly at a tray of mini-burgers that had suddenly appeared on the other side of the room when Lucy said, ‘But of course, the real reason we’re here tonight is to launch a new stage in Rosie’s career. As most of you know, her new book will be aimed at a whole new audience – teenagers!’

  I wish I could say that everyone gasped in horror, but that was just me and Rachel. In fact, everyone else seemed to know all about it and nodded sagely while Rachel and I stared at each other.

  ‘As you know, Rosie has two lovely teenage daughters and she thought it would be a good idea to write something that they and their friends could enjoy.’ (FYI, I can safely say that I – and my friends, for that matter – will never enjoy anything written by my mother.) ‘All of us at Peregrine have heard a lot about Rachel and Rebecca over the years, and about a year ago we were delighted when Rosie told us she wanted to write something inspired by their adventures. And we weren’t disappointed. May the Best Girl
Win will be the highlight of our children’s list this season!’ And she held up a copy of a stupid-looking book with a horrible drawing of a pouty girl in Ugg boots on the cover. I thought I was going to be sick.

  Then Mum took the microphone. She carefully avoided looking at us, probably because even she wouldn’t have the cheek to waffle on about her awful book while Rachel and I glowered at her. She thanked Lucy and then she thanked her publishers and her editor and her agent and everyone for coming to the event and just when I thought I was going to faint from a combination of boredom and rage she said, ‘And of course, thanks most of all to my family – my husband Ed and my lovely daughters, Rachel and Rebecca. Those girls drive me mad sometimes,’ (and of course everyone laughed like this was funny) ‘but I don’t know what Ed and I would do without them. They make us laugh a lot.’

  Everyone sort of went ‘awww’ and of course turned around to gawp at us and see how we were taking this touching speech. I think they thought we’d be wiping away tears of emotion and mouthing ‘we love you!’ at our awful horrible sneaking mother. But we weren’t, we were just standing there glaring at her.

  Mum cleared her throat and went on. ‘The girls aren’t really fans of my books – I think it was Rebecca who described the last one as ‘nice if you like that sort of thing’ – so I decided to write a book they would really like, about their world.’

  Oh my God, that’s what it’s all about! Punishment for mocking those evil Irish dancing children! The unfairness!

  Mum kept waffling on. ‘It’s been a long time since I was a teenager,’ (everyone laughed again as if this was a joke, when of course it is simply THE TRUTH) ‘but I can remember what it was like, and of course I have Rachel and Rebecca around to remind me all the time. Their antics inspired me to write this book, although I had a little help from teen magazines. I think the girls wondered what I was doing with some of them!’

  Yeah, I did. I can’t believe I was worried about her having a mid-life crisis when she was really just getting ready to embarrass me in front of the world. I can’t believe I actually CRIED the other night because I thought there was something wrong with her. I am never going to be nice to her again.

  ‘But I really enjoyed writing the book,’ she said. ‘And I’m already working on the sequel. So, well, I hope you enjoy it!’

  And everyone clapped. The fools. Soon they all started moving around chatting and eating canapés, but Rachel and I were still pretty much frozen to the spot.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Rachel. ‘I can’t believe I never guessed.’

  ‘I can’t believe she’s been spying on us and planning to write a book without telling us!’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rachel. ‘Bex, I think this is worse than the porn thing.’

  Just then, my dad came up to us, beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘Hi girls!’ he said, as if his wife hadn’t just DESTROYED OUR LIVES. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You knew?’ shrieked Rachel.

  Dad looked confused. ‘Of course I knew,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? Aren’t you excited? I thought you’d be excited!’

  ‘Of course we’re not excited!’ I said. ‘Is this what you were talking about when you said Mum had a surprise and that I’d like it?

  ‘Um, yes,’ said Dad.

  ‘Well I don’t!’ I cried.

  ‘But why?’ said Dad. He looked very confused, but then, he often does. It’s what happens when you lock yourself away and teach history for twenty years.

  ‘Because she’s written a book and she’s just told the world it’s about us,’ said Rachel. ‘I mean, it’s bad enough having that awful teacher going on about how we must love Mum’s books every time I bump into her in the corridor, even though she isn’t even my English teacher …’ (Ha! I knew Mrs Harrington wouldn’t leave Rachel alone.) ‘but now Mum’s actually officially said that she’s written about us. How do you expect us to be happy about that? It’s humiliating!’

  ‘It’s worse for me,’ I said. ‘She’s just said that this girl in the book is fourteen. So everyone will think it’s about me.’

  ‘Well, I was fourteen once too,’ said Rachel. ‘So that doesn’t help much.’

  ‘Girls!’ said Dad. ‘You’re being very silly. I’m sorry you’re upset, but I really don’t see what the problem is. Your mum’s very excited about this book and she’s already working on the sequel. Last week you were convinced she had writer’s block! You were crying, Bex!’

  ‘I’d PREFER writer’s block to an awful book about a girl in stupid hideous boots who everyone will think is me!’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Rachel. ‘Everyone we know is going to read it if they think it’s about us. It’s going to be so embarrassing.’

  And then our enemy, aka our mother, came over. She had a sort of stupid smile on her face.

  ‘Well, girls,’ she said. ‘How did you like my surprise?’

  ‘If by “how did you like my surprise?”, you mean, ‘How do you like being embarrassed in front of the whole world?’ Well, the answer is “not at all”!’ shouted Rachel, and can I just say how nice it was to see Rachel being all snotty to Mum in front of me. Normally if she gets annoyed by Mum when I’m in the room, she tries to be all grown up and sophisticated, but as we don’t live in a vast mansion and I am not deaf, I know perfectly well she can be just as tantrum-ish as me when she thinks I can’t hear her. Which I always can.

  Mum seemed genuinely confused.

  ‘What’s so embarrassing about this?’ she said.

  Rachel and I stared at her.

  ‘Mother,’ I said, very slowly, ‘you have written a book that you have just admitted is inspired by us. And people we know will read it. HOW IS THAT NOT EMBARRASSING?’

  ‘I hate to say this, Mum, but Bex is right,’ said Rachel. ‘Seriously, we are going to look like complete fools. I can’t believe you’ve done this to us!’

  ‘I thought you’d like it!’ said Mum. ‘You never want to read my books, so I thought you’d like this one.’

  Against my will, I found myself feeling a bit sorry for her.

  ‘And how do you know you’ll be embarrassed?’ she went on. ‘You haven’t even read it yet! It’s fun! Your friends will like it!’

  ‘I don’t need to read it,’ I said, ‘to know that it will be embarrassing.’ She looked genuinely confused and I started feeling a bit bad.

  ‘But I thought …’ she started to say, but then one of her writing pals ran up.

  ‘Rosie!’ she cried. ‘I can’t believe it – I never thought you’d start writing for kids!’ She looked at us in a patronising sort of way. ‘Although I should have known you’d want to write something for your little ones.’

  I stopped feeling bad for Mum then. And she must have realised that the looks on my and Rachel’s faces meant we couldn’t hold in our rage much longer.

  ‘Hmm, yes,’ she said. ‘Hey, have you met Conor Hamilton? He’s over there, come on …’ And she sort of moved the annoying friend away.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I said. ‘Coming, Rachel?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rachel. Then we both kind of paused. ‘Um,’ said Rachel. ‘Can we have bus fare, please? I didn’t bring my wallet.’

  ‘No you can’t,’ said Dad, sounding genuinely cross, which is rare for him. He hardly ever loses his temper. ‘And I can’t believe you’re acting like such silly babies. You’re too old for this. Now, all your mother’s friends and colleagues are here and I don’t want you making a show of yourselves in front of them, it’s not fair to her.’

  ‘It’s not fair to us, more like,’ I muttered.

  Dad glared at me. He’s surprisingly good at glaring when he wants to. ‘I understand you’re a bit surprised,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have to act like a pair of five-year-olds. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Rachel, but she rolled her eyes so he would know she didn’t mean it. ‘Can I at least have a glass of wine?’

  ‘No,’ said Dad. ‘Oh, all
right. Just one. And NOT you,’ he said, looking at me. Not that I wanted wine anyway. I’d probably start trying to drown my sorrows straight away and then I’d become an alcoholic. That’d give Mum something to write about, I suppose. A waiter came along with a tray of drinks, so Rachel took her wine and I took an orange juice and then we went and sat in a corner and ate canapés.

  ‘Just look at her,’ said Rachel. ‘Look at her talking to her ridiculously dressed mates (seriously, what is that man wearing? Is that a velvet bow tie?) like she hasn’t a care in the world.’

  ‘She hasn’t,’ I said. ‘She’s not the one who’s going to be publicly humiliated as soon as everyone she knows reads that stupid book.’

  ‘I can’t BELIEVE I was feeling sorry for her,’ said Rachel. And we sat and glowered at her and tried to eat the canapés without getting bits of diced tomato all over ourselves (all the little tarts and things are surprisingly messy) until at LAST Dad took us home (Mum was staying on, probably so she didn’t have to face us). And then I went to bed and woke up hoping it was all a horrible dream and … well, you know the rest. So that’s it.

  I just rang Alice to tell her my troubles but she was at her mad auntie Fran’s house and her mobile went straight to voicemail so I couldn’t talk to her. And Cass was at her piano lesson so I couldn’t get through to her either. I am both enraged and bored. What a terrible life I have. Also, I am still really, really hungry. But I don’t want to go downstairs.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER

  Mum just came to the door.

  ‘Rebecca?’

  ‘Go away,’ I said. Was that toast I could smell? Does she have toast? Is she trying to lure me out with food?