by Sarah Webb
Sarah Webb
Hi,
Welcome to Summer Secrets. A good chunk of this book is set in Miami; the rest is set in West Cork, Ireland — my favourite place in the whole world. My mum and dad have a house in Castletownshend, West Cork – a small fishing village with a shop and two pubs – and we’ve been going there on our holidays since I was five.
I love swimming in the (very nippy!) sea, sailing and exploring the coastline and islands in our wooden fishing boat, the Amy-Rose (named after my daughter). But most of all, I love sitting on the beautiful “Station” Beach and reading or just daydreaming.
I’ve tried to give a little taste of West Cork in this book. Haven House, where Amy and her family stay, doesn’t actually exist, but Lough Ine (you pronounce the “i” “eye”) is real all right. It’s a stunning tidal lake where you can go swimming or midnight kayaking. I invented Lough Ine village, but there really is an island in the middle of the lake, and I’ve often gazed at it from the shore, wondering what it would be like to live there.
I hope you enjoy Summer Secrets. It is full of secrets and surprises, just like West Cork.
Very best,
Sarah XXX
Chapter 1
“It’s soooo unfair,” I moan, my head on Seth’s lap. We’re lying on Killiney Beach, our special place. Seth’s my boyfriend (I love saying that – boyfriend!), and it was on this very beach that I first noticed his amazing sky-blue eyes, not to mention his washboard stomach. His dog, Billy, is rolling around in the sand beside us, yapping happily.
Seth winds my hair round his fingers. “I know, but it’s only three weeks.”
“Only three weeks? A lot can happen in three weeks.”
We’ve only been together for nine weeks. So if you look at it that way, three weeks is a very long time. 33.3 (recurring) per cent of our relationship, to be exact. Sorry, I like maths. Geeky, I know, but a girl has to have her vices!
I’m off on holidays with my mad family – all of them. And when your parentals are divorced like mine, and both have new partners, that’s a lot of people. Dave – my mum’s boyfriend – has even invited his posh sister and her family along too.
The shared family holiday was Dad’s idea. He claimed it would be a bonding experience for everyone after certain recent events – but it sounds like a nightmare to me. Luckily, Clover, my seventeen-year-old aunt, is coming along too. Otherwise I’d go mad.
And get this: while I’m stuck in Cork on the holiday from hell, Seth’s off for three weeks to a big farmhouse just outside Rome. They’re flying out this evening. His mum, Polly, is teaching photography at this arty-farty place that sounds like a weirdy commune to me – all hippy-dippy veggie food and workshops in connecting with your inner child. (Are they serious? Who’d want to do that?)
Seth is smiling down at me, his blond hair flopping over his eyes. There’s a new smattering of cute sun freckles over the bridge of his nose. “I’ll write to you,” he says.
“Email, you mean.”
“That too. But I meant pen and paper. Envelope, stamp, the works.”
“Why would you do that? It’s a lot of hassle. Do they even have post boxes in the wilds of Italia?”
He shrugs. “I like letters.” The tops of his ears have flared a little and he looks away. “But email is fine,” he says quietly.
Poor Seth, he’s probably got his letters all planned out. He’s a bit of a Boy Scout sometimes: likes to be prepared. Maybe he was thinking of sending me some sketches too. He’s brilliant at art. And now I’ve gone and squashed his idea.
“No, you’re right,” I say. “Let’s write proper letters.”
“Cool.” He stops for a moment before adding, “As long as you can read my handwriting.” His mouth twists a little. “And I can’t spell, either.”
I’ve been wondering about this for a while. His texts are full of spelling mistakes. “Are you dyslexic?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I guess. I went to this psychologist, and I had to have extra reading and spelling classes in primary school, but Mum doesn’t want to make a big deal of it. I wanted to drop out of Irish, but she wouldn’t let me. You need it to work for RTÉ. She rang and asked them.”
“RTÉ?” (Radio Telefis Éireann is Ireland’s national telly and radio station. Like the BBC.) “You want to be an actor?” I grab a piece of driftwood and start singing “Summer Nights” into it. The school drama club are doing Grease in September. Me and Mills are determined to be in it, mainly ’cos it means: one, skipping a double Irish class on a Friday afternoon for rehearsals, and, two, meeting cute older boys. I have Seth, of course, but Mills is dying to meet someone, and she likes her boys “mature”.
Seth would make a brilliant Danny if only I could persuade him to audition. He’s not exactly Mr School and barely goes to all his classes as it is. I can see him now, though, up on the stage, hair slicked back, leather jacket, tight black jeans, his slim hips wiggling – oh baby!
“Earth calling Amy; come in, Amy.” Seth is staring at me.
My eyes are resting on his hips and I drag them away. How embarrassing! I cover my pink cheeks with my hands. “I think I’ve had a bit too much sun,” I say. “Sorry, what were you saying about the telly?”
“Radio. I want to work in radio.”
“As a DJ?”
“No. Behind the scenes. Production or research.”
Just then my mobile beeps. I read the text message: AMY, HOME NOW! U MUST PACK. R U STILL AT CLOVER’S? UR MOTHER!
“Oops,” I say, climbing to my feet and brushing sand off my bum. I haven’t even been to Clover’s yet.
Seth puts his arms round my waist and tries to pull me back down on to the sand.
I shriek. “Unhand me, Crazy Horse.” Our history teacher is obsessed with Native Americans; it must be rubbing off.
“It’ll cost you, my little Indian brave.” He grins up at me. “A kiss.”
My tummy does a flip. Clover’s comprehensive kissing lessons are certainly coming in useful. He loosens his grip on my waist. I put one leg on either side of his and sit on his lap; then, leaning forwards, I tilt my head a little. Our lips connect. Zing! There goes the electricity again, radiating out from my lips; within seconds, my whole body feels tingly. I open my mouth a bit and feel the warm tip of his tongue against mine. Then—
Yap, yap, yap. Billy barks in my ear and jumps on my back.
I break away from Seth, startled. “Ow.” I rub my skin through my T-shirt. He has sharp claws.
“Bad dog,” Seth tells Billy, pulling him away from me by his collar. I give my mouth a quick wipe with the back of my hand.
When Billy has finally calmed down, Seth says, “Sorry about that. I don’t know what’s wrong with him today.”
My mobile starts to ring. It’s Mum. Double oops.
“Angry parental alert. I really have to skedaddle. I’ll text you the address of the holiday house. And the landline.” I groan. “Two weeks of hell.”
He shrugs. “It might be fun.”
I pull a face. “Yeah, right. But at least Clover’s going – that’s something.”
Seth grins. “She’s a bad influence. Stay out of jail. And Amy?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll miss you.”
Chapter 2
I make it over to Clover’s just in time to “help” her pack by bouncing up and down on her acid-green suitcase to close it.
“Holy cow, you must be heavy, Beanie,” she says, frowning at the case. “Your ass is dinting it.”
I jump off and it pings open, firing her clothes on to the floor, like guests jumping out at a surprise party.
“Beanie!” She scoops the T-shirts and vests into her tanned arms and dum
ps them back in the suitcase.
“Aren’t you going to fold them, Clover? They’ll get creased.”
“You sound just like your mum,” she says, but she takes them back out and begins to fold them. I help her, ironing out the creases with my hands, then folding each top into a neat square on the bed.
Clover smiles. “You could so get a job at Benetton.”
Once we’ve packed the green case, Clover reaches underneath her bed and pulls out a slightly smaller one and a matching vanity case. I think it’s what they call a suite of luggage. I wonder absently, do they fit inside each other, like Russian dolls? That would be cute.
Dusting down the new suitcase with her hand, she sends dust mites spiralling into the air like microscopic ballerinas. She wiggles her nose and sneezes.
“Bless you!” I say, automatically.
She beams at me. “Aren’t you sweet? Now, tip my knicker drawer into this smaller case, Bean Machine, and I’ll pack my make-up.”
I stare at her. “The whole drawer? We’re only going for two weeks, Clover, not a year.”
She shrugs. “A girl needs choice. My bikinis are in there too. And I’ll need to pack my laptop and work stuff. That reminds me, Beanie, what do you know about Efa Valentine?”
“The film star?” Efa Valentine is a rising Hollywood star. She’s Irish too and the same age as Clover. She was nominated for an Oscar last year. She didn’t get it – she was up against Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett – but it made her even more famous.
Clover nods. “I’m interviewing her in Cork city while we’re on hols. The mag thought it was a good idea as we’re the same age. Want to tag along?”
I nod eagerly. Silly question.
“I’m bricking it,” she admits. “My very first interview and it has to be a big movie star like Efa Valentine. Saskia was supposed to be doing it, but Saffy’s making her prepare for her big interview in Miami.” Saffy is Clover’s editor at The Goss magazine.
“Saskia?” I ask.
“New intern at the magazine.” Clover puts on a posh marbles-in-the-mouth voice. “Saskia Davenport, darling.” She wrinkles her nose. “Daddy owns half of Ireland.” Then she adds, in her normal voice, “Six foot, red lips, jet-black hair, Cleopatra fringe: your average nightmare. Has some sort of big-deal journalism degree. She’s already asked Saffy if she can help me with the agony-aunt pages.”
“What did Saffy say?”
“That I had it covered. But my days are numbered – Saskia’s fiercely ambitious.” Clover sounds a bit glum.
“Mills is off to Miami too,” I say brightly, to change the subject. “Remember Marlon and Betty Costigan?”
Clover smiles. “Remember? I still have nightmares about those kiddly winks. Especially after the Louis Walsh episode.”
“X Factor Louis?”
“Uh-huh. I must have told you about it.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“OK. Well, first of all they both refused to go to bed. I tried bribing them with sweets, but that just made them even more hyper. Anyway, one of Louis Walsh’s boy bands happened to come on the telly, and Marlon said Louis was his godfather. I thought he was just trying to impress me, so I told him to stop being daft. And he said he’d prove it. He ran off and I forgot all about it. Then the next thing I knew: ding-dong. And there he was, Louis Walsh, standing on the doorstep, a big impish grin on his face. He was smaller than I expected, but much cuter.”
“No! What did you do?”
“I invited him in, of course. Marlon got out his Karaoke SingStar and we all had a great laugh. Ria Costigan walked into the living room at midnight and Betty was prancing around to “Mamma Mia” in her heels, still high as a kite from all those sweets. I think Ria had been drinking, ’cos she was swaying a bit. When she saw what was going on, she sobered up pretty quickly, though. She called me irresponsible and practically threw me out of the house! And that was the paddy last time I babysat for the Costigans.”
I wince and then laugh. “Holy drama-rama! I’m not surprised they never had you back. No wonder they’ve gone for someone like Mills this time.”
Clover looks intrigued. “Explain.”
“She’s babysitting for them this summer. In Miami, no less.”
“Go on.”
“Rex is casting a new Matt Munroe film called Life Swap, which is set in Miami, and Ria’s involved in the publicity for Matt’s latest movie, Just Add Water. Mills might even get to meet him and—”
“Rewind. Did you say Matt Munroe?”
I nod.
“That’s who Saskia’s interviewing!” Clover says. “Matt Munroe from West Dream High.”
I gasp. “Wow. Lucky thing. Cosmic heart-flutters. It’s a pity you’re not doing it, Clover. You could have hooked up with Mills while you were over there.” Yikes, probably not the best thing to have said in the circumstances. Clover’s face drops. “But Efa’s cool too,” I add quickly.
She sighs. “Cork’s hardly Miami. But Saskia’s got a lot more experience – which reminds me, I need to practise my interview technique. Can I quiz you, Beanie?”
My mobile beeps. Oops. Mum again.
“Sure. But right now I have to run. We’re leaving for Cork first thing.”
“I’m driving down in the morning too, but it won’t be as early. Need my beauty sleep. So I’ll see you there, Beans. Hope you survive the journey.”
I don’t think she’s joking.
Chapter 3
“Seth says he’ll miss me,” I tell Mills that evening. I clutch my heart and flutter my eyelashes. “Swoon!”
Mills has popped round to say goodbye. She’s off to Miami tomorrow night, so we won’t see each other for ages. Mum nearly didn’t let her into the house; she’s gone mad with all the packing. You should see the place. There are half-packed bags in every single room. She’s run out of proper zip-up ones and now she’s throwing things into anything she can find: Tesco shopping bags, checked-cotton toy bags, my old Barbie bag from infant school – even nappy bags. You’d swear we were going on safari to darkest Africa or trekking across the Sahara or something.
When Mills rang the doorbell, Mum would only open the front door a crack, as if Mills were some sort of violent criminal.
“You can have ten minutes,” she told her.
“Why don’t I help Amy pack?” Mills offered eagerly. “I’m great at folding clothes.”
Mum looked at her suspiciously. “OK.”
Now, every time Mum peers round the door, Mills carefully folds a T-shirt and hands it to me. We’ve been passing the same one backwards and forwards for fifteen minutes and Mum hasn’t copped on yet.
I’m only allowed to bring one bag of clothes – one! How Cruella de Vil is that? And my school rucksack for all my books and music. I hope Mum doesn’t spot the AMY LOVES SETH in the big Tipp-Ex love heart. Mills graffitied my bag on the last day of school.
“So did you get a goodbye kiss?” Mills asks, her eyes sparkling.
I open my mouth to say something but she gets in first.
“What was it like? Was his tongue all hot and sticky?” Mills is so excited, she’s hopping around like a little kid who needs the loo.
“Shush!” I tell her. “Otherwise Mum’s going to kick you out.” I grab a pair of trousers and fling them into the bag, followed by my new white jeans. I’m not all that keen on the jeans – they’re a bit tight – but Clover made me buy them. She said they’re a summer-wardrobe staple, like a little black dress in the winter. I’m not convinced.
Suddenly, Mum appears in the doorway. “How are you getting on, Amy?”
“Nearly finished.”
“Good – you can help me with Evie’s clothes when you’re done.” She disappears down the corridor.
“Better slow down,” I say to Mills. “Or else she’ll have me counting vests and babygros. Deadly boring.”
Mills isn’t going to be put off. “Tell me about the kiss. What was it like?”
“Nice.”
>
“Nice? Amy!” She hits me with a silver belt.
“Ouch!” I stroke my arm. The buckle’s left a red mark on my skin.
“Sorry.”
“’S OK. But there’s no need to get violent. We only kissed for a few seconds. Billy wasn’t impressed.”
“Billy?”
“Seth’s dog, remember? I think he was jealous. We were just getting started and he jumped on top of me.”
Mill’s eyes widen. “Seth?”
“No, you sap; he’s not some kind of Twilight werewolf. Billy.” Mills laughs and I smile back. “It wasn’t funny at the time,” I point out.
“So what was his tongue like? And yes, I do mean Seth’s, not Billy’s. Soft or hard?”
“Mills!”
“Come on. I really want to know. I need to know. I’d tell you.”
I sigh. She’s right; she most certainly would. Probably more than I actually wanted to hear. Mills is a details girl. “You’d better not tell anyone else,” I say.
“Course not.”
“His tongue was softish but firm. And warm, not hot.”
“Was there saliva everywhere?”
“No, there wasn’t. It’s not like that. You make it sound gross.”
“Did he poke his tongue in and out? Sophie said that’s how you do it.”
Funnily enough, Clover did say that that’s a very common misconception. The in–out style of tonsil hockey is the sign of a rank amateur, she explained, as is the “roundy-roundy” washing-machine technique. Apparently, what you’re aiming for is lots of different kinds of tongue and lip action, with varying pressure.
Clover told me to imagine kissing is a Cadbury’s selection box at Christmas. Some kisses should be rich and smooth like Flake, others mellow and soft like Caramel, with some twisting Curly Wurlys and tongue-cracking Crunchies thrown in for variety: all different, all sweet, all desirable. Unfortunately because of Billy I only tasted the ordinary old Dairy Milk this time.
“Sophie doesn’t know what she’s on about. That lizard-tongue thing is the sign of a rank amateur,” I say confidently, repeating Clover’s words.
