by Gwyneth Rees
Gwyneth Rees is half Welsh and half English and grew up in Scotland. She went to Glasgow University and qualified as a doctor in 1990. She is a child and adolescent psychiatrist, but has now stopped practising so that she can write full-time. She lives in London with her two cats.
Visit www.gwynethrees.com
Other books by Gwyneth Rees
Mermaid Magic
Fairy Dust
Fairy Treasure
Fairy Dreams
Fairy Gold
Fairy Rescue
Cosmo and the Magic Sneeze
Cosmo and the Great Witch Escape
For older readers
The Mum Detective
The Mum Mystery
My Mum’s from Planet Pluto
The Making of May
MACMILLAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS
First published 2003 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2007 by Macmillan Children’s Books
a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
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ISBN 978-0-330-47180-0 PDF
ISBN 978-0-330-47181-7 EPUB
Copyright © Gwyneth Rees 2003
The right of Gwyneth Rees to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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For Agnès, with love
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
It all started in French. Well, sort of. I was sitting in French, which was our last lesson that day, feeling fidgety because I’d already finished my work and I had nothing left to do. I was dying to speak to Holly. Holly is my best friend and I’d been waiting all day to ask her advice about something. Holly is an expert at knowing what to do in difficult situations. She says it’s because her mum treats her like a grown-up and lets her watch anything she wants on TV and ask any questions she wants about it afterwards. Sometimes Holly and her mum stay up late discussing all sorts of things, which makes me really envious because I’m not allowed to stay up late to discuss anything at all.
Anyway, Holly had been away at the dentist all morning, otherwise I’d have spoken to her earlier. If we’d had an afternoon break I’d have spoken to her then, but our school has abolished afternoon breaks so we can finish earlier like they do on the Continent or something. That means we’re expected to go from lunchtime until three o’clock without talking to each other, which if you ask me is a form of child abuse. Well, it is for me. I’m a bit of a chatterbox, at least, that’s what Dad says. Matthew, my brother, calls me a stuck record which I object to because it implies that I say the same things over and over again, which I don’t. He says our great-aunt Esmerelda could talk the hind leg off a donkey too, and that’s why I got named after her, but Dad says I got named after her because my mother really liked the name. Nobody calls me Esmerelda, though. They all call me Esmie for short.
Anyway, that afternoon we’d been set an exercise by our French teacher, Miss Murphy (who’d left the room to sort out the teacherless class next door) that involved translating a whole list of different types of food from English into French.
‘Guess what?’ I hissed, leaning over to see how my friend was getting on with her answers.
‘Get off!’ Holly pushed my hand away as I tried to pencil in the word pomme for her next to apple. ‘I can do this myself, you know, Esmie!’
‘Sorry.’ It’s just that Juliette, our au pair, is French, and I’ve started getting top marks in French at school ever since she came. Holly swears she’s not jealous but she gets pretty annoyed with me for always finishing things before she does.
‘Last night Juliette came up with this idea – and I want to know what you think of it!’ I announced.
Holly looked at me. I knew that would get her attention.
But I wanted to tell her the whole story – from the beginning – so I did.
‘It started when Juliette said something in French that Matthew didn’t understand but I did.’ I began, proudly. (Dad has this idea that he can use Juliette to turn Matthew and me into fluent French speakers overnight if he gets her to talk to us in nothing but French. Unfortunately Juliette came to England to practise her English, so there’s been a bit of a clash.)
Holly crinkled up her nose. ‘I think it’s really daft, your dad making you talk French every meal time.’
‘It’s not every meal time. We’re allowed to speak English at breakfast and lunch and all day if we want at the weekends. Anyway, Matthew didn’t understand her and I did!’
‘So?’ Holly grunted, going back to her work. Holly doesn’t understand what it’s like to have to compete all the time with an older brother for your parent’s attention. She’s eleven like me, but she’s an only child. Her parents are divorced and they compete with each other all the time for her attention. They had a big fight about who would get custody of her and now it’s shared, so Holly spends one night a week and every second weekend with her dad and the rest of the time with her mum. She’s got two of everything: two bedrooms, two wardrobes and two toothbrushes. The only thing she hasn’t got two of yet is mothers and fathers. Neither of her parents has found anyone else, though Holly reckons it won’t be long before one of them does and she’s dreading that.
I continued to talk despite the fact that she looked like she wasn’t listening. ‘We were sitting eating our dinner when Juliette started telling Dad – in French – all about this advert she’d seen in the lonely-hearts column which she said would be perfect for him! Dad nearly choked on his pommes de terre.’ I pointed to the empty space on Holly’s page next to potatoes and waited for her to fill it in.
‘What did your dad say?’ Holly put down her pencil, looking interested now.
‘Something in French I didn’t understand but I think it was pretty rude. Then the telephone rang and it was Dad’s work and they’d just found a dead body or something and that ruined everything as usual. But then, after he’d gone out, Juliette showed us the advert and—’
‘A dead body?’ Holly always gets excited by any gruesome details I let out about Dad’s work. Dad is a police detective which Holly reckons is really cool. ‘Was it murdered?’
‘How should I know?’ I wasn’t meant to know about it at all and Dad would kill me if he knew I was talking about it to Holly. ‘Look, never mind that! I want to know what you think about this.’ I rummaged around in my schoolbag and pulled out a crumpled piece of newspaper, but before I could show it to her our F
rench teacher strode back into the room and stopped at the first desk she came to.
Which happened to be ours . . .
‘What’s this?’ Before I knew what was happening she had grabbed the lonely-hearts column from my hand.
I was horrified. Miss Murphy is fortyish, with round spectacles and very flat hair and she looks like she wouldn’t know what to do with a lonely heart if it jumped out and hit her in the face. And she couldn’t possibly miss this lonely heart because it was ringed with Juliette’s red pen.
‘It’s her dad’s, Miss,’ Holly said, quickly, pointing at me.
I scowled at her. The rest of the class had stopped talking and the silence was horrible. I could feel them all staring.
‘Is that right, now?’ Miss Murphy has a really strong Irish accent and she wears a big silver cross round her neck which Holly says means she’s a Catholic. I don’t know much about religion seeing as how Dad never takes us to church. Holly doesn’t go to church either, but, like I said before, her mum tells her things – too much, my dad says.
Miss Murphy began to read the advertisement out loud, slowly, like she was just a beginner-reader. ‘Beautiful, blue-eyed, blonde botanist WLTM . . .’ she recited, raising her voice so she could still be heard above the sniggers coming from everybody else. ‘W . . . L . . . T . . . M . . .’ she repeated, carefully. She looked at both of us for help.
Holly nudged me. ‘Esmie.’ Like I was the expert.
‘Would Like To Meet,’ I croaked, feeling so embarrassed I wanted to die.
‘Would like to meet a handsome, plant-loving, man in uniform!’ Miss Murphy let out a noise like a muffled snort, which is a habit of hers. Our class were all laughing really loudly now. ‘Do you think these criteria would be fitting your daddy, then, Esmie?’
I was bright red and trembling by this time. I could have killed Holly. Why couldn’t she just have said we’d found the paper or something?
I shook my head, helplessly. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t even speak.
‘He’s no good with plants, Miss,’ Holly said.
The whole class laughed even louder.
‘‘But he is a policeman!’ Holly added, starting to sound like she was enjoying herself.
‘Is that so?’ Miss Murphy’s eyes were sparkling wickedly. ‘Well, it sounds like this . . .’ She glanced again at the advert. ‘. . . this lady botanist prefers men in uniform, so maybe he’s still in with a chance!’
‘Only he’s plain clothed, Miss,’ Holly put in, frowning. ‘Isn’t he, Esmie? He’s a detective, Miss, so he has to be plain clothed so his murderers don’t recognize him.’
I found my voice then. ‘That’s not true!’ I spluttered. ‘He has to show his murderers his badge before he asks them anything!’ Goodness knows why I said that.
Miss Murphy’s face went pink and she started to chortle. It wasn’t a pretty sight. ‘Well, perhaps if he’s got a badge, that will make up for him not having a uniform,’ she teased.
‘Only if it’s a really sexy badge!’ one of the boys called out.
I wanted to crawl under my desk and never come out again. Or at the very least, move out of the area and change my name so no one would ever be able to trace me.
As the bell rang, Miss Murphy shouted at the class that for our homework she wanted us to write out pretend advertisements to go in a French lonely-hearts column. Then she started laughing again. She gave the advertisement back to me and rushed out of the classroom, no doubt in order to tell everyone in the staffroom.
‘Holly, why did you have to do that?’ I snapped, as I stuffed the piece of newspaper as far down into the bottom of my bag as it would go.
‘Don’t blame me!’ she said, looking offended. ‘He’s your father!’
‘Hey, Esmie?’ one of the boys called out to me.
I looked up. It was Billy Sanderson, who usually only speaks to me when he wants to copy my homework and then acts all spiteful for the rest of the week because I won’t let him. He was standing in the doorway with all his mates.
‘Miss Murphy’s single! What do you reckon? Shall we introduce her to your dad? Then you could have her for a stepmum!’
All his mates laughed. I saw that Holly was smirking again too.
I gritted my teeth. That’s when I started to feel sick. My head started to hurt and I felt a bit dizzy.
I picked up my schoolbag and pushed past them, out of the room. I really didn’t feel well. And I started to think of all the terrible illnesses I could have that would mean I’d never be able to come back to school ever again.
‘Juliette, I think I might have meningitis,’ I said, dumping my schoolbag on the floor and flopping down on to the settee as soon as I got home. ‘I’ve got a terrible headache and I feel really sick. I think maybe I’ve got a temperature.’
Juliette, who was doing a pile of ironing, put down the iron and came to feel my forehead with the back of her hand. Juliette is twenty-two and really pretty. She’s got short blonde hair, cropped just like the models in Vogue magazine, and blue eyes with long dark eyelashes. I wish I looked more like Juliette. I’ve got brown eyes and brown hair that’s dead straight and comes to my shoulders, and people are always saying that I look really pale.
‘You don’t feel hot,’ Juliette said, removing her hand from my brow.
‘That’s because I’m cold,’ I said, shivering abruptly. ‘I’m going to bed. Will you tell Dad I’m not well when he comes in.’ I made a big thing of dragging myself off the settee.
‘When I’ve finished this, I will come and see what you want,’ Juliette called after me.
I thought the very least she could have done was make sure I didn’t faint on the stairs but then Juliette never seems to make a fuss of me that way. No one does. Dad just gets all panicky whenever I’m ill and Matthew just goes, ‘Yuck. Germs!’ and keeps out of my way. I reckon if my mother was here, she’d make a huge fuss of me. My photo of my mother stands right by my bed and when I’m in bed I talk to her and she’s always really understanding. I told her about today as I got undressed, and about how sick I felt, and I knew she thought that I should definitely stay off for the rest of the week and get myself truly better.
I got into bed and rested my head against the pillow. I felt thirsty.
‘Darling, I think you should be drinking plenty of fluids,’ my mother said, smiling at me silently.
I climbed out of bed and headed groggily for the landing. ‘JULIETTE!’ I yelled. ‘I want a drink!’
Juliette poked her head out of the living room and glared at me. ‘Juliette, will you please bring me a drink,’ she corrected me, sternly, like being polite really mattered when you were dying of meningitis.
‘Orange squash, please,’ I croaked, swaying dangerously at the top of the stairs.
Juliette sighed, loudly. ‘You had better go back to bed. I will bring it up to you.’
I felt tears prick the backs of my eyes. Juliette didn’t care about me. I was just a way of making money as far as she was concerned. I ran back to my bedroom and slammed the door. By the time Juliette reached me I was buried under the covers and pretending to be asleep.
‘Esmie, here is your drink.’ I heard it clink against my mother’s picture as she set it down.
I could hear her standing there trying to work out if I really was asleep. I heard her starting to walk out of the room when I felt overcome by a surge of anger. I sat bolt upright in bed. ‘Don’t bother checking to see if I’m still alive or anything, will you?!’ I snarled.
She looked shocked. ‘Still alive?’
‘Yes. I mean, people can die pretty fast from meningitis!’
‘Meningitis?’ She looked even more puzzled.
‘That’s right! I mean you’re not a doctor, are you? You don’t know for sure that I haven’t got meningitis!’
‘Esmie, why are you behaving like this? You are not so sick to have meningitis. Something has happened to make you like this. What is it?’ She came and stood close to my
head, so close that she was standing in front of my glass of orange and the photo of my mother. ‘Tell me,’ she said, crouching down by my bed and touching my head. ‘What is wrong?’
I stared at her. I felt all funny inside.
I opened my mouth to say something angry and instead I burst into tears.
Juliette was really different from all our other au pairs right from the beginning. From the day she arrived she chatted to Dad in a way that none of the others ever did. For instance she chatted to him about why she reckoned he never had any success in his relationships. Dad has dated a few women in the past few years but nothing’s ever lasted more than a few months. In fact, mostly you’re talking weeks, not months. He hadn’t gone out with anyone in ages, and then, a few weeks after Juliette arrived, he got set up on a blind date.
The date was arranged by one of Dad’s friends. When Dad got home from that evening, it was so early that we were all still up. Dad looked positively traumatized, and Juliette made him relate the whole encounter over a soothing mug of cocoa. I was really pleased. Normally I never get to hear anything about Dad’s dates. It sounded like this one had been going all right until the part where his date had asked about my mother and Dad had replied that she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever met and the one great love of his life (or something really slushy like that).
Juliette had gasped in horror. ‘But that is terrible! It is no wonder you put her off!’
‘Well anything else would be a lie!’ Dad replied, stubbornly, flushing a little. ‘And lying is no way to start off a relationship!’
‘Well, you will never start a relationship unless you lie about this! Can you not think of something less . . . less aggressive . . . to say to these poor women if they are unfortunate enough to ask?’
‘You don’t mean aggressive, Juliette, you mean passionate!’ I put in, helpfully, but everyone ignored me.
‘You could always tell them she was . . . I don’t know . . . sweet!’ volunteered Matthew, who was taking advantage of Dad’s temporary state of distraction by standing in front of the fridge with the door open, swigging back orange juice straight from the carton.
