Mates, Dates and Portobello Princesses

by Cathy Hopkins

  Just at that moment, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Lerrus in,’ came Izzie’s voice through the letterbox.

  I went out into the hallway, knelt down and yelled back through the letterbox.‘Only if you know the secret password.’

  Izzie started posting bananas through the door. ‘Bananas,’ she called. I love Izzie but there’s no doubt, she is a Strange Friend.

  I opened the door and burst out laughing. Izzie was wearing jeans and a purple T-shirt, but she was also wearing the most enormous pair of knobbly shoulder pads, which made her look like an American football player.

  ‘Power breakfast needs power dressing,’ she laughed as she took two oranges out of her T-shirt and handed them to me along with a carrier bag. ‘Needs big shoulders.’

  ‘What are you like?’ I laughed as I looked in the bag.

  ‘Claudia’s jodhpurs,’ said Izzie.

  ‘Cool. Thanks. I’ll try them later.’

  ‘So what’s all this about?’ she said, following me through to the kitchen.

  ‘I read this article last night,’ I explained, ‘in one of Mum’s magazines. It was about what businessmen do to begin their day. A power breakfast. It gets them revved up to go out and do their best.’

  ‘Like motivates them?’ asked Lucy, who had made a start on the croissants.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But this is the Easter holidays, Nesta,’ said Izzie, sitting at the breakfast bar and biting into one of Lucy’s muffins. ‘What’s to get motivated for? It’s time for . . .’ she went into her American accent, ‘rest and recuperation.’

  ‘Only for slackers,’ I said. ‘High achievers never rest. They only stop for power breakfasts.’

  ‘Yeah but at six a.m.,’ remarked Lucy, looking at her watch, ‘not ten fifteen after a lie-in.’

  ‘Ah well. It is Sunday.’

  ‘So why?’ said Izzie. ‘Why am I here when I could have been tucked up under my duvet for at least another half hour?’

  I picked up Mum’s copy of Woman Today and read the list. ‘Define goals. Identify negativity. Prioritise needs. And make up a game plan.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lucy. ‘That all?’

  ‘Sounds impressive,’ said Izzie.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Cool huh? It was just that when I got home last night I started feeling a bit of in-built free-floating depression . . .’

  Izzie creased up laughing. ‘Some what?’

  ‘In-built free-floating depression . . .’ I repeated. That was the term used in the article I’d read for when people couldn’t get what they wanted and felt bad about it.

  Izzie shook her head and gave Lucy one of her ‘Nesta’s a nutter’ looks. ‘What’re you like?’ she said. ‘Everyone else gets a bit low from time to time. Oh, but not Nesta. Nesta has in-built free-floating depression.’

  ‘Go on, laugh. Mock. I thought that you, of all people, would understand. I do have days when I’m down, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, Nesta. I didn’t mean to mock. You know that. It’s just it . . .’ she started sniggering again, ‘it is a bit of a fancy term.’

  ‘Everybody has their grey days, even me. And that’s what got me thinking. You can either go down and be miserable or fight.’

  ‘Sink or swim,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Yeah. I reckon that’s what life is all about. Choices. You can go for what you want or watch everybody else get it and feel rotten.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lucy. ‘She’s right, Izzie.’

  ‘You have to really focus on what you want,’ I said.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Izzie thoughtfully.‘All those wannabe popstars on telly now, some of them have been going at it for years.’

  ‘Yeah. So I thought we could have our power breakfast and talk about strategy, game plans . . .’

  ‘But first breakfast,’ said Lucy eagerly. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

  ‘And I’ll squeeze some fresh orange juice,’ said Izzie.

  At that moment, Tony staggered in in his usual morning disarray. He was half asleep and only wearing his boxer shorts. He woke up quickly when he saw Lucy.

  ‘Hi, oh, whoops,’ he said, covering his crotch with his hands and sort of dancing backwards out of the room. ‘Nesta. Why didn’t you tell me you had guests?’

  Hysterical, I thought. It really was. Tony was usually Mr Cool but he had a real thing about Lucy. I think it’s because she’s the only girl who’s ever dumped him. And what a turn around, from her being all shy and in awe of him when she first met him – now she calls the shots. He’s all gaga and she’s all, Oh hi, Tony, you want to go on a date? Yeah . . . maybe. I’ll call you sometime.

  ‘You still cool about him these days, Luce?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. Très cool. I mean, he’ll always be a bit special to me having been my first snog and that, but that’s all.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like he’s very cool,’ remarked Izzie. ‘In fact, I think he still fancies you.’

  ‘Good,’ smiled Lucy. ‘It’s nice to be admired. I just don’t want to get into a heavy relationship at the moment. Now, who wants what?’

  ‘You have learnt well, oh Lucy Skywalker,’ I said, doing my Obi-Wan Kenobi voice. She has. Lucy used to be mega-uncool about boys, thinking she was lucky if one even looked at her. But she’s got so much more confident in the last few months and now knows she doesn’t have to say yes to the first one who looks her way. She’s learnt the golden rule: boys run from desperate but run towards cool.

  We spent the next half hour stuffing ourselves with toast and peanut butter and honey and cappuccinos made on Dad’s machine. Then it was time to begin.

  ‘So,’ I said, wiping the last crumbs from the breakfast bar surface. ‘The game plan. We each make our own. We have to write down the top three things we’d really like to achieve. Then what’s holding us back.’

  I pointed to the pens and paper I’d set out.

  ‘Achieve like when?’ asked Lucy. ‘In the next few weeks or ten years?’

  ‘Either or both. You can choose.’

  Izzie chuckled. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Give us a pen.’

  I scribbled my ideas quickly:

  1) Be an actress (future)

  2) Have lots of money (now)

  3) Be very popular with everyone (now and future)

  ‘I think we should be very specific,’ said Izzie. ‘You know, like, with details. Like if you’re going to write – I want a boy to fall in love with me – you should specify that it’s a decent-looking boy with a good personality or else you may get a boy to fall in love with you but he’ll be a total plonker with knobbly knees and spots. Then we should put these notes in a secret wish box in a special place in our bedrooms.’

  ‘Right,’ me and Lucy chorused.

  I added ‘earning at least ten million a picture’ to number one on my list and smiled to myself. I knew Izzie would get going in the end. In fact, she’s usually the one who starts things like this. She’s into all sorts of alternative therapies and self-help books and Lucy told me that she’s even tried some witchcraft spells.

  ‘Right, ready,’ said Izzie after ten minutes.

  ‘Yep, so am I,’ said Lucy.

  ‘OK, you go first, Izzie,’ I said.

  ‘One,’ read Izzie, ‘be a very successful and popular singer-songwriter. Two, get my own fabulous three-bedroomed flat – that’s so you two can stay over. Three, travel the world first class and stay in fab locations.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Lucy?’

  ‘One. Career goal. Be a dress designer, successful. Two. Love goal. Meet my soulmate before I’m thirty. Fall in love with each other. Three. Home goal. To have a cottage in the country with dogs and cats and lots of animals.’

  I quickly read mine then said, ‘Right, now part two. The next thing to think about is how are you going to achieve this and what’s holding you back.’

  After another ten minutes of scribbling, we’d finished.

  ‘I’ll go first this time,’ I said. ‘OK. To
get lots of money. Only solution is to get a job.’

  ‘I thought you said babysitting didn’t pay enough?’ said Lucy.

  ‘Doesn’t.’ I indicated all my newspapers on a chair by the door. ‘I’m getting a proper job.’

  ‘Have you found anything?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘I’m going to look later.’

  ‘And what about the “being popular” bit?’ asked Izzie.

  ‘Easy. Just carry on being my natural charming self.’

  ‘And modesty is your middle name,’ laughed Izzie.

  ‘So what’s holding you back, then?’ said Lucy. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted.’

  ‘I know what I want, but some days, with the acting bit, it’s hard. I look at myself and think, what makes you so special? There are thousands of people out there all trying to make it.’

  ‘My mum says there are two mistakes you can make in life,’ said Lucy. ‘The first is to think you’re special. The other is to think that you’re not.’

  ‘Good quote,’ said Izzie. ‘But, Nesta, I’m sure you’d be a fabulous actress, and you’re easily the best-looking girl in our school. All the boys swarm round you like bees round a honeypot. I wouldn’t worry. Everybody has days when they doubt themselves. Days when they,’ she grinned, ‘feel in-built free-floating depression. You have nothing to worry about – you stand out in a crowd. People always do double-takes when they see you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But is that because they think I’m pretty or because I’m mixed race?’

  ‘What difference would that make?’ said Izzie, looking surprised.

  ‘It’s because you’re pretty’ said Lucy. ‘Course it is.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ I said. ‘That’s probably why a part of me wants the right gear, you know, to fit in.’

  ‘Course you fit in,’ said Izzie. ‘Doesn’t matter what you wear.’

  ‘I remember once when I was little,’ I said. ‘I was with my mum away for a weekend by the sea. Dad had gone off to get some ice creams and me and Mum were walking along the pier. This man passed us and did a double-take. He was really staring, then he came up to Mum and said, “Oi you, go back to your own country.” He definitely wasn’t staring because we were pretty. To him, we didn’t fit in.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ said Izzie angrily. ‘Where was this? Would you know him again if you saw him? I’ll give him a piece of my mind. What was his name? How dare he?’

  I had to laugh. Izzie looked like she was about to get on the next bus, go and find the man and challenge him to a fight. ‘It was years ago, Iz. Mum told me to close my ears. But it was after that I noticed people staring at Mum. And staring at me.’

  ‘I hate that,’ said Izzie. ‘More than anything. I can’t stand people that are racist. It’s so narrow-minded. It’s what you’re like on the inside that counts.’

  ‘I think more often than not,’ said Lucy, ‘people stare at both you and your mum because you’re both so glam. Not because of the colour of your skin.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but I’ll never know, will I? I remember another day when I was about six, at school, there was a kid in the playground talking about coloured people. I remember thinking, how wonderful – a coloured person: purple legs, a green face, turquoise arms. I wanted to paint one in art. But then the kids started sniggering and pointing to me, saying that I was one. I hadn’t really realised I was different until then. Then later, that man by the seaside – I decided no one was ever going to see if they had upset me. That’s why I act confident. It doesn’t mean I always am. I’ve just got good at the act.’

  ‘I feel a bit like that with my height,’ said Lucy. ‘I know people think I’m just a kid because I’m so small. But, small, tall, fat, thin, black, white, you can’t judge what people are like only by their appearance.’

  ‘Well said,’ said Izzie. ‘We all have our hang-ups. And there will always be people who’ll judge us.’

  ‘What’s your hang-up, then?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s exactly what’s getting in the way of me achieving what I want.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Lucy.

  Izzie looked worried. ‘Well, you know Ben’s been putting some of my lyrics to music?’

  We both nodded.

  ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘he’s asked if I’ll sing at the next gig with his band.’

  ‘OhmyGod,’ said Lucy. ‘How brillopad is that? When?’

  ‘Next week. Friday. But that’s it. I don’t mind singing in front of Ben. But at the thought of performing in public, I go cold. What if I dry up on the night? Just stand there with my mouth open and no words coming out? I’ll look such a fool. I have nightmares about it.’

  ‘Do what I do,’ I said. ‘On days I don’t feel brave, I pretend I’m a character in a film and I think, OK, what would she do?’

  ‘Oh God,’ laughed Izzie, clamping her hands over her ears. ‘You’re going to sing that song from The Sound of Music. The one sung by Mother Superior. “Climb Every Mountain”. Any minute. Aggghhh. Tell me when it’s over.’

  ‘I am not! And what a cheek,’ I said, punching Izzie’s arm. ‘Nuns, I don’t do.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll be ’aving nun of that! But it’s a good idea to think of a character,’ said Lucy. ‘It doesn’t even have to be a film, does it, Nesta? She could just pretend to be some singer.’

  ‘Who’s the most confident singer you can think of?’ I asked.

  ‘Um, Madonna, I guess.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Pretend you’re Madonna.’

  ‘And,’ said Lucy, ‘there’s no time like the present. You can start by singing in front of us.’

  ‘Oh no, no, I couldn’t.’

  Lucy put a tea towel on her head like a nun’s wimple, joined her hands in prayer and started singing, completely out of key, ‘Climb every mountain, ford every stream, er . . . follow every rainbow trout till you find your dream . . .’

  ‘Aggggh,’ said Izzie, putting her hands over her ears again. ‘I give in. Mercy. Mercy.’

  ‘If you can’t sing in front of us, your best mates,’ I said, ‘you’ll never do it. Now go outside and take a deep breath. Imagine Madonna in your head. Madonna who’s going to sing one of your songs the best she’s ever done.’

  ‘Do I have to?’ said Izzie.

  ‘YES!’ said me and Lucy.

  ‘Or else I’ll sing again,’ said Lucy.

  Izzie sighed and got down off her stool. ‘Bossy pair. But I guess it is now or never.’

  She went outside then returned a moment later.

  ‘Can I sing facing the window?’ she said.

  ‘If that’s how Madonna would do it, sure,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, she’s feeling a bit shy today,’ said Izzie as she turned away from us. ‘It’s a song I wrote about stage fright.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then she started singing.

  ‘You say I got what it takes

  And you say I know what makes the world go round,

  But I don’t know what I’m going to do about you.

  I still can’t go on.

  You say I should leave the shadows

  And run for the sun,

  Stand in the spotlight and have some fun.

  Your faith is my strength but I’m afraid I’ll still fall.’

  Lucy and I started cheering madly as Izzie turned round and bowed. She was good, really good. A deep velvety voice. Assured.

  ‘Izzie, I never knew you could sing like that,’ I said. ‘That was really top.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lucy. ‘With a voice like that, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘You think so?’ she said, blushing red.

  ‘Who was that singing?’ said Tony, poking his head round the corner. He was dressed in his best pulling outfit. Black jeans and black T-shirt and he had his hair slicked back and reeked of Dad’s Armani aftershave. It was so obvious he’d done it to impress Lucy. Poor boy. He’s really got it bad.

  ‘Our kni
ght in shining Armani,’ I laughed as he came in.

  ‘It was Izzie,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Wow,’ he said, looking at her with admiration. ‘You’ve got a good voice.’

  Izzie looked really chuffed. ‘Thanks. And thanks, Nesta. This power brekkie was a brillopad idea. Now, where are those papers? Let’s find you a job.’

  We spent the next hour looking for jobs for me but soon discovered I am unemployable. There’s not a lot around for fourteen-year-olds.

  There were jobs for drivers, but I can’t drive.

  Household interviewers, but car essential.

  Cleaners needed, but have to have references. I doubt if Mum would give me one as it’s not my best skill.

  And finally, jobs for receptionists, but only the over-fifties need apply.

  ‘There’s nothing in here for you, Nesta,’ said Izzie as she put the last paper down. ‘You found anything?’

  ‘Almost finished,’ I said. I was looking through a local paper and something had caught my eye.

  Earn between £100–£1000 a day as a full-time or part-time model.

  I jotted down the number on a bit of paper. £100–£1000 a day? I could help Mum and Dad out on that kind of money. Do it full-time in the holidays and part-time when I was at school. Hurrah! A solution.

  I was about to tell the girls but Tony kept popping in, pretending that he needed stuff in the kitchen. It was so transparent that he wanted to be near Lucy. I decided not to say anything about the ad to the girls while he was there as he knew what Mum and Dad had already said about me modelling – that I couldn’t even think about it until I had finished school.

  I was dying to ask the girls what they thought, but Tone wouldn’t go away. He kept asking if we wanted cappuccinos or toast or a bagel. Iz and I kept saying thanks, no and no, thanks. Lucy, on the other hand, was acting as if he wasn’t even there.

  Finally though, I think he’d had enough. He came and stood right in front of her and grinned cheekily.

  ‘I suppose a snog’s out of the question?’ he asked.

  Even Lucy couldn’t resist that and she burst out laughing.

  Nesta’s Diary

  (An up and down day)