Girl Heart Boy: No Such Thing as Forever (Book 1) Read online

  I didn’t think. I just ran. Ollie had been a true friend over the last few weeks. I was a bit scared about what he might say, although I had to admit I was also kind of flattered. I’d meant it when I said was off men, but still. After everything that had happened with Joe, the idea of being fancied at all was kind of a massive relief, even if I couldn’t fancy him back. But Ollie was a sweetheart, and I couldn’t lose his friendship. I couldn’t let him go.

  He opened the door slowly, peering round it and wincing. ‘Have you come to punch me in the face?’

  I laughed. ‘Nope, not this time.’ I brushed imaginary whatever off my coat and cleared my throat. ‘I’ve come round to say I’m sorry … And we’re cool.’ My eyes swivelled up to meet his. ‘I hope?’

  He opened the door fully. ‘Course we are. I’m sorry too, for … y’know …’ He winced again. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what came over me. Something in the moment, I suppose … Like, you’re gorgeous and all, but you and me? I don’t think so!’ He laughed. ‘Can you imagine?!’

  I smiled, relief and slight disappointment battling it out inside me. Relief won, of course. ‘It’s fine. Seriously.’

  He stepped back. ‘You coming in?’

  ‘I’d better not, the girls are waiting for me.’

  Ollie beamed. ‘You’re all friends again!’ I shrugged happily. ‘Nice one. I hated to see you sad.’ He smiled at me, sort of shyly. My insides clenched as he looked like he was about to say something else, but he didn’t, and we kind of stood, saying nothing, for a few moments.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better …’ I gestured with my thumb back towards the path.

  ‘Yeah, course … See you at the party. You’re still coming, right?’

  ‘Course. Wouldn’t miss it.’

  I was about to turn round when he said, ‘Uh … Sarah?’

  ‘Uh … Yeah?’ I mimicked. Anything to keep the atmosphere light.

  He ran his hand through his hair and stopped at the top of his head, his fist full of curls. I tensed as I waited for what he was going to say, rapidly trying to conjure up appropriate responses, but then he surprised me.

  ‘I really am sorry. I was a dick for putting our friendship in jeopardy. You’re so great, I’d just be gutted if I thought we couldn’t carry on like we were before … well, before I was a dick. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. Can we try to forget it ever happened? Never speak of it again, type thing?’ He bit his lip and smiled nervously.

  Mentally having a go at myself for having the gall to feel disappointed when I knew I didn’t want him, not really, I rested my cheek on his chest. He did brilliant hugs, I’d give him that. All strong arms and broad shoulders.

  ‘You’re the nicest boy in the whole, wide world,’ I said, squeezing him.

  His chest shuddered as he laughed. ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  I pulled back and smiled. ‘See you tonight, then.’

  He raised his hand in a motionless wave, and I turned and walked away.

  But it was funny. He kept popping into my head as me and the girls walked along the beach that afternoon. I ignored it, though. I’d made my decision, and, anyway, I’d learned my lesson. No more zoning out to daydream about boys.

  ‘So, Ash,’ I said, linking my arm through hers. ‘Any gossip?’

  But she didn’t answer my question, saying instead, ‘It’s strange, I’m not as scared of it as I’d thought I’d be.’ I followed her gaze out to sea.

  ‘Oh no, please tell me you’re not wearing your cozzie under that lot.’ I shot horror-film wide-eyes at her enormo-boots, skinny jeans and military cape combo, and she gave me a body shove. ‘Oh yes, très amusing.’ But she was smiling. ‘Anyway, I don’t need to, do I? I’ve crossed it off my list.’

  We continued walking arm in arm, in companionable silence. Cass and Donna were walking slightly ahead of us, deep in conversation. If nothing else, the past few weeks’ weirdness had brought the two of them closer together. I was glad.

  Later that night the four of us stood outside the party, our cheeks pink from the cold and our breath making little puffs in the air. We were fashionably late, and I wasn’t even bothered. I felt good. The tears were at bay, for now at least, and I was ready to enjoy myself.

  And then my text alert sounded. Smiling sheepishly, I quickly checked it.

  Sarah Doesn’t-like-beer,

  we need to talk. I’m free

  this weekend …? x

  ‘Who’s it from?’ asked Cass.

  I pressed the Delete button. ‘No one.’

  And so the four of us pushed open the front door and walked into Ollie’s house. Over all the familiar faces I could see him standing in the kitchen, pouring bags of marshmallows into bowls. He caught my eye and smiled.

  RAZORBILL

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Gauteng 2193, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  penguin.com

  First published in Razorbill, an imprint of Penguin Books Ltd, 2012

  Copyright © Penguin Books Ltd, 2012

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  ISBN: 978-0-141-34426-3

  Don’t miss the next fantastic book, coming soon in paperback and ebook:

  Turn over for an exclusive extract …

  I hardly ever came to the Year Thirteen common room. It was too busy and it smelled weird, like feet, and sandwiches that had been wrapped in clingfilm, but you could make a cup of tea for free so it was where I came when I was skint. And I was skint, ever since my mum had stopped paying me to work at her poncey bridal boutique. Economic climate, blah blah. There wasn’t even a more-free-time silver lining to this tale of woe, cos I still worked there. I just didn’t get paid. Was I a mug? Quite possibly.

  ‘So. About Dylan …’ said Donna. I watched her doing the gaping-mouth crazy-eyes-at-the-ceiling thing as she put in her contact lenses.

  ‘Oh, riiight. So that’s why you nearly trod on a dog on the way to school,’ I said, not purposely avoiding the question.

  Donna blinked and rubbed the corners of her eyes. ‘Yeah, well. I overslept. And I’m not going out with my glasses on, am I?’

  ‘You look lovely with your glasses on.’

  She looked at me sceptically. ‘Right.’

  ‘Oop. Kettle boiling.’ I went over to the scabby worktop and reached to get two mugs down from the cupboard. They were chipped and stained with months of dried-on tea, which, in this place, passed for sparkly clean. Teabag in each, splosh of milk (it was on the turn – again, it could have been worse), quick stir and squeeze, bags in the bin, and I was back in my scratchy-yet-squishy common-room chair ready to analyse Dylan. Not that there was much to analyse.

  ‘Yeah. Fit,’ I said airily, recalling his long legs and lush hair, and not exactly feeling what I’d describe as airy. ‘If only he’d have stopped yakking. Couldn’t get a word in.’

  Donna laughed. ‘I know. He was weird, no? Marv reckons he’s just shy.’

  So Donna had been talking about Dylan with her cousin. Did she like him? I
got a sudden flash of the green-eyes, which I just as quickly pushed away.

  ‘You fancied him though, right?’ Don took a smug sip of tea. She knew me too well.

  I shrugged. ‘Out of my league, babes. I might as well fancy Robert Pattinson …’ I paused. ‘Uh, did you? Fancy him?’ We didn’t usually fancy the same type, but you never knew.

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Nah. You know my rule about cardigans.’

  ‘He wasn’t wearing a cardigan!’ I protested, although personally I like a boy in a floppy cardi. In my experience it’s an item of knitwear that confounds stereotypes when worn by a boy, although obvs it has to be worn with the right amount of irony. Let it be known: cardi wearers are good in bed.

  Don sniffed. ‘Yeah, he was. Under the blazer.’ She shook her head. ‘Not my type … But definitely yours …’ She sang the last two words.

  I smiled. ‘Like I said: out of my league.’ It was gutting, really. All weekend after the cinema I’d kept thinking about him. I’d be watching telly or on the loo or trying to get to sleep and there he’d be, leaning nonchalantly against the wall of my mind, one skinny-jeaned leg crossed over the other. Well, that wasn’t all he did. And lots of times he was naked.

  Anyway.

  ‘Don’t be a pussy,’ said Donna. ‘You can have anyone you want. You’ve had most of the boys in this school, for example.’ She smiled prettily. Bitch.

  ‘Piss off,’ I said merrily. ‘And, anyway, there’s a whole heap o’ difference between them and … him. He’s beautiful.’

  Don put her hand on my knee and cocked her head earnestly. ‘As are you, Ashley. As are you.’

  I shoved her hand off. Very funny. ‘Sasha’s the beautiful one,’ I said, draining my tea just as the beeps for next period went.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Donna could eye-roll all she wanted but the facts spoke for themselves. My perfect big sister was beautiful to my OK; good to my naughty; kind to my evil. C’est, unfortunately, la vie.

  ‘Anyway, Marv reckons they’re all coming to Ollie’s party,’ continued Donna as we paused at the door before she turned left to theatre studies and I turned right to media studies. ‘You never know …’

  Right. You never know … but you usually do. I put Dylan out of my mind and spent the next couple of hours working on my media studies coursework.

  We had to make short documentaries. I was loving it. Like, really loving it. And, without wanting to sound like a complete wanker, there was a chance it could change my life. Unlike most of the others, I hadn’t already started my uni applications. Donna wanted to be an actor; Cass was going for law at Cambridge, among others; Sarah wanted to do history of art; Ollie fancied music; Jack was going to do sports science … which left me and Rich floundering. I don’t think Rich had a scooby what he wanted to do with his life and, until recently, neither did I. So I decided I wasn’t going to go to uni. Not yet, anyway. It seemed kind of ridiculous to spend all that money on doing something I didn’t care about just for the sake of getting a degree. Mum and Sasha were shocked and appalled, bien sûr, but it was my life. And, anyway, it had paid off: I’d found something I could be really passionate about. I’d done my research and I’d decided to apply to do film at Southampton, Bournemouth, Falmouth and East Anglia. As yet, nobody knew, and they never would unless I got a place. And I needed this documentary to complete my applications.

  I’d decided to focus on people who’d had near-death experiences. This was a subject close to my thankfully still-beating heart, since I’d almost drowned swimming in the sea in Devon last half term. (Long story.) I thought using it for coursework might stop me having nightmares about it. It was kind of working. And, of course, Dylan had taken over my dreams for the past couple of nights, to très pleasing effect.

  I’d already come up with a few real-life stories from local papers and crappy magazines, hidden among the stupid ‘I Botoxed my armpits’ and ‘My husband’s cheese fetish’ sort of stories. One or two of them were right on the money. Reading their stories had made me realize just how dull mine was. I’d stopped breathing, then started again. End of. The time from when I got in the sea to when I woke up in hospital is just a blank. It’s as if less than a second passed between the two events. But these people saw lights, watched themselves from above, lost all fear of death, etc. I wish I’d had all that.

  I was engrossed in some old lady’s story from the website of our local paper (about her house being bombed when she was a kid in the Second World War), when someone shoved my desk.

  ‘Hey!’ I said, ready to have a go, but it was just Sam. He didn’t like me, although he used to. We’d once hooked up at a party. Truly, I’d never have gone there if I’d thought for a moment he really liked me. And the only reason I laughed when he told me he did was because I genuinely thought he was joking. Anyway, two years on and he still couldn’t look at me without scowling. I tried a friendly smile, but he ignored me and walked to his desk, a book about Dungeons and Dragons under his arm. Mmm, sexy.

  Dylan on the other hand …

  Sod it. I had nothing to lose except my dignity, and that went long ago. Looking around quickly to check that Matt, our teacher, wasn’t in sight, I logged on to Facebook. It was only a matter of time before school blocked it, but for now we were free to socially network to our hearts’ content. Facebooking in class time, however, was a major no-no. We’re talking withdrawal of Internet privileges. So I was furtive furtive, quickly finding Dylan in Marv’s friend list and sending my own request. If he’d accepted it by the time I got home, I’d message him.

  But first I had the rest of the day to get through. I had just enough time before the end of the lesson to fire off a quick email to the editor of the newspaper with a message for the old lady, asking her if she’d let me interview her about her experience, then I went along to the canteen for lunch, as always, and where, as always, Donna, Ollie, Jack and our other friends Sarah, Cass and Rich were sitting at the fourth table from the left, roughly in the middle of the room. Don’t know why or how we’d picked that one – or even when – but on the rare occasions someone else was sitting there it was like walking into your bedroom and finding a stranger in your bed. And not in a good way.

  ‘Still doing pack-ups?’ asked Cass sympathetically, eyeing my hastily chucked together cheese-and-pickle sandwich, now limp after a morning in my bag. She hadn’t bought lunch from the canteen either, but that was because she’d stopped at a deli on the way to school to pick up her usual £4 chicken-salad flatbread hold-the-mayo. She reckons it’s because she doesn’t like the crappy bread in the school sandwiches, and she has a point. But £4?

  I nodded and took a bite of soggy bread and sweaty cheese. It was edible, anyway. And Cass didn’t need to look so sorry for me. Mum still had the shop and the house. We weren’t on benefits quite yet.

  ‘So I hear you had a good weekend,’ said Sarah, peering at me saucily from behind her Ribena carton. ‘Dylan was it …?’

  I shot daggers at Donna, who shrugged not at all guiltily. ‘What? I didn’t know it was a secret.’

  That what was a secret? God, you admit to fancying one boy and it’s Agatha Christie time.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I said to Sarah. ‘He’s not for me.’

  She shook her head. ‘Ash, I have no doubt at all that you could have anyone you wanted … I’ve never yet seen a boy who doesn’t fancy you.’

  ‘Piss off!’ I spluttered.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Ollie seriously. ‘I’d have you here and now if it was socially acceptable.’

  ‘You’d have anyone here and now if it was socially acceptable,’ I replied. ‘No offence.’

  He nodded amiably. ‘Fair point.’

  ‘But seriously, Ash,’ said Rich, who was busy examining a spot on his chin using the mirror in Donna’s eyeshadow compact. ‘You really like him?’

  I chucked my sandwich down on the table in mock outrage, where it instantly curled up at the edges like some fish corpse (the
sandwich, not the outrage). ‘What is this?’ I demanded. ‘You’re never usually this interested in my love life.’

  ‘That’s cos usually you’ve already shagged them,’ said Jack. ‘This is new.’

  Cheeky bastard. That’s so not true, for the record. But all I said was: ‘Yeah, well. He doesn’t fancy me. End of.’

  Dylan, Dylan, Dylan. If my friends hadn’t made such a thing out of it I might have been able to put him out of my mind. But the bastards made sure he was installed good and proper, so by the time I got home that afternoon I was practically panting to get on the computer to check Facebook.

  I slammed the front door and ran to the back room without taking my coat off, where, sitting straight-backed and serene at our computer, was my sister Sasha.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I blurted. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ Fair questions. She didn’t live at home any more, after all. And didn’t she have a laptop/iPad/iPhone/other assorted shiny, portable Internet gadgets? The ‘executive home’ she shared with her ‘partner’ (vomit) Toby in Kent, with its mini ‘guest toiletries’ in the ‘guest bedroom en suite’ and its tasteful sofas and tastefully framed ‘art’ on the walls, was chock-full of the stuff. Technology coming out of its bright red-bricked ears. WiFi flowing invisibly from no less than three little blinking boxes attached neatly to the wall in the downstairs study, the loft room and in the garage. The garage FFS!

  ‘Oh, hey, Ashley,’ said Sasha, turning and smiling sweetly. ‘I’ve got the day off. I’ve finally persuaded Mum to do her food shopping online so I’m signing her up with Ocado as it does Waitrose.’ She turned back to the screen. ‘It’s by far the best, both ethically and in quality.’

  Right. How fascinating. Kill me now if I’m going to find myself discussing supermarkets by the time I’m twenty-four. ‘Well, are you going to be long? I need to use the computer.’

  ‘About quarter of an hour?’ said Sasha without turning round. ‘I’ll come and find you when I’m done.’