Ariana Chambers - The New Girl

With special thanks to

Siobhan Curham and Catherine Coe

First published in Great Britain 2016

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Copyright © Egmont UK Ltd, 2016

First e-book edition 2016

ISBN 978 1 4052 7740 2

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1698 7

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication and Copyright With special thanks to Siobhan Curham and Catherine Coe First published in Great Britain 2016 by Egmont UK Limited The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN Copyright © Egmont UK Ltd, 2016 First e-book edition 2016 ISBN 978 1 4052 7740 2 Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1698 7 www.egmont.co.uk A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

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Back series promotional page

One of my favourite feel-good film scenes of all time is from a movie called Winter Vacation . In it, the main character, Lola, has just arrived home from college for Christmas. She’s trudging through the airport feeling all gloomy because she thinks her boyfriend, Josh, is going to be away for the holidays visiting his dad. But as she walks into Arrivals she sees Josh waiting for her with a big soppy grin on his face. He’s holding one of those little cardboard signs with her name on it and I love you, Peanut! written underneath (‘Peanut’ is his nickname for her, but that’s a whole other story). The second Lola sees him, she flings herself over the barrier and into his arms. Every time my best friend Ellie and I watch that scene – even after about five hundred viewings – we tear up. Every time, without fail.

As I walk into the Arrivals hall of Newbridge Airport, trying to keep my trolley wheels straight and my guitar from sliding off my tower of cases, I can’t help scanning the line of people at the barrier hopefully. Even though I know Aunt Clara isn’t able to meet me because she has to be at her shop for a delivery, and even though there’s absolutely no one else to come and meet me, because:

a) I don’t have a boyfriend like Josh,

b) I don’t have a boyfriend, period,

c) I don’t know anyone other than Aunt Clara in this place, my eyes still search for a piece of cardboard with my name. But there’s only one person holding a sign, a chubby man with a red face, wearing a too-tight suit. His sign says MR BAILEY . Definitely not Nessa Reid. Definitely not me. I sigh and push my trolley past the line of people, trying to look all cool and nonchalant, like I don’t care that I’ve been sent to this stupid place, in the middle of nowhere, with no friends and no one to even come and meet me at the airport. As my guitar almost slides off the trolley again I think of my dad and feel a stab of anger. He gave me the guitar as a going-away gift – like that’s going to make up for the fact that he deserted me to go and work in Dubai, in the Middle East. At least I have something I can write angry songs about bad parents on, I guess.

I look around the Arrivals hall. Dad told me that the taxi rank would be on my right. I didn’t realise that he’d meant literally. The airport is so tiny I can actually see the taxis lined up on the other side of the glass wall. I push my trolley over to the doors. As they slide apart I’m hit by a sharp blast of cold air. When I left London the weather was bright and sunny, but here in Scotland the December sky is a dull, heavy white, like a thick layer of cotton wool. My trolley clatters on the paving stones as I walk over to the first cab in the line. I fumble in my pocket for the piece of paper Dad gave me with Aunt Clara’s address on it, even though I’ve studied it so many times during the flight that I know it by heart. I’ve got a horrible anxious feeling in my stomach.

‘Please can you take me to Paper Soul on Fairhollow High Street?’ I say to the driver as he gets out of his taxi and opens the boot. He has short silver-grey hair and a slightly flattened nose, like he might have broken it once in a fight.

‘Paper what?’ he says, picking up one of my cases.

‘Paper Soul. It’s a bookshop – and café.’ This is the one good thing about being sent to stay with Aunt Clara – I’ll be living above a café and a bookshop, two of my favourite things in one building. ‘It’s next to the chemist’s,’ I add, looking back at Dad’s directions.

‘Ah,’ the driver says knowingly. ‘That place.’

He doesn’t exactly sound impressed. I get into the back of the cab and try not to wonder why. As I stuff the piece of paper back into my pocket my fingers brush against my mum’s locket. Instantly, I feel better.

My mum passed away when I was very young – not long after I had been sick in hospital myself as a baby. I don’t really remember her, and Dad doesn’t talk about her very much, but last night when I was packing to leave he gave me this locket. ‘It was hers, and she would have wanted you to have it,’ he said gruffly. It’s beautiful, small and silver with a five-pointed star delicately engraved on the front, and I love the way it feels in my hand.

As the driver pulls away from the airport, I close my eyes and play the Worse Off Than You game. This is a game I invented during a particularly grim Science test involving the Periodic Table. The idea is that whenever you’re feeling really stressed about something, you just have to think of a much worse scenario and it will instantly make your own problem feel smaller. I imagine a girl my age, thirteen, stranded in the middle of the Sahara Desert. She hasn’t had anything to drink for days and a herd of snorting camels are about to stampede her. I open my eyes and look out of the window. We’re driving along a narrow country lane, surrounded by bare, stubbly fields. It looks pretty bleak, but at least there are no stampeding camels and I have a bottle of water in my bag. I take it out and have a sip. There really are a lot of people a lot worse off than me. This really isn’t the end of the world . . . it just feels like it.