enviously.
“I was about to paint my nails as well,” Millie says quickly.
“Yeah, me too,” I add.
“Don’t even think about it,” Mum says.
“I still reckon we should go and buy the wood,” Clare says apprehensively. “I’ve got some cash in my purse.”
“Since when have you been such a goody two-shoes?” Dad grins, knowing that’s exactly the thing to rile Clare.
“Just go, please, girls,” Mum says, as Clare and Dad continue their bickering. “Take Harry with you. And Murphy.”
When we pass the marquee there’s a hideous noise coming from inside – a couple of guitars and what sounds like a trumpet, accompanied by a strange wailing sound.
Millie and I make faces at each other as Murphy starts to howl in accompaniment. They must be the warm-up act.
“Come on, Murph,” Millie says, tugging him towardsthe woods. “I can’t believe Isabella got out of this. I don’t think she’s having much fun, do you?”
“Nuh-uh,” I say.
“She’s really nice, isn’t she?” Millie says, as Murphy stops to pee all over a log I’d been about to pick up.
I’ll be leaving that one there, then.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to summon up some enthusiasm. I mean, sure, she’s okay. But
really nice
is pushing it, in my opinion. She’s still hardly talking to me. I just don’t think she wants to be here.
“Here’s some wood,” Harry yells from up ahead.
“She’s so generous, isn’t she?” Millie continues, as Murphy hauls us off in Harry’s direction. “She said she’d lend me her clothes. I can’t wait to get my hands on her wardrobe.”
“Great,” I say, still sounding stupidly unenthusiastic even to my own ears.
Does Millie want someone to talk about fashion with? She loves clothes and style, and all that stuff. She gets out of bed twenty minutes early most days to plan her outfits. Whereas I tumble out of bed at the last possible minute and grab whatever’s nearest or clean.
Is Isabella the kind of mate Millie wants?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We quickly gather up as much wood as we can lift. Even Murphy helps, carrying a mouthful of sticks. We should have brought something to put the logs in because they’re damp and disgusting and making us filthy. Millie’s seriously unimpressed that she’s got a moss skidmark down her top. Plus it’s starting to get dark, and the woods are kind of creepy.
We dump the logs into the fire pit by the caravan as Dad comes outside.
“What kept you?” Dad asks.
His only reply is three fierce scowls.
“Well, that’ll do for starters. Now let’s get this fire going,” Dad says, ignoring our glares. He then proceeds to try to light the fire, but fails dismally. “Paper. I need some paper. Has anyone got any?”
“Amber bought tons of magazines with her,” Harry says.
“Fantastic,” Dad says. “She’s in the shower, althoughLord knows how she’s managed to fit. Go and fetch one, would you, please?”
He enthusiastically rips up the magazine Harry returns with and scrumples it up into balls, then spends forever building a kind of wooden tepee over the pile of paper.
“I’m starving,” I say. “Are we going to be eating anytime soon?”
“Shhh,” he says, flapping a hand at me. He lights the paper, which flares into life, burns brightly for a few moments, and then goes out again, leaving the wood unscathed.
“Okay. Let’s try that again…” Dad says.
He repeats this process over and over again, until eventually the fire starts to burn brightly. “We’ll wait for the flames to die down to embers, then we’ll put the meat on,” Dad says.
“Erm, it’s kind of smoky, isn’t it?” I say, as plumes of black smoke start billowing upwards.
“It’s fine,” Dad says. “I was a champion boy scout. Legendary fire-building skills. It’ll stop in a minute, you’ll see.”
But it doesn’t. The smoke gets worse, thicker and blacker, and is making us cough. The wind is blowing plumes of smoke all over the campsite.
“Devon
“I was about to paint my nails as well,” Millie says quickly.
“Yeah, me too,” I add.
“Don’t even think about it,” Mum says.
“I still reckon we should go and buy the wood,” Clare says apprehensively. “I’ve got some cash in my purse.”
“Since when have you been such a goody two-shoes?” Dad grins, knowing that’s exactly the thing to rile Clare.
“Just go, please, girls,” Mum says, as Clare and Dad continue their bickering. “Take Harry with you. And Murphy.”
When we pass the marquee there’s a hideous noise coming from inside – a couple of guitars and what sounds like a trumpet, accompanied by a strange wailing sound.
Millie and I make faces at each other as Murphy starts to howl in accompaniment. They must be the warm-up act.
“Come on, Murph,” Millie says, tugging him towardsthe woods. “I can’t believe Isabella got out of this. I don’t think she’s having much fun, do you?”
“Nuh-uh,” I say.
“She’s really nice, isn’t she?” Millie says, as Murphy stops to pee all over a log I’d been about to pick up.
I’ll be leaving that one there, then.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to summon up some enthusiasm. I mean, sure, she’s okay. But
really nice
is pushing it, in my opinion. She’s still hardly talking to me. I just don’t think she wants to be here.
“Here’s some wood,” Harry yells from up ahead.
“She’s so generous, isn’t she?” Millie continues, as Murphy hauls us off in Harry’s direction. “She said she’d lend me her clothes. I can’t wait to get my hands on her wardrobe.”
“Great,” I say, still sounding stupidly unenthusiastic even to my own ears.
Does Millie want someone to talk about fashion with? She loves clothes and style, and all that stuff. She gets out of bed twenty minutes early most days to plan her outfits. Whereas I tumble out of bed at the last possible minute and grab whatever’s nearest or clean.
Is Isabella the kind of mate Millie wants?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We quickly gather up as much wood as we can lift. Even Murphy helps, carrying a mouthful of sticks. We should have brought something to put the logs in because they’re damp and disgusting and making us filthy. Millie’s seriously unimpressed that she’s got a moss skidmark down her top. Plus it’s starting to get dark, and the woods are kind of creepy.
We dump the logs into the fire pit by the caravan as Dad comes outside.
“What kept you?” Dad asks.
His only reply is three fierce scowls.
“Well, that’ll do for starters. Now let’s get this fire going,” Dad says, ignoring our glares. He then proceeds to try to light the fire, but fails dismally. “Paper. I need some paper. Has anyone got any?”
“Amber bought tons of magazines with her,” Harry says.
“Fantastic,” Dad says. “She’s in the shower, althoughLord knows how she’s managed to fit. Go and fetch one, would you, please?”
He enthusiastically rips up the magazine Harry returns with and scrumples it up into balls, then spends forever building a kind of wooden tepee over the pile of paper.
“I’m starving,” I say. “Are we going to be eating anytime soon?”
“Shhh,” he says, flapping a hand at me. He lights the paper, which flares into life, burns brightly for a few moments, and then goes out again, leaving the wood unscathed.
“Okay. Let’s try that again…” Dad says.
He repeats this process over and over again, until eventually the fire starts to burn brightly. “We’ll wait for the flames to die down to embers, then we’ll put the meat on,” Dad says.
“Erm, it’s kind of smoky, isn’t it?” I say, as plumes of black smoke start billowing upwards.
“It’s fine,” Dad says. “I was a champion boy scout. Legendary fire-building skills. It’ll stop in a minute, you’ll see.”
But it doesn’t. The smoke gets worse, thicker and blacker, and is making us cough. The wind is blowing plumes of smoke all over the campsite.
“Devon
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