Signs of Love - Love Match
Read Signs of Love - Love Match Online
Authors: Melody James
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Hothouse Fiction Limited 2012
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Melody James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road
London
WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
PB ISBN 978-0-85707-322-8
ebook ISBN 978-0-85707-323-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
www.simonandschuster.com.au
With thanks to Kate Cary
Contents
Who’s your perfect love match according to the stars?
‘Thank you so much!’ I gasp, smiling at the cheering crowd.
They go quiet and I squint against the lights, leaning towards the microphone. ‘You might not know this, but I’ve actually been reporting the news since I was six years old.’ My award – a cast-iron quill and ink-bottle – is so heavy I have to rest it on the podium. ‘When Tommy Mulholland kissed Britney Jones on the swings, the rest of the playground heard it from me first.’
Below me, in the front row of the huge auditorium, Mum starts to laugh.
‘But
truth
has always been my guiding light, so when Britney returned the kiss with a punch, I reported that too.’
Now everyone’s laughing.
‘Since then I’ve tried to pursue truth to every corner of the globe, giving voices to the voiceless, hope to the hopeless, help to the helpless and strength to the – er – weak.’
I can see Dad next to Mum, his face shining with pride.
‘Thanks, Mum and Dad, for your faith and support. And . . .’ – my throat tightens – ‘. . . my dear brother Ben. Your courage and spirit have been my inspiration.’
He’s smiling broadly. That’s worth more than any award.
Tears well in my eyes and I cover my face with my hands. The auditorium fills with the sound of shuffling. I peer through my fingers; the audience are on their feet. And now they’re clapping again! Applause washes over me like a wave.
‘Gemma! Gemma!’ They’re calling my name.
‘And a massive thank you to all of you, my dear readers.’ I gulp back a sob. ‘Without your support, I wouldn’t be standing here today.’ I pick up my award and hold it aloft. Suddenly it’s as light as a feather. ‘And to everyone at the Oxford English Dictionary,’ I continue, on a roll now, ‘thank you so much for your wonderful words. And to the makers of Bic biros – thank you for your . . . your ink. And Filofax for keeping me organised and Canon for my printer and Microsoft for Office and—’
‘Gemma! Gemma!’
Their shouts get louder. I feel like Brangelina and Prince Harry rolled into one.
‘Hey, Gemma! What’s up?’
Treacle?
I turn, jerked from my fantasy. The audience dissolves into a row of wheelie bins and the award in my hand morphs into a bottle of Sprite. I’m back on Furniss Street, heading for school and my best friend Treacle is racing along the pavement towards me, her huge sports bag scuffing the ground behind her.
‘What were you doing with that bottle?’ Treacle reaches me and slings her bag back over her shoulder. Her real name is Tracy, but ever since I can remember everyone has called her Treacle because of her shiny black hair. ‘I was watching you from the bus – you were holding it in the air like it was the Olympic torch or something.’
My cheeks start to burn and I stuff the Sprite back into my bag. ‘Nothing, I was just – just – doing a bit of a workout.’
Treacle snorts with laughter. ‘A workout? With a bottle of Sprite?’
‘Yes, actually.’ My imagination whirs into action. ‘Working out with bottled drinks is all the rage right now among celebs. It’s called Fizzical Education.’ I shoot Treacle a sideways glance. ‘That’s fizz as in fizzy drink – and the bonus is you get instant refreshment the minute you finish.’
Treacle rolls her eyes at me. ‘Yeah, right. You were doing your acceptance speech again, weren’t you?’
I grin and nod sheepishly. The trouble with Treacle is she knows me too well.
She hooks her arm through mine as the school gates loom into view. ‘I swear you do most of your living inside your head.’
‘Yes, but it’s way more fun in there.’ I lurch forward as a Year Eleven pushes past us into the playground. ‘Being a Year Nine is not easy. It should be called Year Nobody.’
Treacle frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, that’s how you’re made to feel. Like a big fat nobody. You’re not in the top year, not in the bottom. Not doing GCSEs, not allowed to work in the tuck shop. It’s like we might as well not even exist. Year Nine sucks!’
Treacle shrugs. ‘I like it.’
‘Yeah, well,’ I sniff. ‘You like
football
!’
Treacle groans. ‘Don’t mention football. Our next match is on Thursday. I’m so nervous.’
‘Why?’ I look at her like she’s nuts. ‘You haven’t lost a single game all season.’
‘Yes, in the League, but this is the
Cup
. There’s way more at stake!’ Treacle shifts her sports bag to her other shoulder. ‘Hey, isn’t it your webthingy meeting today?’
‘Webzine. Yep.’ I feel a shiver of excitement. Mr Harris, our English teacher, has asked any students with an interest in journalism to come to a meeting after school today. He wants us to set up an online magazine for the school. This could be the beginning of my brilliant career. This could be the first rung on the ladder that leads to me breaking down in tears at an awards ceremony. This could be—
Treacle nudges me. ‘Look. What’s up with Savannah?’
I follow her gaze to a spot opposite the old brick bike shed. Savannah’s standing there, waving at us like she’s guiding a plane in to land.
By the time we get to her she’s practically hopping up and down. ‘Girls, I need advice!’ As always, Savannah’s hair and make-up are flawless, but her deep brown eyes are clouded with worry and a tiny frown is crinkling her spotless forehead. ‘And I know I can trust you.’
I try not to look shocked – Savannah is normally the walking definition of cool. In all our years of friendship she has never once asked Treacle or me for advice. On anything. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Marcus and Josh have both asked me out,’ Savannah squeals. ‘What should I do? Which one should I choose?’
‘Oh.’ I dump my book bag on the ground. ‘Marcus?’
Savannah screws up her face. ‘Josh is way better looking.’
‘But Marcus is
nice
,’ I point out. She was going to have to talk to him as well as kiss him, surely?
‘Why not date both of them at once?’ Treacle suggests. ‘
Then
decide.’
Savannah stares like Treacle’s just told her to go out with a Year Seven. ‘I couldn’t do that! They’d think I was some kind of date junkie.’
Treacle’s the first to point out the obvious. ‘I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong people, Savannah. We’re not exactly dating experts.’ She sighs. ‘If
only
.’
‘Oh!’ Savannah leans forward. ‘Have you got your eye on someone, Treacle?’
Treacle shifts her feet and blushes. ‘No.’
‘Yes you have, I can tell. Come on, you can tell me. I might be able to help.’
‘Well, I kind of like Jeff Simpson,’ Treacle mumbles.
I wrap my arm round Treacle’s shoulders and give her an encouraging squeeze. She’s been madly in love with Jeff Simpson since we started at Green Park High. Sadly, like all the greatest love stories, it is tragically unrequited.
‘The Year Ten football captain?’ Savannah breaks into a smile. ‘Aiming high! I like it. But why haven’t you told me before?’
‘Cos it’s dumb,’ Treacle shrugs. ‘He’s in Year Ten – he’d never notice me.’
‘So?’ Savannah starts pulling her gleaming chestnut hair back into a loose ponytail. ‘He’s a
boy
. They’re not exactly complicated however old they are. Now, what am I going to do about Marcus and Josh?’ She blows a stray hair from her lips and looks thoughtful. ‘Josh,’ she decides. ‘He
is
better looking.’
A shout goes up from across the yard. A huddle of boys are pointing at a couple ducking out from behind the bike shed.
