the meantime, I WAS going to go and try things on ready for Saturday. I have to look my best!!! But now I’m too cross and angry, because of the Scumbag taking advantage. She might at least have given me a telephone number. I bet she didn’t on purpose. I bet that’s why she left her phone, as well, so I couldn’t get hold of her. Then she’ll pretend she just forgot. It’s such a scummy thing to do! I’m surprised at the Stick Insect; I should have thought she’d know better. She always comes across like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and for an eleven-year-old she is quite sensible, on the whole. Unlike my dear little sister, who is just one great big PAIN.
To think that out of the goodness of my heart, because I was feeling so happy, I actually brought back some cakes for tea! Squidgy ones full of cream, as a special treat, to make up for yelling at her about the music. I think I’ll try ringing Jem and see if she feels like coming over and helping me eat them. Then we can go through my wardrobe together and decide what I’m going to wear. I am NOT going to worry myself about little Tubby Scumbag. She is old enough to know better, and I don’t see why I should.
We drove on through the countryside, down lots of twisty turny lanes, just like Harriet had said. I opened the window and ate peppermints and didn’t get sick, but it did seem a long way to drive. Well, to me it did. I thought probably it was because I wasn’t used to car journeys. Mum can’t afford a car, so we don’t really travel very much. It obviously didn’t bother Annie. She was bouncing all over the place like a rubber ball. She kept suddenly appearing over the back of my seat and poking at me.
“Hey, look! There’s a rabbit!” “Oh, look! Donkeys!” “Look, look! Lambs!”
“Yes, we’re way out in the country now,” said Harriet.
Rather shyly, not wanting it to seem like I was prying, I said, “I thought you lived in London?”
“Oh! Yes. London’s where I live. But in the country is where I write my books. Not many people know where I do my writing! I like to keep it a secret.”
She explained how nothing was worse, when you were concentrating really hard, and trying to think what to write next, than to have people come knocking at the door expecting to be invited in for a cup of tea, or ringing you up “just for a chat”.
I knew how she felt. It was what I sometimes feel when I’m writing an essay for school and Mum says, “Megan, put that away now, it’s time for tea.” I always wail, “Mum, I can’t stop in the middle of something!” But Mum never understands, because Mum isn’t a writer. By the time I’ve had tea and gone back to my essay, I have totally forgotten what I was going to write. I said this to Harriet, and she said, “Oh, you understand! We are obviously on the same wavelength.”
I just, like, glowed. I felt so proud at being taken into Harriet’s confidence! If I hadn’t been in the car I would have written things down in my reporter’s book that I had brought with me; but I can’t write – or read – in cars, because of car sickness. However, I knew that I wouldn’t forget it. It was something that Harriet and I had in common. We were both writers! And we didn’t like to be disturbed.
“This was another reason,” said Harriet, “why I didn’t want you telling anyone about our secret meeting … if readers discovered my hideaway, it would be the end! I’d never have a moment’s peace. I would have to move.”
Earnestly, I assured her that we hadn’t told a soul. “And we won’t. I promise!” I then turned round and pulled a face at Annie, ’cos Annie very nearly had told.
“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Annie.
“What’s that?” said Harriet. “What wouldn’t have made any difference?”
“If I’d told my sister we were coming to meet you.”
“But she didn’t!” I said, quickly. “I stopped her.”
“Good girl,” said Harriet.
“She still wouldn’t have known where you lived,” said Annie.
“She might have found out,” I said.
“Well, she probably wouldn’t have been able to,” said Harriet, “because not even my publishers have my country address. I don’t give my country address to anyone! It’s my very secret hideaway where I can be private.”
“Even from Lori?” I said.
“Lori? Oh, no not from Lori. of course not. But from the rest of the world … You have no idea what it’s like to be constantly bombarded by total strangers turning up on the doorstep wanting autographs, or wanting books signed, or just to come in for a chat.”
“It must be horrible!” I said. I really meant it. I wouldn’t want to be a celeb! Annie, however, said she thought it would be quite fun.
“It might seem so, just at first,” said Harriet, “but in the end it wears you down.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You want to write books, not keep on being bothered all the time.”
“Oh, Megan! You and I are kindred spirits,” said Harriet. Which made me glow all over again!
We finally reached what Harriet called her secret hideaway.
“Wasn’t there some writer,” she said, “who had a shed in the garden?”
“Roald Dahl,” I said. “Roald Dahl! I knew it was someone famous. He had his shed, I have my cottage.”
The cottage was at the bottom of a narrow lane. The lane ended up in a woody area, with a field on one side. It was rutted and bumpy, and hardly wide enough for a car.
“Sorry for the rough ride,” said Harriet, as we jolted and bounced. “Not many people come down here – which is why I love it so! Complete peace and quiet.”
“Don’t you get lonely?” said Annie.
“Lonely? Not at all! How could I get lonely when I have all my characters for company?”
“I would,” said Annie.
“You’re not a writer,” I said.
Harriet’s hideaway was like a little dolls’ house. Really cute! Harriet apologised for the fact that it was a bit tumbledown. She said, “It needs a lot of work done on it, but it’s such an upheaval!”
“It’s like the one in Hansel and Gretel,” said Annie.
“The witch’s cottage? Was that tumbledown?”
“No, but it was kind of … spooky.”
“Annieee!”
