The New Girl. Ariana Chambers

      

      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.

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      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Dedication and Copyright

1

2

3

4

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       7

       8

       9

       10

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       12

       13

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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