Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Kate Cann lives in England with her husband, daughter, son and dog. She worked as an editor for many years before writing several books, including Ready?, Sex, and Go!, which were bestsellers in the UK.

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Hi Abby,

Bet I'm the last person you expected to get a card from. The island is hot and beautiful and brilliant, but you were 80% right about Davinia. No—90% right. She's totally self-centered and she's trying to force me to date this creep! I'd sooner slit my wrists because I'm in love with someone else. He's gorgeous but he hates me. Aren't holidays supposed to be relaxing?! Abby, I wish we hadn't fallen out. Maybe see you when I get back?

Lots of love (honest!),

Chloe xxx

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Mediterranean Holiday

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Chapter One

When Davinia Morgan-Harwood was first shown into our sixth-form common room and introduced by our class monitor, the whole place went silent. And not only because no one could really believe that was her name.

First of all, she was looking round at the rest of us as though we'd been dumped on the floor by an incontinent dog. She looked like, far from hoping she'd be accepted by her new classmates, she'd bite your face if you came anywhere near her.

Second of all, she was gorgeous. I mean seriously, unfairly gorgeous. A mass of dead-straight, glowing auburn hair casually caught back with a wide black hair clip, huge fog-lamp brown eyes, quirky but perfect face, long legs . . . the works. And most of all, she had such style, such I-am-who-I-am, screw-the-rest-of-you chutzpah.

She was in the uniform that the sad ex-prison guards who've got jobs as teachers here in this godforsaken, all-girls, fee-paying ghetto made us wear, but on her, it looked good. The skirt was tighter than it should've been; the shirt looser and unbuttoned low, the sweater tied French-style; and her shoes must've cost ten times the whole lot of it put together.

"Shit!" muttered Abby, next to me. Abby, as she frequently assured me, was my best friend. "Who the hell does she think she is?"

I didn't answer—I was too busy ogling.

"Davinia had . . . er . . . some problems at her last school," barked our monitor. "And as the A level exams are upon us she'll have some catching up to do, so I want you all to help her adjust and fit in. Any questions?"

She glared round at us, daring anyone to say a word. Then she turned on her dumpy beer-bottle legs and marched out.

Cissie, the class captain, had already been primed to Look After the New Girl. She sashayed bossily over to her and bleated, "Hi, Davinia? Do you shorten that?"

"Do I shorten what?" snapped Davinia.

"Your name? I wondered if you got called Davy, or Dav, or . . . ?"

"No."

"O-kay . . . well, let me show you where the kettle is. So you can make coffee?"

Davinia stared at her blankly, then she said, "I don't want coffee."

"Right." Cissie prided herself on her diplomacy and her ability to deal with awkward students. "So—you know where your locker is?"

"Yes," snapped Davinia. She radiated boredom and irritation.

I was utterly bowled over by her arrogance. Here she was in a new school, and she was acting like a queen bitch and she just didn't care. It was suicidal and breathtakingly brilliant.

"What did you get kicked out for?" demanded Abby, hackles rising like the tough little terrier she is.

Davinia looked down and smiled with just one side of her mouth, all sneering and sexy. Then she looked up and said, "Cocaine."

It only took till lunchtime before the bullies were on to her. Marsha Hunt, big and mean, and Una Trilby, stick-thin and warped, led their nasty gang over to her as she waited in the lunch line. Marsha juggernauted her way in front and announced, "You're new."

I was sitting at a table nearby with Abby. I waited with my breath held for Davinia to react, to complain, to say something that would give Marsha's mob the excuse they needed to get verbal and sneakily physical. To give them an excuse to jump her at the end of the day.

"Yup," said Davinia, and she drew out of her pocket a tiny gray-blue mobile and started to read her texts.

"I'm talking to you," growled Marsha.

"S'OK," said Davinia, still text-checking, "I can do more than one thing at a time, I'm gifted like that."

Marsha was stunned, but you could feel her working up a head of steam as her mob shuffled balefully around her. Then, before it could all explode, Davinia looked up and gave her the most stunning and disarming smile and said, "Go on!"

"Go on what?" croaked Marsha. You could tell she was charmed, despite herself.

"With what you were saying."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"What? Why d'you think that?"

"You're making fun of me," Marsha repeated stolidly.

"Of course I'm not. What kind of idiot would I be to make fun of someone on my first day here?" Then she smiled brilliantly again, and said, "Tell me, is that macaroni and cheese edible?"

"It's really good actually," said Marsha. The words were out before she remembered she was trying to bully the new girl.

"I'll get some then," said Davinia, and she practically pushed by Marsha and picked up a plateful. She added a salad to her tray and sailed on to pay, then sat by herself at an empty table near the long, low windows.

"Did you see that?" breathed Abby.

"What?" I answered. "Nothing happened." For some reason, I didn't want to talk about Davinia to Abby. It was like I wanted to keep her to myself.

"Exactly," Abby rushed on. "She just . . . brushed Marsha aside. Look at them all . . . Una's gobsmacked. They don't know what happened. So they're pretending nothing did."

"Nothing did," I echoed.

"Oh, right!" said Abby, indignantly. She hated it when I didn't agree with everything she said. "One of their victims just . . . danced away. Why aren't they going after her?"

"Because . . ." I wanted to say "because of that amazing smile she gave" but I said, "She just acted like she wasn't scared of them, that's all."

"She wasn't acting, if you ask me. She actually wasn't scared. Trust me. She's either thick or . . .

or . . ."

"Or what?" I asked, but before Abby could answer I went on, "Hey—there's Ciara. Shall we get her to come over and join us?" Abby, a bit frostily, agreed, and I waved to Ciara and the subject was dropped.

Except that, whenever I thought I could get away with it, I slid my eyes toward the window to look at Davinia. Who ate all of her salad and half her macaroni and cheese, then calmly stood up and walked, perfectly poised, out of the dining room.

As I watched her go, I wondered if I could possibly be turning into a lesbian.

Excerpted from Mediterranean Holidayby Kate Cann Copyright © 2007 by Kate Cann. Excerpted by permission.
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