black embroidered lace-and-floral pattern were clearly not aimed at sixteen-year-olds. Abigail had no idea what Melanie was thinking. In honesty, she was a bit creeped out.
(Are you doing your bitfor the monkeys, Abigail?)
As she touched the come-get-me lingerie, Abigail found her mind wandering in strange directions. Did Melanie want her to find a boyfriend? Did Becky have a boyfriend? (It clearly wasn’t Stick, and Joe was too young; there was some deeper brotherly connection there.)
Abigail had never met a boy who’d tempted her back in Glasgow. She’d had offers, right enough. There was a sweet boy she kept bumping into at the Hillhead Library, for example. They chatted about Golding and Stephen Hawking a few times. Eventually, he’d asked her if she wanted “to go for a coffee.” She’d said, “No, thanks.” She switched to Mitchell Library after that. If their arms ever touched, she hadn’t noticed. Her hairs definitely hadn’t prickled. Library boy was nothing. He was blah. If he’d ever become something, he would have delved, asked questions, tried to make her need him. She didn’t want any of that shite. She made a mental note to remember the mantra—
I don’t want any of that shite
—in case she ever saw Stick again. It would probably be best if she didn’t. Right. She had to snap back into robot mode. Robots needed nothing. No more late night “bombing” with Becky. It was settled. The see-through and lacy numbers would be for her eyes only.
At least she had clothes now. Most importantly, she had a swimsuit.
“Are there rules about the pool?” she finally asked.
Melanie laughed. “Yes. Don’t drown in it.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. This is your home. The pool is your pool. You hear me?” She placed her hands on Abigail’s shoulders. “This is your home.”
Abigail nodded.
My home
.
Melanie went on: She’d organized driving lessons (with Alberto, “who is wonderful!” starting next week). She’d bought Abigail a laptop and printer and had printed out information about the car service, local transport, shops, and her school, which would start in three weeks’ time. And she’d made her an appointment to get her hair done.
“Oh actually, do you mind if I go somewhere else?” Abigail asked, retrieving the card Bren gave her from her backpack. “My friend is a hairdresser.”
Melanie’s eyes glazed over for a moment, as if the words didn’t register. Then she smiled abruptly. “Of course! I’ll drop you on the way to the caterers’.”
Before heading downstairs, Abigail knocked on Becky’s door.
No answer. Without thinking, Abigail opened the door an inch, then regretted it and shut it again. She didn’t have a clue how to be intimate with this girl. Hell, she didn’t even know who Becky
was
, really. Only that wasn’t true. Becky had shared something last night, hadn’t she? But it was nothing Abigail could define. Passing concern for a kid in orange coveralls? No. It was more. It was crazy. Like the arm hair thing. A fuzzy thing that makes no sense and screws you up. Best ignored. Her mantra would be handy in relation to Becky
and
Stick.
I don’t want any of that shite
.
As she made her way through the sprawling house, she noticed that her father’s den was closed again. She could hear a drawer banging shut, papers shuffling. She wondered if she’d ever even consider knocking on that door. But she alreadyknew the answer to that one, too.
Probably not until I suss it out with Becky first
.
A BIGAIL WAS ASTOUNDED THAT Bren managed such a good job at the same time as talking non-stop.
He was a genius, it seemed. When she looked in the mirror she saw that he had maintained the essence of her personality—wary and tough—while adding never-before-seen elegance to her short, feathery blonde hair. In forty-five short minutes, he had given her the impossible: actual style.
Only twenty years old, and he was already co-owner of a salon in Beverly
(Are you doing your bitfor the monkeys, Abigail?)
As she touched the come-get-me lingerie, Abigail found her mind wandering in strange directions. Did Melanie want her to find a boyfriend? Did Becky have a boyfriend? (It clearly wasn’t Stick, and Joe was too young; there was some deeper brotherly connection there.)
Abigail had never met a boy who’d tempted her back in Glasgow. She’d had offers, right enough. There was a sweet boy she kept bumping into at the Hillhead Library, for example. They chatted about Golding and Stephen Hawking a few times. Eventually, he’d asked her if she wanted “to go for a coffee.” She’d said, “No, thanks.” She switched to Mitchell Library after that. If their arms ever touched, she hadn’t noticed. Her hairs definitely hadn’t prickled. Library boy was nothing. He was blah. If he’d ever become something, he would have delved, asked questions, tried to make her need him. She didn’t want any of that shite. She made a mental note to remember the mantra—
I don’t want any of that shite
—in case she ever saw Stick again. It would probably be best if she didn’t. Right. She had to snap back into robot mode. Robots needed nothing. No more late night “bombing” with Becky. It was settled. The see-through and lacy numbers would be for her eyes only.
At least she had clothes now. Most importantly, she had a swimsuit.
“Are there rules about the pool?” she finally asked.
Melanie laughed. “Yes. Don’t drown in it.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. This is your home. The pool is your pool. You hear me?” She placed her hands on Abigail’s shoulders. “This is your home.”
Abigail nodded.
My home
.
Melanie went on: She’d organized driving lessons (with Alberto, “who is wonderful!” starting next week). She’d bought Abigail a laptop and printer and had printed out information about the car service, local transport, shops, and her school, which would start in three weeks’ time. And she’d made her an appointment to get her hair done.
“Oh actually, do you mind if I go somewhere else?” Abigail asked, retrieving the card Bren gave her from her backpack. “My friend is a hairdresser.”
Melanie’s eyes glazed over for a moment, as if the words didn’t register. Then she smiled abruptly. “Of course! I’ll drop you on the way to the caterers’.”
Before heading downstairs, Abigail knocked on Becky’s door.
No answer. Without thinking, Abigail opened the door an inch, then regretted it and shut it again. She didn’t have a clue how to be intimate with this girl. Hell, she didn’t even know who Becky
was
, really. Only that wasn’t true. Becky had shared something last night, hadn’t she? But it was nothing Abigail could define. Passing concern for a kid in orange coveralls? No. It was more. It was crazy. Like the arm hair thing. A fuzzy thing that makes no sense and screws you up. Best ignored. Her mantra would be handy in relation to Becky
and
Stick.
I don’t want any of that shite
.
As she made her way through the sprawling house, she noticed that her father’s den was closed again. She could hear a drawer banging shut, papers shuffling. She wondered if she’d ever even consider knocking on that door. But she alreadyknew the answer to that one, too.
Probably not until I suss it out with Becky first
.
A BIGAIL WAS ASTOUNDED THAT Bren managed such a good job at the same time as talking non-stop.
He was a genius, it seemed. When she looked in the mirror she saw that he had maintained the essence of her personality—wary and tough—while adding never-before-seen elegance to her short, feathery blonde hair. In forty-five short minutes, he had given her the impossible: actual style.
Only twenty years old, and he was already co-owner of a salon in Beverly
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