a picture of Felipe.
‘Er, not sure who you mean,’ she blustered, not fooling anyone.
Lori reached for her laptop and clicked on to Charlie’s photos. Sure enough, there was a picture of Felipe and Charlie standing on the beach, talking to each other. It was one of Zoe’s more artistic shots, taken when Charlie hadn’t realised they were being photographed. Felipe had his arms round her waist, holding her close to him. They certainly looked more than good friends; they looked like lovers, with eyes only for each other.
‘Oh, him,’ she muttered.
Her mum looked at her expectantly and Charlie knew she would never get away with not saying anything – her mum had ways of making her talk … ‘He’s called Felipe, and he lives in Spain so I’m not likely to see him again.’
‘Loads of cheap flights to Spain,’ Lori persisted. ‘You could go for the weekend.’
‘I often work at weekends, remember?’
‘Not
every
weekend.’
Charlie sighed; she would have to ’fess up. ‘Actually, Mum, I’m never going to see him again.’ And she went on to tell them about Felipe believing that she was a journalist about to sell a story on him.
‘That is totally out of order!’ Lori exclaimed. ‘As if you would ever do something like that! What a bastard tosser! And there was I, thinking how lovely he looked.’
Hell hath no fury like a mother whose daughter has been dissed …
‘Well, now you know,’ Charlie replied. She raised her glass. ‘
Hasta la vista
, Felipe.’
Chapter 7
IT DIDN’T MATTER how many times before Charlie had been to visit her brother in prison; every time it got to her. Her mum was falsely cheerful on the drive over but Charlie knew how much she hated seeing her son there. True to his word, her dad hadn’t come.
It didn’t help that it was a freezing cold day with bursts of sleet and that Lori had to park a good ten minutes’ walk away from the prison. As they drew closer her conversation dried up, and by the time they arrived they were both silent as they took their place in the line of visitors waiting to go in. No one looked happy; everyone had lowered heads, hunched shoulders, and were shivering in cheaply made coats that weren’t warm enough to keep out the bitter cold. Plumes of cigarette smoke spiralled into the air. Signals of the lost, Charlie always thought. Several places in front of them a toddler was crying. Poor child, having to see their dad here.
‘It’s at times like this that I wish I smoked,’ Lori remarked grimly. The usual sparkle was missing from her eyes; her mouth was set.
‘Think of the wrinkles you’d have,’ Charlie tried to joke. Her mum didn’t reply.
One of the doors to the prison was opened and the queue shuffled forward. It took over an hour to get through security. Everyone, including the children, was searched for drugs and all bags had to be locked away in lockers. No one could take in mobile phones. By the time Charlie and Lori made it to the depressing visitors’ room, with its peeling pale blue paint and CCTV cameras mounted on the walls, they felt as if they were the criminals.
Kris was already sitting at one of the tables, which was bolted to the floor, on a plastic chair, which was also bolted to the floor. Like all the other prisoners, he was wearing a red bib over his prison clothes of a grey sweatshirt and trousers, the colours chosen so all prisoners could be quickly identified. There was something about the bib that particularly upset Charlie – it was just like the sports bib he used to wear for five-a-side football and was a reminder that Kris wouldn’t be doing that again for a while. It broke Charlie’s heart to see him here, hands jammed in his pockets, head down. He looked as if he couldn’t be less bothered about seeing them. She supposed that it was all part of the tough act he had to put on to survive here.
‘All right,’ he said, as they took their seats across the table from him. His skin looked grey and
‘Er, not sure who you mean,’ she blustered, not fooling anyone.
Lori reached for her laptop and clicked on to Charlie’s photos. Sure enough, there was a picture of Felipe and Charlie standing on the beach, talking to each other. It was one of Zoe’s more artistic shots, taken when Charlie hadn’t realised they were being photographed. Felipe had his arms round her waist, holding her close to him. They certainly looked more than good friends; they looked like lovers, with eyes only for each other.
‘Oh, him,’ she muttered.
Her mum looked at her expectantly and Charlie knew she would never get away with not saying anything – her mum had ways of making her talk … ‘He’s called Felipe, and he lives in Spain so I’m not likely to see him again.’
‘Loads of cheap flights to Spain,’ Lori persisted. ‘You could go for the weekend.’
‘I often work at weekends, remember?’
‘Not
every
weekend.’
Charlie sighed; she would have to ’fess up. ‘Actually, Mum, I’m never going to see him again.’ And she went on to tell them about Felipe believing that she was a journalist about to sell a story on him.
‘That is totally out of order!’ Lori exclaimed. ‘As if you would ever do something like that! What a bastard tosser! And there was I, thinking how lovely he looked.’
Hell hath no fury like a mother whose daughter has been dissed …
‘Well, now you know,’ Charlie replied. She raised her glass. ‘
Hasta la vista
, Felipe.’
Chapter 7
IT DIDN’T MATTER how many times before Charlie had been to visit her brother in prison; every time it got to her. Her mum was falsely cheerful on the drive over but Charlie knew how much she hated seeing her son there. True to his word, her dad hadn’t come.
It didn’t help that it was a freezing cold day with bursts of sleet and that Lori had to park a good ten minutes’ walk away from the prison. As they drew closer her conversation dried up, and by the time they arrived they were both silent as they took their place in the line of visitors waiting to go in. No one looked happy; everyone had lowered heads, hunched shoulders, and were shivering in cheaply made coats that weren’t warm enough to keep out the bitter cold. Plumes of cigarette smoke spiralled into the air. Signals of the lost, Charlie always thought. Several places in front of them a toddler was crying. Poor child, having to see their dad here.
‘It’s at times like this that I wish I smoked,’ Lori remarked grimly. The usual sparkle was missing from her eyes; her mouth was set.
‘Think of the wrinkles you’d have,’ Charlie tried to joke. Her mum didn’t reply.
One of the doors to the prison was opened and the queue shuffled forward. It took over an hour to get through security. Everyone, including the children, was searched for drugs and all bags had to be locked away in lockers. No one could take in mobile phones. By the time Charlie and Lori made it to the depressing visitors’ room, with its peeling pale blue paint and CCTV cameras mounted on the walls, they felt as if they were the criminals.
Kris was already sitting at one of the tables, which was bolted to the floor, on a plastic chair, which was also bolted to the floor. Like all the other prisoners, he was wearing a red bib over his prison clothes of a grey sweatshirt and trousers, the colours chosen so all prisoners could be quickly identified. There was something about the bib that particularly upset Charlie – it was just like the sports bib he used to wear for five-a-side football and was a reminder that Kris wouldn’t be doing that again for a while. It broke Charlie’s heart to see him here, hands jammed in his pockets, head down. He looked as if he couldn’t be less bothered about seeing them. She supposed that it was all part of the tough act he had to put on to survive here.
‘All right,’ he said, as they took their seats across the table from him. His skin looked grey and
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