only thing that’s keeping me going is knowing that Cara’s back from holiday tomorrow. I’ve never needed my best friend more than I do right now.
Even jet-lagged, Cara has the look of a reality TV-show star.
Like my sister.
Her hair is braided, her skin is golden and her gel nails are so sharp I’m surprised security allowed her to board the plane home.
‘Honey.’ She hugs me tightly on my doorstep, and I don’t want to let go.
I’d texted her to say I wanted to talk to her urgently, so she’s come to my place straight from the airport, leaving her mum to go home in a cab with the luggage.
We walk to the pub by the lock and she orders a cranberry juice.
‘Cara! Have you gone teetotal on holiday?’
‘I’ve become a fruitarian. No toxins will ever enter my body again.’
I stare at her.
She giggles. ‘Had you going! Actually we got upgraded on the plane home and I had so much champagne that I don’t fancy any more booze right now.’
‘Ah. That makes more sense. Life would never be the same if you decided you’d had enough of partying!’
Cara frowns. ‘Plus I need a clear head. Your text made no bloody sense. What’s all this about
flowers
?’
I look away. I don’t want to see her judging me when I tell her. ‘Well, I passed my driving test—’
‘Yeah! I got your text! Big hug!’ She squeezes me tight, then lets go. ‘And?’
‘And I got this huge bouquet delivered.’
‘Ooh, Lewis. Bound to be.’
A short, sharp pain hits me somewhere in my chest. ‘Not Lewis, no. Or my parents. It . . . turns out they were ordered on my mum’s credit card. Cara, they think
I
sent
them.’
She laughs. ‘But why would you send flowers to yourself?’
‘I didn’t. Obviously.’ I sip my water. ‘But someone did and it’s persuaded everyone that Meggie’s death has driven me mad. Literally, mad. Mad enough to send
flowers to myself to make it look like I have some . . . I don’t know, secret admirer.’
Cara closes her eyes. ‘Maybe it’s the jet lag but I’m struggling. You’ve got a secret admirer?’
‘No! Of course not. Though sometimes it
does
feel like I’m being followed.’ I want to see how she reacts before I tell her the other stuff: the mirrors, the flat tyre
and the rest.
‘But who’d do that, hon?’ she asks. ‘I love you to pieces but you’re a seventeen-year-old sixth-former, not a spy or a master criminal. What would be the point of
tailing you?’
I shrug. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’m too boring to be followed.’
Cara blushes. ‘Sorry. Jet lag is making me sound like a right cow, but I’m back now. We’re going to have so much fun that no one following you will have a hope of keeping up,
right?’
I nod.
‘I want to hear a
yes
from you.’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘It’s time, Alice. Time to move on with your life.’
18
I’m dead to the world when my phone’s ring wakes me, urgent and insistent.
I scrabble round for it in the dark.
Dark? It must be very late – or very early. The weather’s stifling this week, it’s impossible to tell what time it is from the temperature alone.
Lewis?
Please let it be Lewis.
But the name on the display reads
Ade.
I almost don’t answer, but it must be serious for him to call at . . . I squint at the time . . . three-forty a.m.
‘Ade? Is that you? What’s going on?’
In the moment before anyone speaks, violent scenarios fill my head: Ade under attack from Sahara. A stranger discovering their bodies and picking up Ade’s phone, scrolling through the
frequently dialled numbers.
Sahara calling to confess.
There’s been no direct contact from her since the day I visited her in Greenwich – the day Mum and Dad confronted me about the flowers.
‘Sorry to call so late.’ Ade’s voice is urgent, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all. He sounds angry. ‘Sahara is very upset. Well, hysterical is probably a more
accurate description.’
‘Why?’
He tuts.
Even jet-lagged, Cara has the look of a reality TV-show star.
Like my sister.
Her hair is braided, her skin is golden and her gel nails are so sharp I’m surprised security allowed her to board the plane home.
‘Honey.’ She hugs me tightly on my doorstep, and I don’t want to let go.
I’d texted her to say I wanted to talk to her urgently, so she’s come to my place straight from the airport, leaving her mum to go home in a cab with the luggage.
We walk to the pub by the lock and she orders a cranberry juice.
‘Cara! Have you gone teetotal on holiday?’
‘I’ve become a fruitarian. No toxins will ever enter my body again.’
I stare at her.
She giggles. ‘Had you going! Actually we got upgraded on the plane home and I had so much champagne that I don’t fancy any more booze right now.’
‘Ah. That makes more sense. Life would never be the same if you decided you’d had enough of partying!’
Cara frowns. ‘Plus I need a clear head. Your text made no bloody sense. What’s all this about
flowers
?’
I look away. I don’t want to see her judging me when I tell her. ‘Well, I passed my driving test—’
‘Yeah! I got your text! Big hug!’ She squeezes me tight, then lets go. ‘And?’
‘And I got this huge bouquet delivered.’
‘Ooh, Lewis. Bound to be.’
A short, sharp pain hits me somewhere in my chest. ‘Not Lewis, no. Or my parents. It . . . turns out they were ordered on my mum’s credit card. Cara, they think
I
sent
them.’
She laughs. ‘But why would you send flowers to yourself?’
‘I didn’t. Obviously.’ I sip my water. ‘But someone did and it’s persuaded everyone that Meggie’s death has driven me mad. Literally, mad. Mad enough to send
flowers to myself to make it look like I have some . . . I don’t know, secret admirer.’
Cara closes her eyes. ‘Maybe it’s the jet lag but I’m struggling. You’ve got a secret admirer?’
‘No! Of course not. Though sometimes it
does
feel like I’m being followed.’ I want to see how she reacts before I tell her the other stuff: the mirrors, the flat tyre
and the rest.
‘But who’d do that, hon?’ she asks. ‘I love you to pieces but you’re a seventeen-year-old sixth-former, not a spy or a master criminal. What would be the point of
tailing you?’
I shrug. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’m too boring to be followed.’
Cara blushes. ‘Sorry. Jet lag is making me sound like a right cow, but I’m back now. We’re going to have so much fun that no one following you will have a hope of keeping up,
right?’
I nod.
‘I want to hear a
yes
from you.’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘It’s time, Alice. Time to move on with your life.’
18
I’m dead to the world when my phone’s ring wakes me, urgent and insistent.
I scrabble round for it in the dark.
Dark? It must be very late – or very early. The weather’s stifling this week, it’s impossible to tell what time it is from the temperature alone.
Lewis?
Please let it be Lewis.
But the name on the display reads
Ade.
I almost don’t answer, but it must be serious for him to call at . . . I squint at the time . . . three-forty a.m.
‘Ade? Is that you? What’s going on?’
In the moment before anyone speaks, violent scenarios fill my head: Ade under attack from Sahara. A stranger discovering their bodies and picking up Ade’s phone, scrolling through the
frequently dialled numbers.
Sahara calling to confess.
There’s been no direct contact from her since the day I visited her in Greenwich – the day Mum and Dad confronted me about the flowers.
‘Sorry to call so late.’ Ade’s voice is urgent, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all. He sounds angry. ‘Sahara is very upset. Well, hysterical is probably a more
accurate description.’
‘Why?’
He tuts.
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