bad things to scary people. It terrifies me.’
He narrows his eyes and fixes me with a serious stare. ‘Has anything happened?’
I try to smile. ‘No. I just … I don’t feel safe. I think people are watching me. I don’t know which is worse: if they really are, or if I’m cracking up and imagining it.’ I look at Leon and feel instantly better, and a bit silly. ‘Am I imagining it?’
He leans forward. ‘I’d say so. You’re under a lot of stress, Lara, but not because of the past. That’s long been over and done with. Because of the present. The future. You don’t want to adopt a child, and Sam does. That’s a confrontation that’s going to have to happen, and you know it. This new man, whoever he is, is a distraction. As are these thoughts of Thailand, though keep a proper eye out. If anything actually happens, you must act. But I think, to be honest, that you’re trying to come up with other crises to avoid having to look at the real one.’
I sigh. ‘You’re right,’ I tell him, and I force myself to think of the present, instead of the past. ‘I know you are.’
I knock the rest of the drink back in one go, and try to think of a way of breaking Olivia’s news to Sam.
chapter eight
On Friday night, all I want to do is drink and talk. The only people I want to talk to are Ellen and Guy. I get to the station early, but because they don’t serve alcohol in the first-class lounge, I go up the escalators to the pub at the top of the station.
This smells like a generic pub. It feels like a generic pub. I’m vaguely surprised that it’s possible to be in a station without feeling as if you’re in a station. A man sits at a table reading a tabloid article about cancer; a couple with big suitcases sit opposite each other, a packet of crisps torn open on the table between them, him with a pint of lager in front of him, her with half a pint. No one looks up as I walk to the bar, sit on a bar stool and order a vodka and tonic from an implausibly young blond barman with acne scars.
I knock it back. I don’t think or talk. Then I order another one and do the same.
I spent the night of Olivia’s revelation, the night of the letter, in her box room, carefully avoiding her in the morning, and packing enough stuff to keep me going until I can bear to go back and pick up the rest. Last night I slept at the hotel in St Paul’s. It is a business hotel, perfectly tolerable though utterly impractical financially.
All the same, it beats going to the place my father insists on referring to as ‘home’, and commuting in from there, a grown woman living with my parents.
‘Come on, Lara,’ he said on the phone, that evening. ‘It’s your home. It always will be. Let us look after you.’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t, Dad,’ I told him. I was as firm with him as I have ever dared to be. ‘I live in London to avoid the commute. I need to be near work so I can give it everything I’ve got during the week. Honestly, I do. I need to stay late, go in early. Thank you, though. I’ll find a little studio or something.’
‘Your sister …’ he mused, and I tensed, desperate to defuse him.
‘She’s all right,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s not her fault. I’m pleased for her, I really am. I just need to be away from her for a while.’
‘She is not all right,’ he corrected me. ‘She had no business being so cruel. Now, are you sure? It would cheer the place up no end having you around, and to be honest, I could do with your level-headed advice on some matters.’
I concentrated on sounding neutral while my heart contracted with dread.
‘We can get together any time you want for something like that,’ I said, hoping with all my being that we would not. ‘I don’t really get time for a lunch break, but we can meet up after work sometime. I need to be close to the office, though.’
To my enormous relief, he accepted it. I am now keeping as far from every member of my toxic family as I
He narrows his eyes and fixes me with a serious stare. ‘Has anything happened?’
I try to smile. ‘No. I just … I don’t feel safe. I think people are watching me. I don’t know which is worse: if they really are, or if I’m cracking up and imagining it.’ I look at Leon and feel instantly better, and a bit silly. ‘Am I imagining it?’
He leans forward. ‘I’d say so. You’re under a lot of stress, Lara, but not because of the past. That’s long been over and done with. Because of the present. The future. You don’t want to adopt a child, and Sam does. That’s a confrontation that’s going to have to happen, and you know it. This new man, whoever he is, is a distraction. As are these thoughts of Thailand, though keep a proper eye out. If anything actually happens, you must act. But I think, to be honest, that you’re trying to come up with other crises to avoid having to look at the real one.’
I sigh. ‘You’re right,’ I tell him, and I force myself to think of the present, instead of the past. ‘I know you are.’
I knock the rest of the drink back in one go, and try to think of a way of breaking Olivia’s news to Sam.
chapter eight
On Friday night, all I want to do is drink and talk. The only people I want to talk to are Ellen and Guy. I get to the station early, but because they don’t serve alcohol in the first-class lounge, I go up the escalators to the pub at the top of the station.
This smells like a generic pub. It feels like a generic pub. I’m vaguely surprised that it’s possible to be in a station without feeling as if you’re in a station. A man sits at a table reading a tabloid article about cancer; a couple with big suitcases sit opposite each other, a packet of crisps torn open on the table between them, him with a pint of lager in front of him, her with half a pint. No one looks up as I walk to the bar, sit on a bar stool and order a vodka and tonic from an implausibly young blond barman with acne scars.
I knock it back. I don’t think or talk. Then I order another one and do the same.
I spent the night of Olivia’s revelation, the night of the letter, in her box room, carefully avoiding her in the morning, and packing enough stuff to keep me going until I can bear to go back and pick up the rest. Last night I slept at the hotel in St Paul’s. It is a business hotel, perfectly tolerable though utterly impractical financially.
All the same, it beats going to the place my father insists on referring to as ‘home’, and commuting in from there, a grown woman living with my parents.
‘Come on, Lara,’ he said on the phone, that evening. ‘It’s your home. It always will be. Let us look after you.’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t, Dad,’ I told him. I was as firm with him as I have ever dared to be. ‘I live in London to avoid the commute. I need to be near work so I can give it everything I’ve got during the week. Honestly, I do. I need to stay late, go in early. Thank you, though. I’ll find a little studio or something.’
‘Your sister …’ he mused, and I tensed, desperate to defuse him.
‘She’s all right,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s not her fault. I’m pleased for her, I really am. I just need to be away from her for a while.’
‘She is not all right,’ he corrected me. ‘She had no business being so cruel. Now, are you sure? It would cheer the place up no end having you around, and to be honest, I could do with your level-headed advice on some matters.’
I concentrated on sounding neutral while my heart contracted with dread.
‘We can get together any time you want for something like that,’ I said, hoping with all my being that we would not. ‘I don’t really get time for a lunch break, but we can meet up after work sometime. I need to be close to the office, though.’
To my enormous relief, he accepted it. I am now keeping as far from every member of my toxic family as I
Similar Books
