Читать книгу The Girl Next Door: a gripping and twisty psychological thriller you don’t want to miss! - Phoebe Morgan, Phoebe Morgan - Страница 15
ОглавлениеClare
Monday 4th February, 8.00 a.m.
Mum has made crumpets with butter for breakfast and I eat quickly, eager to get out of the cold house and let the day begin. I know I should tell Ian and Mum that I’ll be staying at Lauren’s or something tonight, but they’ll have a go at me and I just can’t face it today. Yesterday’s argument was bad enough. I’ll text Mum later on, when it’s too late for them to stop me.
‘Have a good day today, Clare,’ Mum says as I eat the last bit of my crumpet and swallow more tea, feeling it burn my tongue because I’ve drunk it too fast. I nod.
‘I’ve washed your blue coat and your black skirt,’ she says, pointing to the pile of washing on one of the kitchen chairs, ‘in case you wanted to wear that this week. I know it’s your favourite. And I got the stain off the coat.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter. I can feel Mum watching me, feel her eyes burning into my face. She probably feels bad for yesterday, but that’s tough luck.
‘You have a good day too,’ I say, a bit reluctantly, and at that moment Ian comes in, whistling in that annoying way he does first thing in the morning, a repetitive, grating tune that now pops into my head at random times throughout the day. His hair is still a bit wet from the shower and little droplets of water glisten in his beard.
‘Morning, my two lovely girls!’ he says cheerfully, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth and pulling open the fridge. I stiffen, push my chair back and reach for my blue puffer coat from the pile of washing, shrugging it on.
‘I’ve got to get to school.’
Ian pauses at the fridge; I see Mum looking at him, her expression almost pleading. The fridge door swings shut and Ian clears his throat, swallows down a mouthful of peanut butter toast, and looks at me.
‘Listen, before you go, Clare – I’m – well, we’re sorry for what happened yesterday. Us rowing with you about the exams. Your mum and I talked and, well, we think we’ve probably been pushing you a bit too hard, love. It’s a stressful time, isn’t it, and we know you’re doing your best.’ He stops for a second, then opens his mouth as though about to say something else. I can see peanut butter clinging to his teeth.
‘We are sorry, Clare,’ Mum chips in, and I stare at them, surprised by this sudden show of togetherness. My tongue still feels weird, like sandpaper where the hot tea has burned it.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say at last, wanting the moment to be over. Ian looks visibly relieved, a smile breaking out on his large face.
‘That’s our girl,’ he says, and to my horror he pulls me towards him, gives me an awkward half hug, my face pressing up against his shirt, my gold necklace pushing into the dip in my neck as I’m crushed against him. He smells of Mum’s new shower gel that she got for Christmas, and too much Lynx. I want him off me.
‘Be good, Clare,’ Mum says, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Ian releases me and turns back to the fridge, his already-short attention span reduced even further by the lure of bacon.
Quietly, I let myself out of the front door, take a deep gulp of air. At least they’ve apologised. Sort of.
I close the garden gate behind me and shove my hands in my pockets, ignoring a WhatsApp from Lauren asking if I’ve done our English homework. She’ll be panicking, she always does, but I’ll just let her copy mine. I pull my hat down over my long blonde hair, hoping it won’t look too flattened by the time I get there, then set off down Ash Road towards school. It’s only a ten-minute walk. I can never decide whether I like the claustrophobia of this town – I’ve lived here ever since I can remember, since Mum and Dad left London for somewhere smaller, quieter, safer. You’ll love it here, Dad said. They certainly got what they wanted – nothing dangerous has ever happened in the history of this place. Other than what went on within the four walls of our house, of course, but no one talks about that. Especially not my mum.
