Gregory coughs into his coffee, spraying some remains of his mouthful back into the cup.
Swallowing my pancake with a gulp, I jump off the barstool.
‘Sandy!’
Sandy freezes in the middle of the open lounge. Jackson rests a hand on her back to encourage her forwards.
‘Sandy!’
Gregory walks to Sandy and says good morning, shaking her hand. He offers them both breakfast and coffee. Sandy smiles and responds to Gregory but watches me, motionless.
‘Sandy!’
She bites her finger, then shrugging her shoulders, says, ‘Morning!’
Jackson and Gregory look back and forth between themselves, Sandy and me.
‘Sandy!’
I hadn’t realised my jaw was hanging loose between each round of ‘Sandy!’ but Gregory puts a finger onto my bottom jaw and pushes it closed.
‘Well, we’ll let you get on,’ Sandy says, nudging Jackson towards the entrance door.
‘Sand—’
‘Shh,’ Gregory whispers as he lifts my hand to cover my mouth.
28
‘Can we make a detour to my house for clothes?’ I ask as we pull out of the Shard.
‘Ahh, she’s back in the land of the living.’
I glare at Gregory as he looks right then left behind the wheel of the black Aston Martin DB9. He’s wearing a weather-appropriate black wool coat and scarf, and I could do with similar.
‘I guess it’s quite funny,’ I concede. ‘Thinking about it, it’s really funny. The look on her face was priceless.’
‘The look on your face was better.’
I scoff. ‘It’s strange, I’ve always thought of Sandy as a kind of mother figure but without realising, she’s become a friend. She always seemed much older than me when I was a child and, well, when she was looking after me and putting pigtails in my hair, but she isn’t old at all.’
‘I think the older you get, the more age becomes just a number, don’t you?’
‘I guess you’re right. Sometimes, she looks out for me and others, we’re in role reversal. I’m glad she’s having a chance to do things she’s missed out on.’
That thought reminds me of my dad and I have to force his ill face from my mind.
My street is grey and forlorn when we pull onto it. The red post-box seems a deeper shade than I’d left it and the leafless trees look tarnished by death. I sense Gregory’s concern but continue looking straight ahead as he rolls the car to a stop outside the townhouse. I stare at the porch and the Saturday edition of The Times that Dad will never read, wasting on the welcome mat.
‘Do you want me to come in?’
I shake my head. ‘I won’t be long.’
I look around the street nervously, feeling like an intruder as I walk through the wrought-iron gate and up the pathway to the house. Cold penetrates from the metal handle and the door creaks as I push it open, a sound I’ve not noticed before. The hallway is empty, lifeless. I take two steps into the house and jump when the floor squeaks under my feet. I dash up the staircase, slamming my bedroom door shut behind me, leaning my back against the door until I catch my breath. Fear consumes me, a fear of something irrational and intangible.
I rub the balls of my hands into my sockets, trying to convince myself that if I can close my eyes, I can’t be scared. Taking a deep breath, I open my eyelids and start to undress. I pull on some jeans and a shirt and pass a belt through the loops as fast as I can. After throwing my suit into my wash basket, combing my hair and cleaning my teeth, I spritz myself with perfume. Pulling on my black, knee-high boots, the pair Gregory likes, then grabbing my black, wool coat and crimson scarf, I leave the house as quickly as I can.
I’m breathless when I sit back into the passenger seat of the DB9. Sinking into the warmth of the heated seat, I try to calm my breathing.
