‘Who’s Charlotte?’
‘Charlotte?’ He shifts uncomfortably. ‘She’s . . . er . . . she’s my girlfriend.’
I don’t know why he finds it so hard to say this out loud, but he’s clearly ill at ease.
‘Where is she?’
‘England,’ he answers, looking down at his mug and not meeting my eyes.
‘England? Where in England?’
‘London.’
I find myself laughing bitterly. ‘You’ve got a girlfriend – or is itfiancée– who lives in the city I’ve just left, and you never thought to tell me?’
‘I don’t know, we haven’t really talked about stuff like that.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ I cry. ‘I told you how my boyfriend shagged my best friend right in front of me and you didn’t even think to mention you have agirlfriend? Why not?’
I’m speaking to him as if I’m his equal. With confidence and as if I deserve these answers. The fact that I’m a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl has flown right out of my mind.
‘Look at me!’ I cry.
He raises two grave eyes to meet mine and we stare at each other for a long time. And then I crumble again and start to sob. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t comfort me. Eventually I glance up to see him with his head in his hands at my side. He’s a man, a grown man, but he looks lost. I put my hand on his back and it snaps him out of his reverie. I take my hand away as he looks at me, utter despair on his face.
‘Say something,’ I plead.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ His voice is strained and it hits me that –oh no! – he’s embarrassed for me. I’ve made a complete and utter fool out of myself.
‘I want to go home.’ I sound even younger than I am.
He gets to his feet. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
We don’t speak on the journey. I stare out of the window, mortified to my core. I don’t know how I’ll ever face him again. Back at the house, I open the car door before he’s pulled to a complete stop. He reaches across to grab my hand and I snatch it away in shock.
‘Lily, I’m sorry,’ he says, anguish in his voice.
I don’t say anything, just climb out, slam the door and run up the footpath as fast as my stupidly high-heel-clad feet can carry me.
Chapter 8
I feign a dodgy stomach and spend the rest of the afternoon in my room, trying to forget the day’s events and musing about whether a large brick to the head would help me permanently erase my embarrassment. There is no way I’m going to work tomorrow. I’m actually toying with the idea of quitting altogether.
By early evening I drag myself out of my bedroom in need of distraction, hoping that there will be something good on TV. Mum, Michael and Josh are slumped on the sofas tucking into turkey leftovers.
‘There you are, love!’ Michael exclaims. He and Mum squash up closer together on the sofa so I can squeeze in. Josh turns up the TV. There’s a Tom Cruise movie on the box.
‘Are you feeling better?’ Mum asks.
‘Not really. I don’t think I’ll be going into work tomorrow,’ I tell Michael, preparing the way for my absenteeism.
‘See how you feel in the morning,’ he annoyingly replies. ‘How was Olivia?’ he adds.
‘She’s fine. Another koala at the park was ill,’ I reply, staring at Tom mixing cocktails in front of us.
‘So this Olivia then, you called her after your half-sister?’ Mum asks.
‘Yes,’ I reply bluntly. I don’t need any of the usual grief I get from Mum about my dad’s offspring.
