Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
She laughed. “I can see that, love. But that’s not what I meant.” She smiled at me. “You’re different. You.”
I smiled back, and I felt it. I felt so different back here, as though I’d been gone for years. “I’m just happy.”
“Happy, yes. Happy and glowing, and all grown up, Helen.” She sighed and I realised she was looking at me like I’d been gone for years, too. “When did that happen, hey? When did my little girl become such a beautiful young woman?”
These past few weeks, Mum. In Mark Roberts’ arms, and in his bed, and his heart. In the sparkle of his eyes in the morning, and his goodnight kisses. In his voice, when he spoke to me like I was somebody, somebody who knows her own mind, and her own heart.
“I guess it happens, I dunno.” I shrugged. “Just as well, hey? Can’t have me shipping off to university without being able to complete basic life essentials.” I slipped the roasters back in the oven. “I can cook croissants, too. And I know how to clean an iron skillet.”
“Harry taught you all that, did he?!” She raised her eyebrows. “He sounds quite an impressive young man indeed.”
I stirred the carrots, and my heart wanted to burst its banks and spill all. But I couldn’t. I knew I couldn’t. “I’m so happy, Mum.”
“Oh, love. That’s all we want. If you’re happy, then we’re happy, too.”
Christmas was different this year. It felt lighter, and more magical, like my soul was covered in fairy dust. We had Christmas songs, and after a couple of cans Dad sang along while Katie danced for us. I shared a bottle of wine with Mum while we finished up dinner, until we were pink-cheeked and giggling and laughing about silly old memories, and we all ate together, and pulled crackers and wore the stupid hats and read the stupid jokes.
It was nice. Good old fun like the earlier years, when I’d still believed in Santa Claus and flying reindeer. But I missed Mark. It tingled and pained amongst the happiness.
Dad fell asleep after too much dinner, snoring in the chair, and Katie was busy upstairs on her new karaoke machine. Mum sat and watched It’s a Wonderful Life while I stared out of the window towards Deerton Heath, wondering what he was doing and if he was missing me half as much as I was missing him.
It was well into the afternoon when Mum turned down the volume on the TV and glanced at Dad to make sure he was still sleeping. As if the snores didn’t tell her enough.
“Go,” she said. “I’ll handle your dad.”
I turned to face her and my eyebrows were high. “What?”
“Don’t think I can’t see it, love. You’re missing him. So go.”
“But Christmas… you said…”
“And you were here,” she said. “Now get yourself gone. Before he wakes up. Will Harry come and get you? I’d take you myself if we hadn’t polished of that bottle of wine.”
I was nodding, smiling, itching to run out of the door as fast as my legs would carry me, but I took the time to hug her instead, really tight, and it shocked her, I could tell. The force knocked her backwards in her chair and she laughed in my ear before she hugged me back.
“Thanks, Mum.”
“Just have fun, Helen. Enjoy it. You’re only young once, love.”
“I will.”
I grabbed my coat, and my phone, and threw some more clothes in my overnight bag, and left through the back garden, ducking under the gap in the fence and making my way out onto the main road. Once I was clear of the house, and more specifically clear of Dad, I called up Mark’s number and was about to press dial before I thought better of it.
He might be drinking.
He might feel obliged to pick me up.
He might be angry at me for making him do it.
So I didn’t call him. I took a gulp of afternoon air and set off on foot. Three miles, tops. Ok, maybe four. But I could do it. I knew the way.
Tarmac turned to lanes, and lanes turned to frosty grass as the afternoon light waned. My heart leapt as I hitched myself over the fence at Mark’s special place, and it already felt so long ago that he’d touched me there.
I took a break, sitting in his spot on the slate ledge, watching the brook babbling its way downstream, and I felt close to him there, close enough to feel him.
I wondered if that’s how he felt about his Anna in this place. Maybe it was a place for memories and ghosts and stolen moments.
I laughed to myself, at my melodrama, and decided to end my stupid solitary trek and call him.
He answered after two rings.
“I’m somewhere beautiful,” I said.