to beat, to triumph.
And all in Northampton. Approximately seven miles from Claire’s home.
I could write to her. She could be there.
‘I’m interested,’ I say.
CHAPTER 8
Claire
I thought for a long time about the best way to tell Claire all Ty’s bad news and in the end I sent her a message on Facebook.
Yes, I did.
No, actually, I don’t think that was stupid and insensitive.
I didn’t write it on her wall, I sent her a private message. I sent her my phone number so she could call me. I think that I handled it very well. I sent it on Friday and today is Sunday,
so she’s had all weekend to call me.
So what the hell is she doing standing on our doorstep, talking to my mum?
‘Go and get dressed, Archie,’ says Mum, not even bothering to check whether I am dressed or not – fair enough, really, because it’s only 10.30 am and I was at a party
(Lily’s cousin Maia in Notting Hill) until 2 am.
By the time I’m ready (my new hairstyle takes ages, I have to pull it all forward and then tousle – Oscar showed me how) Mum’s got her in the interrogation chamber, i.e. the
conservatory, has disarmed her with coffee and croissants and is metaphorically shining a light into her eyes.
‘Claire’s come all the way from Northamptonshire!’ she says, a note of triumph in her voice.
Claire looks as fierce as you can when you’re the height and build of a twelve year old, you have short blonde hair, big blue eyes and a soft sweet voice. She’s not my type at all
– I prefer Real Women with real breasts – but I can see how she and Ty look cool together in a world’s-least-suited-couple way. Not really Beauty and the Beast, more like a
straight version of Batman and Robin, or Tom and Jerry – assuming (as I do) they were gay couples.
‘Err . . . hey, Claire,’ I say, dead casual. ‘What brings you here?’
I’m still a bit wasted from the party last night. My head is throbbing and my eyes are sore. The last thing I need is some hideous tearful scene, and, let’s face it, whenever
I’ve seen Claire, she’s usually turned on the waterworks sooner or later.
‘I need to ask you some questions,’ says Claire, like she’s Inspector Morse and I’ve murdered a professor.
Mum’s nose twitches, and I say, ‘Oh right . . . maybe we should go out.’
‘Fresh croissants!’ says Mum. ‘I’ll froth some milk for your latte!’
But Claire’s already out of her chair and saying, ‘Yes, let’s. Thanks for the coffee, Mrs Stone.’
‘Oh, call me Penny,’ says Mum, who’s actually never changed her name to Stone and insists on being called Ms Penelope Tyler. I think it’s a bit sexist when women
don’t change their names when they get married. It’s like she thinks she’s better than Dad and me.
‘Thanks, Penny, come on, Archie.’
There’s a café around the corner and I suggest going there, but Claire wants to take the Tube into town. I agree – I’m waiting for the emotional storm to burst and
I’m certainly not risking arguing with her.
But she doesn’t mention Ty or his gran or prison or Facebook. Instead she starts asking me questions.
Why aren’t I at boarding school any more? How do I feel about that? What school will I go to now? She seems really interested, and she listens carefully to my answers and then follows up
the questions with more. Why do I want to stay in London? Why are my parents away a lot? Which school would I really like to go to?
We talk all the way to Temple station, and then she leaps up and says, ‘Let’s get out here.’
So we cross over the Thames and we’re wandering along the South Bank and I’m almost forgetting that we’re here to talk about my jailbird cousin, because there’s a
second-hand book stall and I find out she’s recently got into manga and has been trying to draw some, which is kind of amazing, because I’m the only person I know who does that.
I mean, for all I know everyone at Allingham Priory was secretly
And all in Northampton. Approximately seven miles from Claire’s home.
I could write to her. She could be there.
‘I’m interested,’ I say.
CHAPTER 8
Claire
I thought for a long time about the best way to tell Claire all Ty’s bad news and in the end I sent her a message on Facebook.
Yes, I did.
No, actually, I don’t think that was stupid and insensitive.
I didn’t write it on her wall, I sent her a private message. I sent her my phone number so she could call me. I think that I handled it very well. I sent it on Friday and today is Sunday,
so she’s had all weekend to call me.
So what the hell is she doing standing on our doorstep, talking to my mum?
‘Go and get dressed, Archie,’ says Mum, not even bothering to check whether I am dressed or not – fair enough, really, because it’s only 10.30 am and I was at a party
(Lily’s cousin Maia in Notting Hill) until 2 am.
By the time I’m ready (my new hairstyle takes ages, I have to pull it all forward and then tousle – Oscar showed me how) Mum’s got her in the interrogation chamber, i.e. the
conservatory, has disarmed her with coffee and croissants and is metaphorically shining a light into her eyes.
‘Claire’s come all the way from Northamptonshire!’ she says, a note of triumph in her voice.
Claire looks as fierce as you can when you’re the height and build of a twelve year old, you have short blonde hair, big blue eyes and a soft sweet voice. She’s not my type at all
– I prefer Real Women with real breasts – but I can see how she and Ty look cool together in a world’s-least-suited-couple way. Not really Beauty and the Beast, more like a
straight version of Batman and Robin, or Tom and Jerry – assuming (as I do) they were gay couples.
‘Err . . . hey, Claire,’ I say, dead casual. ‘What brings you here?’
I’m still a bit wasted from the party last night. My head is throbbing and my eyes are sore. The last thing I need is some hideous tearful scene, and, let’s face it, whenever
I’ve seen Claire, she’s usually turned on the waterworks sooner or later.
‘I need to ask you some questions,’ says Claire, like she’s Inspector Morse and I’ve murdered a professor.
Mum’s nose twitches, and I say, ‘Oh right . . . maybe we should go out.’
‘Fresh croissants!’ says Mum. ‘I’ll froth some milk for your latte!’
But Claire’s already out of her chair and saying, ‘Yes, let’s. Thanks for the coffee, Mrs Stone.’
‘Oh, call me Penny,’ says Mum, who’s actually never changed her name to Stone and insists on being called Ms Penelope Tyler. I think it’s a bit sexist when women
don’t change their names when they get married. It’s like she thinks she’s better than Dad and me.
‘Thanks, Penny, come on, Archie.’
There’s a café around the corner and I suggest going there, but Claire wants to take the Tube into town. I agree – I’m waiting for the emotional storm to burst and
I’m certainly not risking arguing with her.
But she doesn’t mention Ty or his gran or prison or Facebook. Instead she starts asking me questions.
Why aren’t I at boarding school any more? How do I feel about that? What school will I go to now? She seems really interested, and she listens carefully to my answers and then follows up
the questions with more. Why do I want to stay in London? Why are my parents away a lot? Which school would I really like to go to?
We talk all the way to Temple station, and then she leaps up and says, ‘Let’s get out here.’
So we cross over the Thames and we’re wandering along the South Bank and I’m almost forgetting that we’re here to talk about my jailbird cousin, because there’s a
second-hand book stall and I find out she’s recently got into manga and has been trying to draw some, which is kind of amazing, because I’m the only person I know who does that.
I mean, for all I know everyone at Allingham Priory was secretly
Similar Books
