spotted an outdoor swimming pool and a tennis court beyond.
‘It’s a touch too big for my needs,’ said Annabelle.
Lilly nearly spat out her tea. There had to be at least eight bedrooms in a place this size. The triple garages outside could have housed a small family.
‘Is that why you foster?’ Lilly asked.
‘No,’ Annabelle said, but offered no further explanation.
They sipped tea in silence until Tanisha breezed in. She was barefoot, her toes painted the same gold as her fingers, and she was wearing earphones, listening to an iPod.
‘Can I get something to eat?’ She spoke too loudly.
Annabelle smiled and got up from the table. She opened an American-style fridge and pointed to a shelf of smoothies and yoghurts.
Tanisha wrinkled her nose so Annabelle gestured to a wooden bowl, overflowing with fresh fruit.
‘Can’t I have some crisps?’ Tanisha shouted.
Annabelle leaned forward and removed one of the ear plugs. ‘You need to take care of yourself.’
‘But I don’t like all that shit,’ said Tanisha.
‘You need to take care of the baby,’ said Annabelle, pressing a palm on Tanisha’s stomach.
Tanisha rolled her eyes but reached for an apple. ‘They’re hard to chew.’
‘Cut it up,’ Annabelle laughed.
Tanisha grabbed a knife from a block and hacked the apple into four pieces before replacing the ear plug and dancing out of the kitchen.
‘She’s a great kid,’ said Annabelle. ‘She’s had to cope with a lot of problems in her life.’
Lilly thought about the girl lying in the coma, and the look in Jack’s eye as he had turned off the video camera. She had a dreadful feeling that Tanisha’s problem’s were about to get a whole lot worse.
Chapter Three
The thing about parents is that they don’t remember what it was like to be young.
They start sentences with the words, ‘when I was your age’, then go on about how really great they were.
‘When I was your age, I ate whatever was put in front of me.’
‘When I was your age, I wouldn’t have dared to argue with my father.’
They don’t have any idea about how things are today, and they certainly don’t ask.
Then again, maybe they do. Maybe other kids’ parents actually listen. Maybe they all sit and eat together (having taken the trouble to find out what their kids like) and chat.
But Jamie’s parents don’t do anything like that. They work. They read the Sunday papers. They go out to restaurants. If Jamie were ever to dare mention that he might have a problem, Dad would frown over his half-moon glasses.
‘What on earth can a chap of your age have to worry about? These are the best years of your life and don’t you forget it.’
Anyway, Jamie aims for minimum contact with his dad. Most of the time he’s at school, so it’s easy, but even during the holidays he stays in his room a lot of the time.
Mum’s better. Well a bit, anyway. She usually calls him on Friday mornings from the train. They don’t have much to say to one another, but it’s a habit neither of them can break.
The dorm is a pit as usual, with clothes spilled over the floor. Jamie rummages through the piles until he finds his trousers. They’re crumpled and dirty but he doesn’t care and pulls them on, dragging the waistband low on his hips. Then he reaches over to his bedside table, plunges his fingers into a pot of wax and pushes a handful through his fringe.
‘Waiting for Mummy to call?’ shouts Tristan from the bed next to Jamie’s. ‘So sweet.’
Jamie flips him the finger and pulls out his phone.
Rule one in boarding school is never, ever show your feelings. You will be teased mercilessly by your housemates, but if you express the tiniest of feelings, it will get worse.
He heads down to the dining room, grabs a tray and helps himself to bacon and toast. A lot of the kids here moan about the food, but Mum only ever opens packets from Marks and Spencer so Jamie hardly feels deprived.
A communal jug of orange
‘It’s a touch too big for my needs,’ said Annabelle.
Lilly nearly spat out her tea. There had to be at least eight bedrooms in a place this size. The triple garages outside could have housed a small family.
‘Is that why you foster?’ Lilly asked.
‘No,’ Annabelle said, but offered no further explanation.
They sipped tea in silence until Tanisha breezed in. She was barefoot, her toes painted the same gold as her fingers, and she was wearing earphones, listening to an iPod.
‘Can I get something to eat?’ She spoke too loudly.
Annabelle smiled and got up from the table. She opened an American-style fridge and pointed to a shelf of smoothies and yoghurts.
Tanisha wrinkled her nose so Annabelle gestured to a wooden bowl, overflowing with fresh fruit.
‘Can’t I have some crisps?’ Tanisha shouted.
Annabelle leaned forward and removed one of the ear plugs. ‘You need to take care of yourself.’
‘But I don’t like all that shit,’ said Tanisha.
‘You need to take care of the baby,’ said Annabelle, pressing a palm on Tanisha’s stomach.
Tanisha rolled her eyes but reached for an apple. ‘They’re hard to chew.’
‘Cut it up,’ Annabelle laughed.
Tanisha grabbed a knife from a block and hacked the apple into four pieces before replacing the ear plug and dancing out of the kitchen.
‘She’s a great kid,’ said Annabelle. ‘She’s had to cope with a lot of problems in her life.’
Lilly thought about the girl lying in the coma, and the look in Jack’s eye as he had turned off the video camera. She had a dreadful feeling that Tanisha’s problem’s were about to get a whole lot worse.
Chapter Three
The thing about parents is that they don’t remember what it was like to be young.
They start sentences with the words, ‘when I was your age’, then go on about how really great they were.
‘When I was your age, I ate whatever was put in front of me.’
‘When I was your age, I wouldn’t have dared to argue with my father.’
They don’t have any idea about how things are today, and they certainly don’t ask.
Then again, maybe they do. Maybe other kids’ parents actually listen. Maybe they all sit and eat together (having taken the trouble to find out what their kids like) and chat.
But Jamie’s parents don’t do anything like that. They work. They read the Sunday papers. They go out to restaurants. If Jamie were ever to dare mention that he might have a problem, Dad would frown over his half-moon glasses.
‘What on earth can a chap of your age have to worry about? These are the best years of your life and don’t you forget it.’
Anyway, Jamie aims for minimum contact with his dad. Most of the time he’s at school, so it’s easy, but even during the holidays he stays in his room a lot of the time.
Mum’s better. Well a bit, anyway. She usually calls him on Friday mornings from the train. They don’t have much to say to one another, but it’s a habit neither of them can break.
The dorm is a pit as usual, with clothes spilled over the floor. Jamie rummages through the piles until he finds his trousers. They’re crumpled and dirty but he doesn’t care and pulls them on, dragging the waistband low on his hips. Then he reaches over to his bedside table, plunges his fingers into a pot of wax and pushes a handful through his fringe.
‘Waiting for Mummy to call?’ shouts Tristan from the bed next to Jamie’s. ‘So sweet.’
Jamie flips him the finger and pulls out his phone.
Rule one in boarding school is never, ever show your feelings. You will be teased mercilessly by your housemates, but if you express the tiniest of feelings, it will get worse.
He heads down to the dining room, grabs a tray and helps himself to bacon and toast. A lot of the kids here moan about the food, but Mum only ever opens packets from Marks and Spencer so Jamie hardly feels deprived.
A communal jug of orange
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