"Surprise"? What if she fainted? What if she had a heart attack and died? He'd read somewhere that way more women have them than you'd think. He imagined explaining that one to Da and shuddered. He was the one who was supposed to die young, not her.
Don't be retarded, Tom , he told himself. The sooner he got this over and done with, the sooner there'd be no secrets in the family. Whatever remained to him of his life would be a whole lot better because he'd be able to tell Cath everything. No more lies. No more quoting Esmeralda to himself: That's just part of being magic: sometimes you have to lie . Not anymore!
He pressed the doorbell.
After a few long seconds, during which Tom decided she'd racked off despite her promise, he heard the sounds of scrabbling at the thousand locks. The door opened. Cathy's mean, don't-touch-my-bathroom-products, crooked-seam, dropkick wanker of a flatmate let out a scream. "No, no! Absolutely not! No way! You are not staying here." He slammed the door.
"Wait!"
Tom pressed the doorbell again. Then again. Then he just leaned on it, watched the tip of his finger go white. He heard shouting. Then at last the door opened and Cathy was there.
"'Ken hell. I don't believe it," she said, staring at him. "No way. We were just on the— "
"Yep, it's me. This is what I came to tell you about."
"He's not staying here," Dropkick interjected. "Over my dead body is he staying here."
"No," Tom said, swallowing the language he really wanted to use— he'd be very happy to see Dropkick's dead body. "I'm not staying here. I just came to take my sister out to dinner. Not that it's any of your business."
"Not a single night," Dropkick said, turning to Cathy. "I'm warning you."
"Oh, piss off, Andrew," Cath said, not even looking at him. "I'll grab my coat."
"Could you get my backpack too?"
"No worries. You just wait there. Don't want to set the poxy wanker off again."
* * *
Cath led Tom along the dark, wintry streets. The only snow left was grey and miserable. Everyone outside was rugged up and in a hurry. They passed a man selling roasted chestnuts. The smell was so good Tom's stomach rumbled, even though breakfast hadn't been that long ago.
Every step of the way to the restaurant Cath pestered him to tell her what was going on, but Tom stayed firm.
"It's not something I can blurt out on the street," he said, watching his words turn into puffs of condensation. "It's going to be a serious conversation. Your mouth's going to drop wide open a lot and it's too cold for that out here."
"Ooooh, Tom! So intriguing."
"It's too cold, Cath. Save it— "
"Here we are," she said, opening the door and leading him into a posh-looking restaurant, all pale green, maroon, wood, and metal, with a curved bar in front and a tree of wine bottles lit up like it was still Christmas. It looked like the kind of place his Da liked to eat at, but said he couldn't afford.
"Pretty flash," Tom said as Cath chose a low table with lounge chairs. He sank into his. It was lower and less comfortable than it looked. The tables and chairs at the back of the restaurant seemed much better, but he didn't fault Cath's choice: these were more private. He didn't fancy telling his sister within anyone else's earshot.
"It is, isn't it? You'd never know it was vegetarian, would you?"
Tom bit his bottom lip. She was about to hear some unbelievable news. She should at least be somewhere she felt comfortable. He figured he could stomach budgie food this once. "Nope, you wouldn't."
A waiter brought them menus. Tom scanned it quickly, seeing lots of stuff he'd never heard of, like cauliflower risotto and strata and who-knew-what-else. Eww. Bloody vegos. Fortunately they had burgers, even if they were fake. At least they came with chips.
"You know that's not meat,
Don't be retarded, Tom , he told himself. The sooner he got this over and done with, the sooner there'd be no secrets in the family. Whatever remained to him of his life would be a whole lot better because he'd be able to tell Cath everything. No more lies. No more quoting Esmeralda to himself: That's just part of being magic: sometimes you have to lie . Not anymore!
He pressed the doorbell.
After a few long seconds, during which Tom decided she'd racked off despite her promise, he heard the sounds of scrabbling at the thousand locks. The door opened. Cathy's mean, don't-touch-my-bathroom-products, crooked-seam, dropkick wanker of a flatmate let out a scream. "No, no! Absolutely not! No way! You are not staying here." He slammed the door.
"Wait!"
Tom pressed the doorbell again. Then again. Then he just leaned on it, watched the tip of his finger go white. He heard shouting. Then at last the door opened and Cathy was there.
"'Ken hell. I don't believe it," she said, staring at him. "No way. We were just on the— "
"Yep, it's me. This is what I came to tell you about."
"He's not staying here," Dropkick interjected. "Over my dead body is he staying here."
"No," Tom said, swallowing the language he really wanted to use— he'd be very happy to see Dropkick's dead body. "I'm not staying here. I just came to take my sister out to dinner. Not that it's any of your business."
"Not a single night," Dropkick said, turning to Cathy. "I'm warning you."
"Oh, piss off, Andrew," Cath said, not even looking at him. "I'll grab my coat."
"Could you get my backpack too?"
"No worries. You just wait there. Don't want to set the poxy wanker off again."
* * *
Cath led Tom along the dark, wintry streets. The only snow left was grey and miserable. Everyone outside was rugged up and in a hurry. They passed a man selling roasted chestnuts. The smell was so good Tom's stomach rumbled, even though breakfast hadn't been that long ago.
Every step of the way to the restaurant Cath pestered him to tell her what was going on, but Tom stayed firm.
"It's not something I can blurt out on the street," he said, watching his words turn into puffs of condensation. "It's going to be a serious conversation. Your mouth's going to drop wide open a lot and it's too cold for that out here."
"Ooooh, Tom! So intriguing."
"It's too cold, Cath. Save it— "
"Here we are," she said, opening the door and leading him into a posh-looking restaurant, all pale green, maroon, wood, and metal, with a curved bar in front and a tree of wine bottles lit up like it was still Christmas. It looked like the kind of place his Da liked to eat at, but said he couldn't afford.
"Pretty flash," Tom said as Cath chose a low table with lounge chairs. He sank into his. It was lower and less comfortable than it looked. The tables and chairs at the back of the restaurant seemed much better, but he didn't fault Cath's choice: these were more private. He didn't fancy telling his sister within anyone else's earshot.
"It is, isn't it? You'd never know it was vegetarian, would you?"
Tom bit his bottom lip. She was about to hear some unbelievable news. She should at least be somewhere she felt comfortable. He figured he could stomach budgie food this once. "Nope, you wouldn't."
A waiter brought them menus. Tom scanned it quickly, seeing lots of stuff he'd never heard of, like cauliflower risotto and strata and who-knew-what-else. Eww. Bloody vegos. Fortunately they had burgers, even if they were fake. At least they came with chips.
"You know that's not meat,
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