a drink from the fridge and paid for it.
From a window seat she people-watched. To her, Newquay was just a nearby seaside town – to holidaymakers jostling on the pavement in their sun hats and beachwear, faces scorched from the sun, it was clearly magical.
She cracked open the can of cola and poured the fizzy liquid into a glass, her mind drifting back to Gail. She would start studying for her A-levels in September, and there was no doubting she would sail through them. She’d always been clever, and popular too. Mum’s favourite.
‘Is she your sister?’ The Welsh male voice came from the table behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see a boy of about sixteen. His light brown hair was parted in the middle, hanging like curtains about his pale face, as he played on his Game Boy.
‘Who?’ she asked, but she guessed he meant Gail. Had he watched them from the window?
He didn’t look up from his screen, his thumbs moving fast over the controls. ‘The girl who dumped you.’
‘She didn’t dump me.’
‘If you say so.’
But the boy was right, Gail had dumped her – she was always dumping her. Ava turned back to the window and sipped her drink, aware of the boy’s chair scraping across the floor. He was suddenly beside her, tall and thin, shoving the Game Boy into his jacket pocket. ‘She’s beautiful, your sister,’ he said, thumping down on the chair next to her. ‘My mate fancies her.’
‘Everyone does.’
‘Are you jealous?’
Ava shook her head, avoiding eye contact.
‘You’re pretty too, you know. She just makes more effort. How old are you?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘I bet you’re sick of living in her shadow.’
She felt herself flush. She always did when boys talked to her. ‘That’s complete bollocks.’ She gulped back the rest of her drink, slammed the glass on the table, and rose to her feet. ‘You don’t even know me. Move.’ She thumped his arm. ‘I need to catch my bus.’ She squeezed past him and grabbed her rucksack.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
She tugged at the hem of her school skirt, as she flung open the café door, the heat of the day warming her face. ‘None of your business,’ she said.
‘Well, I’m Maxen. And if you want my advice, don’t let your sister ruin your life,’ he called after her. ‘Don’t give her that power. Once she has it, you’ll never escape.’
*
A bus drew up at the shelter and Ava jumped onto it. It was empty, apart from an old lady talking to a cat in a crate. ‘We’re nearly there, sweetie,’ she was saying to the mewing feline, her voice too loud as if the cat was deaf. ‘We’ll soon be home.’
As the bus pulled away, Ava slid down in the seat. Perhaps Maxen was right. She needed to find herself – her own life – to move out from under her sister’s shadow. Grow up and get as far away from Bostagel as she could.
She was the youngest of three children, and often felt like the runt of the litter. Never quite belonging. Wishing she’d been born into another family – a family who cared about each other and didn’t spend most of their time arguing.
When she was ten, she’d dreamed of having a brand new mum who baked lemon drizzle cake, and a dad who made everyone laugh, and a golden retriever called Butler, that they walked every day. Ava’s life was a long way from her fantasy. Her mum was cold and unreachable, and her father had taken off just after Ava was born. Gail told her once that it was her fault they no longer had their dad with them – that she was the reason their mum was miserable most of the time.
The bus rocked and jolted on its way, and she looked through the window at the sea spreading endlessly. A flock of oystercatchers had gathered on the rocks and beach, wading through the shallow waves, dipping orange beaks into the sand for food.
Unexpected rain speckled the window like tears, blurring the view. That wouldn’t please the holidaymakers. Ava rested her head on the glass and closed her eyes, imagining the fun Gail and her friends would be having in the arcades, wishing she was there too.
Now
I get up from the sofa and straighten the cushions and tartan throw. Willow’s call has unsettled me, and as I go over her words, trying to make sense of them, a shiver runs through my body.
I pad towards the window and pull back the curtains to let the sun fill the room once more. The small square of grass looks patchy. It hasn’t rained for some time and the plants are wilting. Our house is a new-build, and like most new-builds we haven’t got much garden to worry about. I feel guilty that I’ve neglected such a small area, but I never seem to have the time.
In fact, I’d been looking forward to the days stretched ahead of me once school closed for the summer. I’m fully aware it won’t be a complete break, as there are still lots of things to do that involve the school, but I’d seen it as time out; time to breathe and make up my mind if my school headship is exactly what I want from life.
I’d hoped for plenty of time to work on the garden too, time to paint the staircase, and buy curtains for Becky’s room. I’d hoped to go swimming, read more, and get in touch with old friends. But now my head is consumed with thoughts of going to Cornwall. A strange little laugh escapes me at the absurdity of driving all that way to see Willow, when she should come straight home.
Sudden memories of Willow storming out of Darlington House a month ago, without looking back, fill my head. The raised voices that day. Willow’s pale face as she opened the study door and ran out in tears, leaving Eleanor alone, her shoulders rising and falling in sobs.
Later, I tried talking to Eleanor, to Dad too, but they said together, as though they’d rehearsed it, that it was something and nothing. You know Willow.
I pick up my mobile, and head into the hallway where I pull on my black, low-heeled shoes I’d worn all day at the school and grab my keys.
‘I’m heading out, Becky,’ I call up the stairs, trying to make myself heard above my daughter’s music. ‘Back soon.’
She appears on the landing in black straight-leg jeans and a baggy, grey T-shirt. Her tightly curled black hair hangs to her shoulders. In some ways she reminds me of myself at almost fifteen. Thin and tall, a little awkward in her own skin. But she hasn’t inherited my youthful acne, or my lank, lifeless hair that still needs far too much product to make it even remotely bouncy. Her smooth, unblemished dark complexion and hair are like her father’s, her eyes as brown and appealing as his. There’s no doubt she’s inherited my ex-husband’s looks.
‘Where are you going?’ she says, nibbling her nails. She does that when she’s bored or anxious or just trying to annoy me.
I
