and the Bump? Which do you prefer?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied stonily.
‘Yes you do, it’s obvious.’ Belinda was enjoying herself, too much. ‘And the thing is, once Lucas knows, do you really think he’s going to want to have anything to do with you? You think he’s not going to look at you with a sigh of relief once the whole school knows?’
‘I think that if he’s stupid enough to fall for your shit, then I hope he gets whatever STD you have and his dick falls off,’ Megan said pointedly, turning towards Belinda and backing her up against the wall. ‘You don’t frighten me, bitch. You don’t know my life, you don’t know my deal. So how about we ignore each other until I go off to uni, and you go off to become a failed model with a rich husband, okay?’
Megan walked away, jaw locked in place, unsure of whether she wanted to cry or scream. She was going to have to give up the band, she realised. She hadn’t considered just how much that was going to hurt.
Belinda couldn’t know, not really. Maybe Megan had put on weight, her mother had certainly mentioned it enough. Stress eating doesn’t solve a problem, Megan, only weak people eat their feelings. Megan realised that was because to her mother, strong people didn’t have feelings at all. Just goals.
She didn’t know which secret her mother would find more horrific: that Megan was pregnant, or that she hadn’t got into Cambridge. She got the rejection letter weeks ago. Didn’t even make it to interview. All those years of classes, those missed Sunday mornings in bed, the netball in the rain, the tennis, the French lessons, the Cambridge hoody they’d bought her for her eleventh birthday – it was all for nothing. And it was nothing Megan had done. It was just that what her parents had created hadn’t been good enough.
She almost felt sorry for them. At least now they’d never have to know. They could blame it on her getting pregnant, and they’d always know they’d done the best they could. She could give them that, at least.
***
It didn’t take long to get to Whittleby Cottage. She’d always hated that her parents had to name the house. Before, it had just been Number 43. But no, they had to have the grandeur of a named building. It had made getting any post ridiculous, and visiting friends could never find the right place. She drove the little 2CV onto the muddy path up to the house, stopping just before they reached the driveway.
‘That’s it,’ she said to Skye, who was making her detective face (pouting and squinting) and ‘hmm’ing significantly.
It didn’t look any different. In fact, it looked exactly the same as the day she left. It was cold and grey. The willow tree to the side of the house was still hanging on for dear life, managing to remain upright through sheer force of will. The house looked Tudor, with those black beams across the front, the roof designed to look like it had been thatched. Everything about the house was meant to be warm and inviting and twee. Megan could see the light flickering in the living-room window, where the tree was up, twinkling. It looked like they had a log fire going, and she had to admit, the smoky smell of wood would be a welcome nostalgia. Plus her feet were freezing from the dodgy heating in the car.
‘Mum?’ Skye prodded her. ‘Are we going in?’
Megan sighed deeply and looked at her daughter. She took in Skye’s dark hair, shiny and long, arranged neatly over her shoulder. Skye’s eyes, the same as hers, and her mother’s, and Matty’s, so light a brown that they might have been tiger’s eye stones, with flecks of gold and green. How could they not love her? It was impossible, right? It was impossible for her to bring them this smart, beautiful, kind-hearted, curious child, and for them to disregard her, wasn’t it? Megan shook her head, shuffled in her seat.
She started the car again, trundling up to the paved driveway, and delicately steered the car under the willow tree, somehow thinking it might lend the poor tree some strength, or at least stop it from falling too far to the ground.
Skye unbuckled and jumped out immediately, stretching, looking around the front garden with interest.
‘Mum,’ she stage-whispered as Megan tiredly opened the boot of the car, ‘are they really rich?’
Megan had no idea how to answer that. For all her daughter’s talk of socio-economic status, Megan was very careful with money, and didn’t spend it easily. That said, they lived in a beautiful house in Highgate with a rich Dame who drank Laurent Perrier like it was water. What was rich or poor really?
‘They…they work very hard to have nice things, bub. But maybe no questions like that to start with. Secret detective, not the kind at a murder scene, right?’
‘No interrogating,’ Sky nodded, thinking she’d save that for after they inevitably upset her mum and they had to drive back to Auntie Anna’s. Which was fine with her. As long as Disneyland was still on the table.
There was a soft mumbling sound behind her, and Skye turned to find a sad old collie, her head tilted as she watched her. The dog seemed to want to bark, but wasn’t really sure whether to be upset or not. So she whined a little, and sat in front of Skye, waiting.
‘Um…Mum?’ Skye pointed at the dog.
‘Minnie!’ Megan grinned, bending down towards the dog, who used what little energy she had to jump up, her suspicions confirmed. She barked loudly and joyfully as Megan rubbed behind her white and black ears, hands lost in her fur.
‘Skye, this is Minnie, you don’t have to be scared.’
‘I’m not scared,’ Skye frowned, but stayed back all the same.
‘You sure?’
Suddenly a door opened, and a small lady was shouting, ‘Minnie, come on now!’ before she realised she had guests. ‘Oh. Oh!’
Somehow, the lady wasn’t what Skye had been expecting. She’d thought her grandmother would be more like Anna. In this posh house that called itself a cottage, wearing jewels and drinking champagne. This woman had on stretchy dark green trousers and a big knitted jumper with a reindeer on the front. She looked…well, she looked older, but in a different way to Anna. This woman looked warm and healthy, with her dark hair pinned up in a bun, with straggly bits around her face, and her glasses perched low on her nose.
‘Jonathan!’ the woman called, her voice wobbling, ‘they’re here!’ She walked out to greet them, her fluffy boot slippers surely getting wet on the ground. She seemed to stare at Skye a little too intensely, and Skye moved behind her mother, just a little. Detectives had to be safe, after all. She was just assessing the situation.
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said, ‘we were trying to cook a turkey, as practice for the big day, and we forgot about it, and the stuffing went funny, and the fire alarm went off…’ She exhaled, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. She shook her head. ‘Not that any of that matters.’
The woman looked so anxious, her wide brown eyes just like her mum’s, that Skye felt sorry for her. She looked at Megan, who nodded, and walked over to the woman. She smiled her big white smile, the one she’d been perfecting in the mirror all week.
‘Hi!’ She stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Skye, you must be my grandmother.’
The
