Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [59]
‘Sisters.’ Holly sighs in the dark, and slips into sleep.
But when Dad starts talking about schools again, I know it’s time to move on.
‘You’ve made friends,’ Dad tells me. ‘You’ll fit into the school at Westport, no problem now, the same way you’ve fitted in with us. It’s a terrific school, and you’ll get the chance to really stretch yourself –’
‘No, Dad,’ I say.
‘No?’ he falters. ‘Well, I’m certain you’d have no problems, Scarlett. You’re a different girl these days. The anger and the hurt and the fear, it’s just gone, hasn’t it? But if you’d rather stick with the home-schooling…’
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I tell him. ‘It hurts like crazy, but I know it’s the right thing to do. I love you and Clare, I love Holly and Hazel. I love it here, more than anything. But I’m going home – to Mum.’
I fall into London life as if I’ve never left, except of course I am different now, stronger. I’ve got nothing to prove.
I march along the pavement from the tube station at the Angel, flat Mary Jane shoes kicking through the litter. My tights are bottle green, my skirt is knee-length and pleated, my green blazer is trimmed with gold cord, adorned with an embroidered badge that says something in Latin about aiming high and reaching the stars.
Luckily, green goes pretty well with ketchup-red hair.
My new school is strict, but I’m not fighting any more, so that doesn’t matter. I’m not a perfect, grade-A student, but I get good marks in English and art and history and drama, and I haven’t wasted too much time in the Head’s office or the detention room. I’ve made some friends, real friends, the kind who’d never think of offering you ciggies in the school loo or daring you to nick an eye pencil from Boots. They’re cool.
Things are better with Mum and me too. She doesn’t work such long hours these days, and we take time out to talk and find out what’s going on with each other. We still lose it sometimes – we’re both hot-tempered, I guess, but we’re working on it. Seriously, it’s a whole lot better.
For my birthday, Mum got me the best present ever – a baby rabbit. I called her Smudge and she’s a house rabbit – she gets to mooch around the flat and we’ve even trained her to use a litter tray. Dad called too, and asked me what I wanted, and when I told him, he rang round a few places and found me riding lessons, right here in the centre of London. It’s not like riding bareback on Midnight along the shores of Lough Choill, but it’s pretty cool all the same.
I miss Dad and Clare and Holly and Hazel, but I’m going back at Easter, and for part of the summer holidays too. I’m really looking forward to that.
I miss Kian too, of course, and that’s way harder. There was hardly a day, over those five weeks, that we didn’t see each other. We talked, we laughed, we lazed around in the sun. We held hands and flirted and once, just once, we kissed, a sad, lingering kiss that tasted of salt and tears. All I have to remember him are memories, and a little black braided bracelet that stays on my wrist night and day.
Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of a boy who looks like Kian, the same wild black hair, the same scruffy-chic clothes and lazy, ambling stride. Then the boy turns round and of course he’s nothing like Kian. How could he be?
It’s like it never happened, and that’s the toughest thing of all. Magic. Yeah, right.
I turn into the driveway, crunch my way up the path and punch in the door code. I run up the stairs and on to the landing and then it hits me, suddenly, the smell of wild mint, in London, in December.
It makes my heart race, it makes my throat ache.
Outside the door to our flat is a pair of broken-up old sandals, the scarily high wedge heels encrusted with moss. Lying against one sandal are a couple of tiny wild strawberries and a hazel twig with catkins and nuts on the same branch. A pair of faded, swirly sandals, curls of ivy where the ribbons should be? Strawberries, in December? Catkins and nuts on the same branch? Suddenly,