Leaving London

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

By Christmas Eve, the temperature has rocketed up even more. Whenever you step outside into the molten daylight, the humid air sticks like a rash to your skin, and the pavement scorches your feet if you dare to go outside barefoot. The windows in our house are permanently open to the maximum angle, allowing a soupy, yet slightly cooler, breeze to spill into the house. I've spent the past few days lounging by the pool, and apart from going down to the local shop I've not been anywhere. Lara's been ignoring me completely, and I've been making excuses not to talk to Mia. This is all resting on Lara...on what she's planning to do. I'm praying she'll just cool down and let it all just blow over, as Lara doesn't seem like someone to enjoy stirring things up. But Mia did seem to guess that something was up, and if she can remember it , and if she notices that Lara is acting off with me, then there's no doubt that she'll pressure Lara into telling her the truth. I hope the latter doesn't occur.

"Fearne! Are you coming or not?" Dad barks, tapping impatiently on the stair banister, and tugging the car keys from the cupboard wih a jingle.

"Yes! Give me a minute!" I chortle, hastening to apply a thin streak of eyeliner and to heave my bag over my shoulder. I thunder down the stairs, skid over the floor and land on my bum in an entrapped jumble on top of the shoe pile.

"Ugh," I grumble, sticking my feet into a pair of battered Converses and deftly lacing them up.

"Come on, Fearne." Dad groans, "We've got a lot of stuff to get." It's currently ten am, and Dad's ordered me to get up so I can go and help him with all the Christmas shopping. I'm guessing he also wants to purchase Mum something, and again needs my help. We clamber into his car, my thighs quickly sticking uncomfortably to the leather seat. I tilt the air-conditioning vent towards my face and turn it up to the maximum power possible.

Once we arrive at the supermarket, I'm immediately engulfed by Christmas excitement everywhere. Somehow they've managed to string even more tinsel pieces along the walls, and Christmas balloons float in the hands of all the little children, their heads adorned with bright, gauzy Santa hats with a fluffy white trim. Santa's Grotto has been set out by the entrance, and a queue of candy-smeared children line up by the door, all flustered that Santa (yes, the real Santa) has chosen to visit their local supermarket. I sigh inwardly, remembering how carefree life was back then. My attention rapidly switches to the food Dad is loading into the trolley; a colossal joint of glazed honey-roast ham, a chocolate tart complete with vanilla whipped icing, mince pies and as we go round the shop, even more is added.

"How come we're buying so much food? Are we having guests over tomorrow or something?" I ask, eyes opening wider as Dad bungs in two whole packets of frozen chips, three bags of salad and about ten litres of fizzy drinks.

"Oh...something like that." He says mysteriously, clattering the trolley across to the beauty and jewellery aisle, "Now, what should we get for Mum?"

Just as I expected. I huff, deliberating over a pendant charm necklace or an organic bath and body kit.

"Stick them both in!" Dad says happily, also adding a bunch of tulips and some chocolates. By the time we've paid and loaded up into the car, my arms are aching from carrying four bulging shopping bags to the other side of the car park. I mentally tell myself that accounts for a day's exercise and that it's acceptable for me to spend the rest of the day on Netflix.

∞

After I've been hogging the television for three hours, Jake finally manages to turf me off.

"Jake, I was watching that!" I groan over at him, as he snatches the remote from my hands. I was sat inside, wrapped up in a blanket whilst balancing vanilla icecream in my hands and flicking through the latest Netflix additions, when he came along and asked me to change the channel. I refused, of course, so he wrenched the remote from my grasp.