The next morning I decided it’d be better if I wasn’t at home where Aunt Fort or Vere, who was once again home for the weekend – I swear he hasn’t got a social life – could interrogate me about my date and spot the bruise that still marred my cheek.
I’d spent a restless night tossing and turning, I still hadn’t come up with a reasonable explanation for my face, in the end though I didn’t have to come up with an excuse since it wasn’t too bad as long as I slapped on a ton of concealer and wore my hair hanging forward over my face. Sure I looked like an orange faced Afghan hound but my Aunt was more interested in finding out how my date went anyway; I mumbled something garbled and indistinct but Aunt Fort acted as though I’d just given her a blow by blow account of how things went and she smiled and ruffled my hair, while I ducked her hand, and then hummed to herself as she began tidying the already tidy kitchen.
I decided to take my mother’s usual path and make myself unavailable for the day so, map in hand, headed into town to track down my Aunt’s elusive husband, and mine and Vere’s uncle, Bertie.
After a couple of wrong turns I finally arrived outside the recording studio he owned and practically lived in; he was a hot shot record producer and had been buried in mixing tracks for the last few weeks as he attempted to get a debut album put together for a new group called the Candy Girls. Autn Fort had seemed understanding, but I could tell that she missed Uncle Bertie so I figured I’d go and see him and try to convince him to come home once in a while; plus it would get my Aunt off my back about the whole date thing.
I smiled to the security guard who barely batted an eyelid at my hair, but double checked my ID and phoned up to my Uncle before he let me anywhere near the elevators. I scowled at him; I’d been to the studio loads of times and had even supplied some of the backing vocals to a previous record that Bertie had put together, so it was pretty insulting to be treated like some kind of groupie.
A smiling girl with pink braids stepped off the lift and waved me over to her; I sniffed condescendingly at the security guard and walked towards the girl, “Hey Della,” I said as we moved into the elevator and she pushed the button for one of the upper floors.
“How you doin’ Ephie? Mr Bartlett said that you were living here now.” Della said as the lift lights slowly made their way up to the twentieth floor where the recording studio was located.
“Yeah, mum’s gone to find herself and dad’s gotten lost digging up fossils or something, so they shipped me off to Aunt Fort and Uncle Bertie’s for my final year of college.” I dug my hands into the pockets of my jeans and scuffed the sole of my scuffed and scruffy looking trainer against the floor of the lift; it had hurt more than I’d let on that my parents had put themselves before me or Vere. I know that sounds selfish but they’re my parents! They’re supposed to put me first until I’m ready to leave home and go to Uni or something; they couldn’t have waited another couple of years before doing their own thing? Do I mean so little to them?
“Wow that sounds great! Good for them, and you get to hang out with the greatest man in town while they’re away!” Della enthused as the lift finally reached our floor and the door opened.
I’d forgotten how enthusiastic she could be, but I just smiled and nodded, “Yeah it’s great.” I said trying to make myself sound as chipper as Della.
Swishing her pink braids from one shoulder to the other Della directed me to the studio that Bertie was currently occupying and reminded me not to enter if the light was still on before she skipped – yes, actually skipped – off down the corridor and back to her regular duties.
