WHEN I GOT HOME, I dressed in my fuzzy pyjamas and treated myself with back-to-back Coronation Street. Jack never understood my obsession with TV soaps, but we are talking about a typical American against a typical Brit here!
Although I was enjoying myself, I knew that I was really trying to delay a serious conversation with myself.
If today showed me anything, it was that I didn’t belong in America.
I decided to phone my mum, who lived in the west end of London. I hovered over the phone for a few moments before finally plucking up the courage to speak to her.
The phone rang three times before she picked up:
“Hello?”
“Hi, mum. It’s me, Annabel.”
“Annabel! How are you, darling?"
“Not so good.”
Silence.
Good old mum. She always knew when was the right time to ask what was wrong or how she could help.
“Can I come home?”
“Of course.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
“See you soon.”
“Bye.”
And that was it. That was all that we needed to say.
* * * * * * * *A week later * * * * * * * *
I boarded the plane and settled into my window seat. The woman next to me automatically rustled open a packet of stinking crisps and ate them noisily. She pulled a magazine from her backpack and began to read it, flicking the pages loudly and slurping as she licked her fingers.
I shut my eyes and tried to shut out all the sounds around me as I imagined home.
Our three-bedroom, semi-detached, red brick house on Lionel Lane. Mum said they bought the house because the street name reminded her of Lionel Richie.
I realised how much I missed home. Mum’s crooked and imperfect smile, her greying hair. The wrinkles around her eyes when she smiled. Her constantly fidgeting fingers and even her unexplainable obsession with Lionel Richie.
And my sister, Lucy. She would be thirteen when I returned home. Her gingerbread-coloured hair, her slender fingers moving deftly up and down our grand piano. Her upturned nose, her freckled cheeks. Lucy reminded me of dad.
Dad died from lung cancer. But through all his pain, dad never lived a dull moment.
With those images in my mind, I drifted slowly to sleep...
“This flight will be landing in approximately fifteen minutes. Please prepare to depart.”
The monotonous voice of the pilot pulled me out of my sleep and I suddenly felt like a child. Excitement filled me up and I felt like doing cartwheels on the ceiling!
I couldn’t do cartwheels so that may have left me with an issue…
But who cares?
As I collected my bag and made my way out of Heathrow airport, I knew I had made the right decision. This was home.
I hailed a taxi and a balding man with a prominent ‘beer belly’ jumped from the driver’s seat and hurried over to collect my suitcase.
“You alright, my darlin’?” He asked cheerily, his cockney accent making his darling into a ‘dawlin’.
“Great, thanks,” I nodded enthusiastically.
He grinned and climbed back into the driver’s seat.
“Where to?”
“Lionel Lane, please. West end,” I added.
He started the engine and I sighed.
Home.
YOU ARE READING
Written in the Rockstars (Completed)
Teen FictionMeet Annabel- She's 21 and lives in London with her mum and 13 year old sister. Then she meets Jack Rochester. He's a Rockstar, with all of the typical traits: drinks too much alcohol, has tattoos, is a bit of a player. Despite all of that, he s...
