Leaving London

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday Dear Fearne...Happy Birthday to you!"

I wake up to find my room crammed with my parents and Jake, all clutching shiny presents wrapped in mounds of creamy tissue paper. Rubbing my eyes awake, I grin as Mum passes me a breakfast tray. It's a tradition that every year I have breakfast in bed, whilst opening presents. This year, it's a pile of heart-shaped waffles, drizzled in melted chocolate and topped with fluffy clouds of whipped cream. I dig in as I open my gifts, mainly items of clothing, with a few succulents for my shelf and some hair curlers. I also receive a really cute swimwear set, and some bath products which smell divine.

"Finally fifteen, huh?" Dad says, ruffling my hair and swiping a pinch of waffle with his finger.

"Oi!" I laugh, swatting his arm away, as everyone heads off downstairs to let me finish my breakfast in peace. It feels weird; even though I'm only a day older than I was yesterday...I'm now fifteen...

I switch on my phone as I finish off the food, uncovering a clump of messages in my inbox and on my Facebook timeline, wishing me happy birthdays from friends and family. I reply/comment to all of them, and then log out, take a quick shower and decide to curl my hair for when we go out for lunch.

It's been a tradition since way back when, that I sit downstairs to wait for my birthday post to arrive, but seeing as this year all the mail is coming over from England, and so has been sent over in one large parcel, I don't expect it to be appearing through the door any time soon. So I spend some time dawdling over my outfit, selecting, trying on and mismatching things until I finally opt for my new dress - a soft grey waterfall number with cascading chiffon draping out to the back - and match it with a pair of wedged boots and a string of twinkly gems to sit on my collar bones. I then do my makeup, slicking on eyeliner and dusting a shimmer of blusher across my cheeks, before hurdling down the stairs when I hear the phone ringing and Mum shouting: "Fearne! It's for you!"

I clamp the phone to my ear as I trundle through to the kitchen and pick a smoothie out of the fridge. I end up mumbling through a mouthful of juice as I thank my grandparents for the birthday wishes and engage in conversation with them for a bit about the weather, school, and promising to Skype them soon.

"Let me see your new dress then!" Mum exclaims as I put the phone back onto its stand with a click. I do a quick twirl, only wobbling once, and the back of the dress flares into ripples of smooth chiffon.

"Very nice!" Mum says, shrugging a blazer over her shoulders, "Let's go get in the car then, I think your Dad and Jake are already out there."

The restaurant is in the centre of town, so it's only a ten minute drive, but Dad decides to take the scenic route, so we go via the coast road, and I sit intently by the window, cherishing the mile after mile of turquoise ocean and clear cornflower sky. The temperature today seems like more than double it was yesterday, and however much cold air comes whooshing through the air vents, it's still hot and sticky and the air still swampy and thick. When we finally come to a halt outside the restaurant doors, we enter the building and are shown to our table. The restaurant itself is swish and modern, the décor mainly long mirrors, black seats and stylish white lampshades. The waitress takes us to a table close to the centre of the room, and fancy cutlery lies tucked amongst origami-folded napkins.

I feel my mouth water at the sight of the menu, a variety of classic New Zealand traditions, tarts, creamed soups and some very fancy sounding options whose names are longer than my life story. Well. Only kidding. But still, who writes the name of a dish in a foreign language that no one will understand?

After having to use Google Translate to figure out what some of the platters are, I order hake in a parsley and white wine sauce, with a side order of seasoned potato wedges. After receiving our refreshments, the food comes out to our table steaming hot and delicious. Every mouthful is creamy and fresh and so I savour the taste. For dessert, I'm ambushed with a chocolate fondant, candles strewn across a slice of spongy cake, the flames withering and licking the heated air as a chorus of 'happy birthday' starts from my parents. Redness rushes to my cheeks, and from looking in one of the mirrors dotted around on the walls, it's not just my blusher. I inwardly groan, especially in crowded places being on the receiving end of 'happy birthday' can be highly awkward. I mean, what are you actually supposed to do, except from sitting here smiling like a moron and trying to make it stop? The trio of mismatched voices eventually thins out into a round of applause as I hastily blow out the candles and make a wish, before spearing a morsel of cake with my fork and devouring it. It's heaven.