Authors: Sophie Kinsella

Finding Audrey (16 page)

He doesn’t say anything more, but I can feel him extending his thumb down into the palm of my hand. We’re into finger-to-hand contact. And then palm-to-palm contact. His hand clasps mine and I squeeze back.

Now he’s shifting closer and with more intent. I can feel the warmth of him, through the air, against my arm, against my leg. And now I’m a little keyed up, but not like I was in Starbucks. There’s nothing crazy running through my head. In fact, I’m not sure anything’s running through my head at all except
Is this happening for real?
And
Yes it is.

‘Jeans contact OK?’ he murmurs as his leg twines round mine.

‘Yes, jeans contact is good,’ I manage.

We’ve reached arm-round-shoulders contact. Hair-to-hair contact. Cheek-to-cheek contact. His face feels gently rough as he slides it along mine.

Mouth contact.

He doesn’t say anything about it or ask if it’s OK. I don’t say anything either. But it is OK. It’s more than OK.

When we’ve kissed, like, for ever, he shuffles up and sits me on his knee, and I curl into him. He feels warm and solid. His arms feel strong around me. And his hair smells nice. And it’s pretty hard to concentrate on the benefits of a food processor with four unique attachments, on special exclusive offer today for only £69.99.

Here’s the really embarrassing thing: I fell asleep. I don’t know if it was a post-adrenalin crash or just the Clonazepam I’d taken at lunch time – but I did. When I woke, I was spread-eagled on the floor and Mum was calling me from the hall, and the ladies on QVC were talking about a magic chip-fryer that halves the calories. And next to me there was a note.

I’ll see you soon. XXX

I’ve gone up a level. That’s the only way I can describe it.

If I was a hero in
LOC
I’d have, like, enhanced attributes, or some extra kick-ass weapon or something. I’m stronger. I feel taller. I bounce back quicker. It’s been a week since Linus and I watched QVC, and yes, I’ve had one bad episode, but I didn’t sink quite as low. Things weren’t quite as dark.

Linus has come over a few times, and we always watch QVC and just chat or whatever, and it’s just . . . Well. It’s good. Now it’s Friday afternoon, and even though I’m not at school, I’ve got that end-of-week feeling. The air’s warm and I can hear children playing in their gardens. From the kitchen window I watch Felix running around the lawn with no clothes on, a watering can in his fist.

I hear the tinkle of an ice-cream van, and I’m about to call out to Mum that we should get Felix an ice lolly when she comes into the kitchen. Staggers, more like. Her face is so pale it’s, like
mauve
. And she actually holds onto the kitchen island as though otherwise she might fall over.

‘Mum?’ I eye her in alarm. ‘Are you OK?’ At once I realize this is a stupid question. She’s not OK, she’s poorly. ‘I think you should go to bed.’

‘I’m fine.’ She gives me a weak smile.

‘You’re not! You’ve got a bug. You need rest and fluids. Have you got a temperature?’ I’m trying to remember all the things she says to us when we’re ill. ‘Would you like a Lemsip?’

‘Oh, a Lemsip.’ She breathes out, looking like a wraith. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

‘I’ll look after Felix,’ I say firmly. ‘You go to bed. I’ll bring the Lemsip up.’

I flip on the kettle and am rooting around in the cupboards for the Lemsip packet when Frank arrives home. I can tell this from the almighty crash that comes from the hall. That’ll be his school bag, a sports bag, his cricket bat and whatever other junk he’s got, all being dumped from a great height onto the tiles. He comes into the kitchen, singing some tuneless song and peeling off his tie.

‘All right!’ He punches the air, singing, ‘It’s the weeeeeekend . . . What’s for supper?’

‘Mum’s ill,’ I tell him. ‘She’s got, like, flu or something. I told her to go to bed. You should go out and buy her . . .’ I think for a moment. ‘Grapes.’

‘I’ve only just got home.’ Frank looks unenthusiastic. ‘And I’m starving.’

‘Well, have a sandwich and
then
get her some grapes.’

‘What good do grapes do?’

‘Dunno,’ I say impatiently. ‘It’s what you have when you’re ill.’

I’ve made the Lemsip and found a couple of biscuits, and I put them all on a tray.

‘Get Ribena too,’ I say. ‘And whatsit. Nurofen. Write it down.’ I turn to make sure Frank is listening – but he’s not writing anything down. He’s just standing there, giving me this weird, very un-Frank look. His head is tilted and he looks sort of fascinated, or curious, or
something
. ‘What?’ I say defensively. ‘Look, I know it’s Friday, but Mum’s ill.’

‘I know,’ says Frank. ‘It’s not that. It’s . . .’ He hesitates. ‘D’you know something, Aud? You wouldn’t have done this when you first came back from hospital. You’ve changed.’

I’m so taken aback, I don’t know what to say. Like, first of all I didn’t think Frank ever noticed things about me. And second of all, is that true? I try to think back, but it’s a bit hazy. This is a side-effect of depression, Dr Sarah has told me. Your memory gets shot to pieces. Which, you know, can be a good thing or a bad thing.

‘Really?’ I say at last.

‘You would have just hidden in your room. Everything got you into a state, even the doorbell ringing. But now look. You’re in charge. You’re on top of it.’ He nods at me holding the tray. ‘It’s . . . well . . . It’s good. It’s cool.’

‘Thanks,’ I say awkwardly.

‘No probs.’ He looks equally awkward. Then he opens the fridge, gets out a carton of chocolate milk and plugs in his iPod buds. I guess this conversation is over.

But as I walk up the stairs with the tray, I’m replaying it.
You’re in charge. You’re on top of it
. Just the thought gives me an inner glow. I haven’t felt on top of anything for . . . for
ever
.

I tap on the door and go into my parents’ room. Mum’s lying in bed, her eyes closed. I think she’s fallen asleep. She must have been exhausted.

I put the tray down as quietly as I can, on her dressing table. There’s a bunch of framed photos on the polished wood, and I linger, looking at them all. Mum and Dad on their wedding day . . . me and Frank as babies . . . and one of Mum with all her workmates, winning some award. She’s wearing a pink jacket and clutching a Perspex trophy and beaming, and she looks totally vibrant.

Mum is a freelance brand consultant, which means that she does projects all over the country. Sometimes she’s really busy and sometimes she has weeks off, and that’s how it’s always been. She came to my school and talked about her job once, and showed us this supermarket logo redesign she’d worked on, and everyone was really impressed. I mean, she’s cool. Her job is cool. Only now I’m looking at this photo I’m wondering:
When did she actually last work?

She was on a project when I got ill. I can vaguely remember hearing her talking to Dad about it, hearing her say, ‘I’m pulling out. I’m not going to Manchester.’ All I felt then was relief. I didn’t want her to go to Manchester. I didn’t want her to go anywhere.

But now . . .

I look at the photo again, at Mum’s happy, shiny photo face – and then down at her tired, asleep, real-life face on the bed. It hadn’t occurred to me that Mum had stopped working completely. But ever since I’ve been at home, I realize, she hasn’t gone to her office once.

I feel like I’m slowly coming out of a fog and noticing things I didn’t before. What Dr Sarah said is true: you get self-obsessed when you’re ill. You can’t see anything around you. But now I’m starting to see stuff.

‘Audrey?’

I turn to see that Mum is pushing herself up on her elbows.

‘Hi!’ I say. ‘I thought you were asleep. I brought you some Lemsip.’

Mum’s face cracks into a smile, as though I’ve made her year. ‘Sweetheart,’ she says. ‘That is
so
kind.’

I bring the tray and watch as she sips the hot drink. Her face is so distant that I think she might be falling asleep again, but suddenly she focuses on me.

‘Audrey,’ she says. ‘This Linus.’

I feel my defences rise at once. Not Linus.
This
Linus.

‘Yes?’ I say, trying to sound casual.

‘Is he . . .?’ She trails off. ‘Are you . . .? Is he a special friend?’

I can feel myself squirming inside. I don’t want to talk about Linus to Mum.

‘Kind of.’ I look away. ‘You always say I need to make friends. So. I did.’

‘And that’s great.’ Mum hesitates. ‘But, Audrey, you need to be careful. You’re vulnerable.’

‘Dr Sarah says I need to push myself,’ I counter. ‘I need to begin building relationships outside the family again.’

‘I know.’ Mum looks troubled. ‘But I suppose I’d rather you began with . . . Well. A girl friend.’

‘Because girls are so nice and sweet and lovely,’ I retort, before I can stop myself, and Mum sighs.

‘
Touché
.’ She takes a sip of Lemsip, wincing. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose if this Linus is a nice boy . . .’

‘He’s very nice,’ I say firmly. ‘And his name isn’t This Linus. It’s Linus.’

‘What about Natalie?’

Natalie.
A tiny part of me shrivels automatically at the name. But for the first time in ages, I can also feel a kind of longing. A longing for the friendship we had. For friendship, full stop.

There’s quiet in the room as I try to pick through my muddled thoughts. Mum doesn’t push me. She knows it sometimes takes me a long time to work out what I think. She’s pretty patient.

I feel like I’ve been on this massive long, lonely journey, and none of my friends could ever understand it, even Natalie. I think I kind of hated them for that. But now everything’s feeling easier. Maybe I could see Natalie some time? Maybe we could hang out? Maybe it wouldn’t matter that she can’t understand what I’ve been through?

There’s a photo on Mum’s dressing table of Natalie and me dressed up for last year’s Year Nine prom, and I find my eyes swivelling towards it. Nat’s in a pink lacy dress and I’m in blue. We’re laughing and pulling party poppers. We did that picture about six times to get the party poppers just right. They were Nat’s idea. She has funny ideas like that. I mean, she does make you laugh, Nat.

‘Maybe I will call Natalie,’ I say at last. ‘Some time.’ I look at Mum for a reaction, but she’s fallen asleep. The half-full Lemsip is tilting dangerously on the tray, and I grab it before it can spill. I leave it on her bedside table in case she wakes up, then tiptoe out of the room and head downstairs, full of a kind of new energy.

‘Frank,’ I demand as I enter the kitchen. ‘Has Mum given up work?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘For good?’

‘Dunno.’

‘But she’s really good at her job.’

‘Yes, but she can’t go out, can she?’

He doesn’t say it, but I know what he means.
Because of you
.

Because of me, Mum is hanging around at home, worrying and reading the
Daily Mail
. Because of me, Mum looks all tense and tired instead of shiny and happy.

‘She should work. She likes work.’

Frank shrugs. ‘Well. I expect she will. You know . . .’

And again, the unspoken hangs in the air:
When you get better
.

‘I’ll go and get the grapes,’ he says, and ambles out of the kitchen. And I sit, staring at my blurry reflection in the stainless steel fridge. When I get better. Well then. It’s up to me to get better.

MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT

INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY

Dad is making a call at his desk in the study.

DAD

(into phone)

Yes. Yup. I’ll check that. (He taps at the computer.) OK, I’ve got it up now.

Frank barges into the room without knocking.

FRANK

Dad, I need to look something up for my geography homework.

DAD

You’ll have to do it later. Sorry, Mark—

FRANK

But I can’t do my homework till I look this up.

DAD

Frank, do it later.

Frank looks at him, wide-eyed.

FRANK

You always tell me to prioritize my homework. You always say, ‘Don’t put off your homework, Frank.’ But now you’re telling me to put off my homework. I mean, isn’t that mixed messages? Aren’t parents supposed to be consistent?

DAD

(sighs)

Fine. Look it up. Mark, I’ll call you back.

He gives way to Frank at the computer. Frank taps a few times, looks at a website and scribbles something down.

FRANK

Thanks.

As Frank leaves, Dad redials and summons up his document on the computer.

DAD

Sorry, Mark. So, as I was saying, these figures really don’t make sense—

He stops as Frank comes in again.

FRANK

I need to look up the population of Uruguay.