Finding Audrey (19 page)

‘Jesus!’ Looking like he wants to explode, the man shoves his laptop into his man-bag and gets to his feet. ‘Fucking
kids
,’ he mutters to himself. ‘
Unbelievable
.’

‘Bye then,’ says Linus innocently. ‘Have fun being a wanker.’

For an instant I think the man might hit him round the head – but of course he doesn’t. He just heads out of the coffee shop looking savage. Linus gets up and slides back into the seat opposite me, his face all creased up into his orange-segment smile.

‘Oh my God.’ I exhale. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’

‘Next time, you do it.’

‘I couldn’t!’

‘You could. It’s fun.’ Linus rubs his hands together. ‘Bring it on.’

‘OK, give me another one,’ I say, inspired. ‘Give me another dare.’

‘Ask this barista if they serve mint muffins. Go.’ He flags her down, and she comes over with a smile. I haven’t even got time to think about whether I’m nervous or not.

‘Excuse me, do you serve mint muffins?’ I say, adopting Linus’s innocent, childlike tones. Somehow, channelling Linus is giving me strength. I’m not me, I’m not Audrey, I’m a character.

‘Ah, no.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘But I saw them on the website,’ I say. ‘I’m sure I saw them. Mint muffins with a chocolate centre? With, like, sprinkles?’

‘And Polo mints on top,’ chimes in Linus seriously, and I nearly crease up with laughter.

‘No.’ The barista looks puzzled. ‘I never heard of them.’

‘Oh well,’ I say politely. ‘Thank you anyway.’ As she walks off, I grin at Linus, feeling a bit heady. ‘I did it!’

‘You can talk to anyone.’ He nods. ‘Next, why don’t you hire a soap box and make a speech?’

‘Great idea!’ I say. ‘Let’s invite, like, a thousand people.’

‘So the graph is going upwards. Miss Audrey is heading for the stars.’ Linus knows about the jagged/not-jagged graph, because I told him about it. I drew it out and everything.

‘Definitely.’ I clink my coffee cup against his. ‘Miss Audrey is heading for the stars.’

Which just proves it: I’m in charge of my graph. Me. And if I want a straight graph, I’ll have a straight graph.

So at my next session with Dr Sarah, I lie a little when I’m filling in my tick boxes.

Have you experienced worries most days?
Not at all.

Do you find your worries difficult to control?
Not at all.

She looks at the sheet with raised eyebrows when I hand it to her.

‘Well. This is an improvement!’

‘You see?’ I can’t help saying at once. ‘You see?’

‘Do you have any idea why you’ve improved so much this week, Audrey?’ She smiles at me. ‘Life’s good, is it just that? Or anything else? Any changes?’

‘Dunno.’ I shrug innocently. ‘I can’t think of anything that’s changed in particular.’

Which is another lie. Something that’s changed is: I’ve stopped taking my meds. I just take the pills out of the blister packs and chuck them away in a screwed-up envelope. (Not down the loo, because all the chemicals get into the water or whatever.)

And guess what? I haven’t noticed a single difference. Which just proves I didn’t need them.

I haven’t told anybody. Well, obviously I haven’t, because they’d stress out. I’m going to wait, like, a month and then I’ll casually tell everyone, and I’ll be like, you
see
?

‘I told you,’ I say to Dr Sarah. ‘I’m cooked. I’m done. All better.’

Mum’s in an organizing mood. She’s sweeping around the house, tidying and shouting and saying, ‘Whose shoes are these? What are they
doing
here?’ and we’ve all hidden in the garden. I mean me, Frank, Linus and Felix. It’s a warm day anyway, so it’s nice, just sitting on the grass, picking daisies.

There’s a rustling sound, and Dad appears round the side of the bush we’re lurking behind.

‘Hi, Dad,’ says Frank. ‘Have you come to join the Rebel Alliance?’

‘Frank, I think your mother wants you,’ says Dad.

Your mother
. Code for:
Don’t associate me with Mum’s latest nutty plan, I have nothing to do with it.

‘Why?’ Frank gives an unpromising scowl. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Busy hiding behind a bush?’ I say, and snort with laughter.

‘You offered to help?’ Dad says. ‘For the Avonlea fête catering? I think they’re starting.’

‘I did not offer to help,’ says Frank, looking outraged. ‘I did not
offer
. I was forced. This is forced labour.’

‘You have such a great attitude,’ I observe. ‘Helping your fellow man and everything.’

‘I don’t notice
you
helping your fellow man,’ Frank shoots back.

‘I’ll help my fellow man.’ I shrug. ‘I don’t mind making a few sandwiches.’

‘Anyway, fellow
man
?’ counters Frank. ‘That’s sexist. Glad you’re such a sexist, Audrey.’

‘It’s an expression.’

‘It’s a sexist expression.’

‘I think we should go,’ Dad cuts in. ‘Mum’s on the warpath.’

‘I’m entertaining Linus,’ says Frank, without moving an inch. ‘I’m entertaining a guest. You want me to abandon my guest?’

‘He’s
my
guest,’ I object.

‘He was my friend first.’ Frank glowers at me.

‘I have to go anyway,’ says Linus diplomatically. ‘Waterpolo practice.’

After Linus leaves, we hear Mum yelling, ‘Chris! Frank! Where
are
you!’ in her most ominous ‘You’ll-pay-for-this-later’ voice, and it’s like we all realize there’s no point hiding out here any more. Frank trudges back to the house looking like a condemned man and I take a few deep breaths because I’m feeling a little edgy.

I mean, I’m fine. I’m not panicking or anything. I’m just a tiny bit—

Well. A bit jittery. Dunno why. I’m probably just getting back to normal after all those months polluting my body with chemicals. I mean, when is the last time I knew what normal even
was
?

The kitchen is full of the most motley crew of people. There’s one old lady in an ancient purple suit and hair which is clearly a wig. There’s one middle-aged lady with plaits and sandals. There’s a plump couple who are wearing matching St Luke’s Church sweatshirts. And a white-haired man on a mobility scooter.

The mobility scooter’s pretty cool, actually. But it
is
kind of getting in everyone’s way.

‘Right!’ Mum comes in and claps her hands. ‘Welcome, everybody, and thank you for coming along today. So, the fête starts at three. I’ve bought lots of ingredients . . .’ She starts emptying food out of supermarket carriers onto the kitchen table – stuff like tomatoes and cucumbers, lettuce and bread, chicken and ham. ‘I thought we could make some sandwiches, stuffed wraps, um . . . does anyone have any other ideas?’

‘Sausage rolls?’ says the plump woman.

‘Right.’ Mum nods. ‘D’you mean buy sausage rolls or make sausage rolls?’

‘Ooh.’ The plump woman looks baffled. ‘I don’t know. But people like sausage rolls.’

‘Well, we haven’t got any sausage rolls. Or any sausage meat. So—’

‘That’s a shame,’ says the plump woman. ‘Because people like sausage rolls.’

Her husband nods. ‘They do.’

‘Everyone loves a sausage roll.’

I can see Mum getting a little tense. ‘Maybe next time,’ she says brightly. ‘Moving on. So, I thought . . . egg sandwiches?’

‘Mum!’ Frank says in horror. ‘Egg sandwiches are rank.’

‘I like egg sandwiches!’ says Mum defensively. ‘Does anyone else like egg sandwiches?’

‘Sweetheart, I think we can do better than egg sandwiches.’ A man’s voice cuts across Mum’s, and we all look up. A bloke I’ve never seen before is striding into the kitchen. He must be in his twenties. He’s got a shaved head and about six earrings in one ear and is wearing one of those chef outfits.

‘I’m Ade,’ he announces. ‘My grandad’s Derek Gould – he just moved into Avonlea. Told me about this. What are we doing?’

‘Are you a chef?’ Mum goggles at him. ‘A
professional
chef?’

‘I work at the Fox and Hounds. I’ve got an hour. This what you’ve got?’ He’s turning Mum’s food over in his hands. ‘I think we can knock up some nice fresh fillings to go in the wraps – maybe a Waldorf salad – and maybe roast this fennel off and do it with a lemon-tarragon dressing . . .’

‘Young man.’ Purple lady waves a hand in his face. ‘How will we keep salads fresh on a day like today?’

Ade looks surprised. ‘Oh, I brought the chill boxes from the pub. Thirty. And all the other catering supplies. You can give them back tomorrow.’

The purple lady blinks at him in surprise.

‘Chill boxes?’ Mum is starting to look overexcited. ‘Catering supplies? You’re a saint!’

‘No problemo. OK, so our menu is Waldorf salad wrap, Mexican bean wrap, a couple of salads—’

‘Um, could we use some eggs?’ says Mum, looking embarrassed. ‘I bought a whole load of eggs for egg sandwiches, which no one seems keen on.’

‘Spanish omelette,’ says Ade without missing a beat. ‘We’ll put in some chorizo, garlic, fry off some sweet onion, serve it in slices . . .’

I
love
Spanish omelette. This guy is so cool!

‘I bought lots of peppers too,’ says Mum eagerly, handing him one. ‘Could they go in?’

‘Perfect.’

Ade takes the pepper from Mum and turns it over in his fingers. Then he opens up his backpack to reveal a set of knives, all carefully packed in covers. We watch agog as he takes a chopping board from the kitchen table, places the pepper on it and starts chopping it up.

Oh my God, I have
never
seen anyone chop so fast.

Chop-chop-chop-chop-chop.

Everyone in the kitchen is just staring in astonishment. Even Frank. In fact, especially Frank. When Ade finishes and everyone bursts into applause, Frank is the only one who is still transfixed, his eyes like saucers.

‘You.’ Ade seems to notice him. ‘I want you on dicing duty.’

‘But . . .’ Frank swallows. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘I’ll teach you. No sweat.’ Ade looks Frank up and down. ‘You cooking in that? Got an apron?’

‘I can find one,’ says Frank hastily, and I stifle a giggle. Frank’s going to wear an
apron
?

Ade is now rootling around in Mum’s cupboards, dumping ingredients all over the counter.

‘I’m going to make a shopping list,’ he announces. ‘We need Parmesan, more garlic, harissa . . . Who’s our runner?’ He looks at me. ‘Pretty girl in the dark glasses. You want to be our runner?’

Shopping’s OK-ish for me now.

I mean, it’s not always
easy
. I still have to deal with my lizard brain, which springs into action whenever I don’t want it to. Over the last few days I’ve been feeling these, like, waves of panic at random times, which is really annoying, because I thought I’d got rid of them.

But what I’ve learned is not to
fight
my lizard brain, but kind of
tolerate
it. Listen to it and then say, ‘Yeah, whatever.’ Just like you tolerate a four-year-old. I’ve come to think of my lizard brain as basically a version of Felix. It’s totally random and makes no sense and you can’t let it run your life. If we let Felix run our lives, we’d all wear superhero costumes all day long and eat nothing but ice cream.

But if you try to fight Felix, all you get is wails and screams and tantrums, and it all gets more and more stressy. So the thing is to listen to him with half an ear and nod your head, and then ignore him and do what you want to do.

Same with the lizard brain.

So when I freeze in sudden terror at the entrance to the supermarket, I force myself to smile and say, ‘Nice try, lizard brain.’ I actually say it aloud, and exhale for twelve beats. (If you breathe out really slowly, it regulates the carbon dioxide in the brain and calms you down, instantly. Try it if you don’t believe me.) Then I saunter in, doing my best impression of someone who really couldn’t give a toss what some old reptile thinks.

And you know what? It kind of works.

When I get back home, holding two carrier bags, I stop dead in astonishment. Frank’s standing at the kitchen counter, chopping.

He’s wearing one of Mum’s aprons and he’s holding a knife I don’t recognize and he’s learned that cool-chef way of doing it. That chop-chop-chop thing. Fast. He’s pink in the face and totally absorbed. Like, he doesn’t even notice me watching, let alone come up with some wisecrack.