Lucas Read Free Page B

quickly formed a mental image. ‘A tall blonde with long legs and pots of money—’
    â€˜You’re making it up.’
    â€˜No, I’m not. Her name’s Helen, she lives in Norfolk somewhere—’
    â€˜There you are, then.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜She’s in Norfolk – I’m two minutes walk up the lane. End of story.’ She laughed again, then covered the mouthpiece and spoke to somebody in the background.
    I twiddled the telephone cord in my fingers and wiped a cobweb from the wall. I jiggled my foot. I told myself to ignore it, forget it, don’t let it bother you … but I couldn’t. This thing with Bill and Dominic was getting out of hand. It used to be funny – Dear Trish, My best friend fancies my older brother, what should I do? Yeah, it used to be funny, when Bill was ten and Dominic was fourteen. But it wasn’t funny any more, because Bill wasn’t joking any more. She really meant it. And that bothered me. The trouble was, if I told her what I really thought she’d just laugh it off. She’d say – oh, come on, Cait, don’t be so bloody serious all the time, it’s just a bit of fun, girl …
    So, right or wrong, I just went along with it.
    â€˜Cait?’
    â€˜Yeah, who was that?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I thought you were talking to someone.’
    â€˜Nah, it’s the telly. I was just turning it down. Anyway,are you still all right for tomorrow?’
    â€˜What time?’
    â€˜I’ll meet you at the bus stop at two—’
    â€˜Why don’t I come round to your place? We can walk over together.’
    â€˜No, I have to go somewhere first. I’ll meet you at two.’
    â€˜The bus goes at ten to.’
    â€˜All right, quarter to, then. What are you wearing?’
    â€˜Wearing? I don’t know, nothing special – why?’
    â€˜No reason, I just thought it’d be fun to spice it up for a change.’
    â€˜Spice it up?’
    â€˜You know, skirt, heels, skinny top …’
    I laughed. ‘We’re only going to Moulton.’
    â€˜Yeah, well … you look nice when you get dressed up. You should do it more often. You can’t wear those worn-out shorts and a T-shirt all the time.’
    â€˜I don’t .’
    â€˜Yes, you do. Shorts and a T-shirt in summer, jeans and a jumper in winter—’
    â€˜What’s wrong with that?’
    â€˜Nothing – all I’m saying is, you’ve got to make an effort now and then. Show a bit of leg, bit of belly, slap a bit of lippy on, you know …’
    â€˜We’ll see. Maybe …’
    â€˜Oh, go on, Cait. It’ll be a laugh.’
    â€˜I said maybe—’
    â€˜You never know, we might bump into someone decent … what’s Dom doing tomorrow? Bumpety bump—’
    â€˜Look, Bill—’
    â€˜Oops – gotta go. I think I heard Mum coming back and I’ve still got a ciggy going. I’ll see you tomorrow at two—’
    â€˜Quarter to— Bill?’
    But she’d already hung up.
    I put the phone down and went into the kitchen. The house was quiet. Faint sounds drifted in the silence – the soft tap-tapping of Dad’s keyboard, the drone of an aeroplane high in the sky, the distant cry of a lone gull. Through the window I could see the container ship drifting round the Point, its vast grey hulk weighed down with a cargo of multicoloured metal crates. The sky above it was clouding over a little but the sun was still warm and bright, bathing the island in a gauze of pale pink.
    I like this time of day. When the light glows softly and there’s a sense of sleepiness to the air – it’s as if the island is breathing out after a long hard day, getting ready for the night. During the summer I often sit in the kitchen for an hour or two, just watching the sky change colour as the sun goes down, but that evening I