Saving Sophia Read Free Page B

“It’s not that it doesn’t need doing up, Lottie – it would be lovely to see it restored to its former glory. But there’s a difference between wrenching up trees and putting in golf bunkers, and simply mowing the grass.” Mum wipes her nose on her sleeve. “And a hotel is a very different thing to a home; I just can’t bear to think of it all ripped out and replaced with fakery, it would be—”
    “I understand,” I say quietly. Although I don’t, not entirely. Apart from anything else, I don’t know how I feel about it. I don’t want the man in the expensive suit to have Irene’s things; I don’t really want him bossing builders about, standing by Irene’s old iron bedstead, his shined shoes on her worn rag-rug, but I also love the idea of what the house could become, the skanky kitchen gone, the rooms all white and gleaming. The steps cleared and fixed. The trees cut back away from the frontof the house.
    I open my mouth to speak again, and decide not to.
    Perhaps I’ll ask Sophia about it while we’re away; she must know something.
    If she’ll want to be seen with me.

Only friends lie for you…
    The coach leaves in ten minutes. Dad’s offered to drive us to school but I wish he hadn’t. Our car was built in the last century – the last millennium, even. It used to be red, but the red’s gone and now it’s kind of silver, except at the bottom where it’s still red. Last time Mum took it to a car wash half the paint came off.
    I hate it.
    On the way here, we passed Irene’s house, shaded by the tall ash trees that now surround it. A squirrel threw itself along the branches as we drove past, and the windows looked back at us blank and dark.
    It made me feel deeply sad.
    And cross.
    We park next to a huge black Range Rover that is so big our car could probably park inside it. At the back stands Sophia, looking tiny, by a pile of green and gold luggage that includes a tennis racket and a violin. They seem ambitious for Bream that, as I remember it, is mostly mud or sand. She doesn’t look very happy.
    I try to think of something to say.
Hi – remember me? The one who talks too much?
Or
Sorry about Mum and the dead chicken.
Or
I’m beautiful inside, I’m just trapped in blubber
.
    I don’t say any of it.
    Dad springs out of our car and I realise he’s wearing a boiler suit and orange wellingtons and is in need of containing in case he attempts any social interaction. I struggle out past Ned’s walking poles and grab Dad, pushing him back towards the car before he has a chance to mingle.
    â€œCan you get my bag out, please, it’s really heavy?” I ask as Ned nudges past and plunges into the boot of the car through the back seat before dragging his bag over my foot.
    â€œOw! Ned!” I squeal, but he ignores me.
    â€œAre you wearing make-up, sis?” he asks. “Miss Sackbutt won’t like that – how’d you sneak it past Mum?”
    â€œShhh! Ned, shut up or I’ll use Oddjob as a hairclip.”
    â€œOh, I didn’t bring him in the end; brought Pinky and Perky instead. Thought Roman snails would be less trouble. Oh, and Dad, thanks for lending me the compass watch,” he says, tightening the laces on his walking boots. “So looking forward to orienteering on the moor. I’ve already signed up.”
    â€œExcellent stuff,” says Dad, pulling out my backpack and wincing at the weight. “Shame you couldn’t have the smaller one, Lottie, but if Mum and I go to Cornwall for a couple of days moth-hunting, then we’ll need it. You’ll mostly be flopping about in the mud at Bream, I should imagine; just leave this old thing in the bunkhouse.”
    I kick my ridiculous rucksack. It looks like something the Victorian army might have used on manoeuvres. I glance around; everyone else has something small and pretty with logos and nylon iPod holders. I could cry.
    Dad gives it an