Chapter 19
Ember
The next week is absolute hell. For one thing, because I do badly on a couple of tests at school and disappoint Mum and Dad, and for another, because I can’t get the business with Wren out of my head, and I’m constantly thinking about him.
I’ve barely seen Ruby and James in the last few days.
If they’re not sitting at her desk or the kitchen table, studying for their A levels together, they’re driving to see Lydia or planning stuff for the events committee.
There was only once, in the living room, when I heard them talking about Wren’s party, and James said something about how it had all turned out for the best and he was going to spend more time round there from now on.
It was all I could do not to snort with derision.
“Are you OK?” my friend Maisie asks as we walk out of school at the end of the day.
We’re not usually in a rush, and spend ages hanging around on the steps, chatting about everything and nothing.
But today, I just want to get home and bury myself down a deep internet rabbit hole, to drive all thoughts of Wren Fitzgerald out of my head.
“It hasn’t been the best week,” I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on my patent leather boots.
They’re neon pink and have huge buckles and don’t really comply with the dress code, but I don’t care.
I got them cheap from a flea market, and since then I’ve looked forward to putting them on every day.
Especially because the color normally makes me happy.
But today it’s not working.
“I screwed up that test too. No sweat, Ember-pet,” says Maisie cheerily, slapping me on the back.
“Was that meant to rhyme?” I ask with a grin.
“No, but it just shows my incredible way with words,” she says, smiling back at me.
“That’s not what Mrs. Wright says.” She goes to hit me again, and I dodge, almost stumbling down the next step.
“Hello? You have to be nice to me. I’m not the one with a hot, secret boyfriend who picks me up from school.”
“I don’t have a hot, secret…” I begin, but stop in mid-sentence as I see someone leaning against the railing at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me with his hands dug into his pockets.
Wren.
He’s here.
At my school.
I bite my tongue. I’m angry but insecure. He didn’t reply to my text. In fact, I haven’t heard a word from him since last weekend.
I have no idea what he’s doing here.
“See you tomorrow, yeah? Oh, and ask your mum if she can give you another scone for me, thanks. You’re the best!” Maisie calls out, and before I get the chance to ask her to wait, she jumps down the rest of the steps, her plaits flying in the air behind her.
Suddenly, it’s just me, so I take a deep breath, then walk slowly down.
Every time I’ve met Wren in the last few weeks, I’ve looked him over from head to toe, taking in every detail, such as the slight kink in his left ear, the little cigarette burn in his leather jacket, and the way his mouth crinkles when he smiles in a particular way.
Now, I don’t look at him, not even when we’re at eye level, and he opens his mouth to say something. I walk on past him without a word.
“Wait!” he calls, and I hear him running after me.
I ignore him.
“Of course we’re friends, Ember,” he calls out behind me.
I stop dead and press my lips firmly together.
Wren comes round and stands in front of me. It hurts to look at him, so I stare at the yellowing toes on his Converses.
Not much better.
How is it possible that I’ve invested this much in this friendship in such a short time?
How is it possible that I’m this much into this boy?
“I know this answer is way too late, but…we are friends,” Wren repeats, more firmly this time.
Now I can’t help it—I look him in the eye. “It hasn’t felt that way this week,” I reply. “I’d got the idea that we were going to tell Ruby and everyone about us. And then, I find out from my sister that you’re throwing a party, and that you evidently don’t want me there.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. He runs his hand through his hair, and it’s only in this moment that I clock how much he sticks out here in his Maxton Hall uniform. Some kids eye us curiously as they walk past, but I don’t have the headspace to think about that now.
I shake my head. “You didn’t text me back all week. Or give me any sign of life. That’s not how friends act.”
“I know and I’m really sorry.” He spends a moment trying to find the right words. “But that party…All my friends came. I just couldn’t invite you as well, Ember.”
It feels like a stab in the chest as he says that, and I take a step backward.
I helped Wren set up his room and spent nights trawling the internet for student finance with him.
I was the one who helped him deal with the whole situation, who was there for him when he needed to talk in the middle of the night.
We spent hours talking and messaging. I thought we were good friends.
Apparently, I was wrong.
It hurt not to hear from him all week, but that’s nothing compared to the pain his words cause me now. And at the same time, something’s become very clear to me.
“I didn’t spend years learning to love myself just to let someone like you make me feel like shit,” I say.
Wren shakes his head, steps closer again. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t want you to get the wrong impression about me or my friends. And after your message…I didn’t know what to say. Or if you even wanted to hear from me at all. I didn’t think about what it must look like to you.”
“To me, it looks like you only want to meet me in secret,” I reply flatly.
I’m almost expecting him to argue, to insist that I’m important to him.
I wait for an answer. Ten seconds go by.
Twenty. Thirty. Then I lose count and things get really awkward.
I realize that I’m not getting an answer.
Swallowing hard, I look into Wren’s face.
I study his dark brown eyes, his black, curling lashes, the little birth mark on his right cheek.
Then I tear my eyes away and clear my throat.
“Take care, Wren,” I say, turning away and leaving him standing there on the pavement. It’s only then that I realize how sweaty my palms feel. How fast my pulse is racing.
And how badly my heart is aching.
Lydia
“What do you think of this one?” asks Ophelia.
At the last second, I stop myself screwing up my nose as I look at the little cardigans my aunt is showing me on her iPad. They’re piglet pink, glittery, and about the last thing I’d ever want to dress my children in.
“I think a bit less pink wouldn’t hurt,” I say diplomatically, at which it’s Ophelia who wrinkles her nose.
“You’re just like your mother. She would never go for color in your clothes.”
Over the last few weeks, I’ve looked through Ophelia’s photo albums, and I have to say that Mum had great taste when it came to dressing me and James. Most of our outfits were in neutral tones and always went really well together without being matchy-matchy. I want my babies to be that stylish too.
“Mum knew her stuff,” I say.
Ophelia sighs and takes the iPad back. She keeps scrolling through the shop website, putting pretty much anything in newborn sizes into her basket.
“I don’t know how you stand it,” she says after a while, looking at me over her sunglasses. “I’d be dying of curiosity if it were me.”
I lean back in the lounger, looking up at the underside of the striped parasol spread out over us on Ophelia’s patio.
“I am really curious too. But it’s more of a…thrill to wait.”
“When did you make up your mind to keep it a surprise?” Ophelia asks.
I stroke my belly, lost in thought. “This whole pregnancy has been a surprise, right from the start. When my doctor asked if I wanted to know the sexes, I just liked the idea of waiting. It’s in keeping with the theme.”
Since I’ve been staying here, I’ve lost the feeling that I need to whisper when I talk about my twins.
Ophelia has helped me relax and to accept that all I can do is accept things as they come and make the best of them.
She might not know it, but it’s all thanks to her support that I’m here, about six weeks from the due date, and not freaking out.
So I can deal with her taste in baby clothes being a bit off. But even so, I still shudder when I remember the neon-green dungarees she suggested with shining eyes—a garment that I’d only use as an insect-scarer.
“Your phone’s ringing, lovely,” Ophelia says, pointing to the little table between our garden chairs.
I push my shades up into my hair so that I can see the screen better. But when I see who’s calling, my heart sinks down to my boots—or rather my sandals.
It’s Cyril.
I pick up my phone and stare irresolutely at the small picture by his name. I took the photo at James’s and my last birthday party. Cyril put his hand on the back of my head and pulled me close, and I’m beaming into the camera like it’s the best evening of my life.
The memory of what Cyril used to mean to me collides with the knowledge of what he’s capable of, of what he did, and for a moment, I’m so overwhelmed that I don’t know whether to answer or throw my phone as far away as I possibly can.
After two deep breaths, I pick the first option.
“Hello?” I croak.
“Lydia.” He sounds surprised, like he wasn’t expecting me to pick up.
I wait.
“How…er. How are you?” he asks.
I’m so confused that for a while, I don’t even know what to say. “Are you serious?” I stammer in the end.
He goes silent. I hear him inhale deeply, then he sighs. “I just don’t know how to start this conversation.”
“So why call?” I snap. All the fury I’ve felt toward Cyril lately comes bursting out, full force. I can’t sit on this lounger a second longer, and I lever myself up. I feel Ophelia’s eyes on me, but I don’t turn to look at her. I take a few steps across the garden, trying to calm down.
The lawn sprinkler is on, and I have to dodge it so I don’t get wet.
“I wanted to say sorry,” says Cyril.