Chapter Four
Four
‘Well, that was something,’ Christine said, after the crew had finally finished packing up and buggered off to a hotel for the night. ‘I don’t think the house has ever been that brightly lit. I bet I looked a hundred years old.’
‘You looked fine,’ Callie said sincerely, looking her mother over.
The thick head of caramel hair, the bee-stung lips, the olive skin that kept her looking ten years younger…
If anything positive could be said of her mother, it was that she was a looker.
Always had been, and if her fifties were anything to go by, always would be.
It was only a shitty personality that had held her back in life.
Despite the conflicted feelings Callie had when she looked in the mirror and saw strong echoes of her mother, she knew those looks had paid her bills.
‘They said they’d stick to the kitchen. They were everywhere,’ Christine complained.
‘I should have gotten a haircut,’ her stepdad, Brian, muttered from the table. ‘I’m gonna look like a gorilla on TV.’
‘If you’d gotten a haircut, your bald spot would have been harder to cover,’ Christine said casually.
‘I’ve got a bald spot?’ Brian said, horrified.
‘Not if you keep your hair longer,’ Christine replied pleasantly.
Brian seemed unsure how to respond to that.
Callie looked around the kitchen to avoid catching Brian’s eye amid his embarrassment.
The house still looked the same—the same wallpaper, same faint coffee rings on the table—but it wasn’t hers anymore.
It belonged to them. Her mother and Brian had filled it with their routines, their noise, their new daughter.
‘Where’s Hannah?’ Callie asked.
‘Upstairs,’ Christine said, glancing at the ceiling. ‘Pretending to do homework but probably texting her friends about today. She’s excited. Can’t believe she’s going to be on telly.’
‘It’s only background stuff,’ Callie said.
‘She doesn’t care. She thinks you’re famous.’
Callie laughed softly. ‘That makes one of us.’
Christine’s smile faltered. ‘You are, though. You’ve done well. We’re proud of you.’
Brian nodded as his inclusion, but it was a soft nod. The nod of a man who wants to say, Bit weird for me to say that, but I’m not averse to being proud of you at a later date if we get to know each other.
‘Thanks,’ Callie said awkwardly.
The kettle clicked off. Christine poured tea for everyone.
‘What’s wrong with the bakery?’ Brian asked, slipping his hands around a hot mug.
‘What?’
‘Earlier,’ Brian said. ‘That Neil bloke said something about the bakery, and you didn’t seem keen.’
‘Nothing’s wrong with it,’ Callie said far too quickly.
‘Your mother mentioned that you were friends with the girl who runs it. Is there bad blood or…’
‘I’ll make up your room,’ Christine said quickly.
‘It’s still my room?’ Callie asked, puzzled.
‘No, but there’s a bed in there. Under my Avon.’
Callie grimaced. ‘You know I could always stay somewhere else. The production does budget for, like, at least a Travelodge.’
Christine looked more than amenable. ‘Well, if…’
‘We won’t hear of it,’ Brian said. ‘This is still your home.’
Christine quickly changed lanes. ‘Yes, of course it is. My Avon can be shifted to slot you in.’
Callie sighed. She was stuck in this house. Again.
***
Later, in the small room that had once been hers, she sat on the edge of the bed, surrounded by a small wall of cosmetics boxes and listened to the murmur of voices downstairs, the news playing low.
The wallpaper was still the same—lilac with tiny white flowers.
Her stuff, the things she’d left behind, were gone.
No doubt binned within days of Callie’s escape.
The streetlight outside flickered against the curtains. Somewhere in town, ovens would be cooling, lights switching off one by one.
She told herself she’d face it, that she’d walk into that bakery tomorrow and it would be fine. Polite. Professional. She’d smile for the cameras and do what she was told, and Mae might not even be there.
She didn’t believe a word of it.