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He lifts his hand to wave, and I mirror him, waving back. Then I sit back, closing my eyes, as the taxi driver traverses the late night streets of London.
18
When I wake up in the morning, my mouth is glued together by a mixture of dried-up alcohol and cold hard regret. Through my half-open eyes, the red digits of my alarm clock show it's almost ten in the morning. I sit up, panicking before realising it's Saturday. With a sigh of relief, I allow myself to slump back on the bed. At least I’m not going to be late for work.
There's a blissfully empty moment before the memories begin to take shape in my mind. The feeling is fleeting, replaced by images that flicker in my brain like a Pathé newsreel of my worst moments, as I remember the way I practically crawled all over Callum, stuffing my hands down the front of his trousers.
Groaning, I haul myself out of bed, grabbing my robe and tying the sash around my waist, pausing in the bathroom to splash ice-cold water on my face before I drag myself downstairs. The kitchen light is too bright, the kettle too loud, and the tinny sound of the radio makes my teeth grind.
“Did you have a good night?” Mum glances up from her phone. Mascara is smudged beneath her eyes, blending into the grey that shadows her cheeks. Her skin is sallow without her usual foundation and blusher.
“Mmm.” I take a glass from the cupboard and a carton of orange juice from the fridge.
“You came home late.”
I can tell from the smirk on her face that she knows exactly how late—or how early—I got home this morning. Though I try to ignore it, Callum's face flashes in my mind, and I remember his confused expression as the taxi pulled away from his flat.
Oh God, what have I done?
“It was full on.” I collapse into the plastic chair opposite Mum, my legs refusing to hold my weight any longer. “We partied h
ard.”
“It looks like it.” She swallows a mouthful of tea. “I'm glad you had fun. You deserve it.”
Surprised, I catch her eye. “Really?”
“Yes, you've been working hard. And after everything that's happened...”
We're quiet for a moment. The DJ introduces another song, and we both sip at our drinks. The orange juice sticks to my teeth, coating them in sugar, and I run my tongue along the enamel, trying to clean them off.
“How was work?” I finally ask in an attempt to change the subject. Mum tends the bar at the local pub on a Friday night. She loves being surrounded by friends and noise.
“Same as usual. At least until your dad came in.”
Alarmed, I look at her. My eyes are dry and wide. “You saw him?”
She picks up the cereal box in front of her, suddenly preoccupied by the text printed on the back. Her eyes dart back and forth, judiciously avoiding mine.
“Yes,” she says slowly, each letter lingering on her tongue. “He came in to ask about you.” Red spots form on the apples of her cheeks, their pinkness a contrast against her pale skin. “He really wants to see you, Amy.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him how beautiful you are. How clever. I said how proud I was to have you as a daughter.”
I don't often hear words of praise tumbling from her lips. “What did he say?”
Finally she drags her gaze from the cereal box. “He wants to meet you, he's desperate to. He's changed, I promise you. Digger isn't the angry man he used to be. He's calmer, I don't know, more mature?”
There's something in her voice that both panics and reassures me. A firmness leaving me in no doubt she believes what she's saying, coupled with a lightness that makes me wonder if there was more to last night than just a chat. Her eyes sparkle, lending them a vibrancy that's all too familiar. Mum’s in man-hunting mode, her eyes set firmly on the prize.
She grabs me, the same wrist he once snapped in two. Instinctively, I pull away. Though the pain is long gone, her touch makes me cringe.
“What did I do?” she asks, confused.
“I don't know,” I admit, still rubbing my arm. “He just scares me, that's all.”
“He's sorry for that, too. All he wants to do is talk, nothing else. I promise you, Amy, I wouldn't say anything if I didn't believe him.”
