So when Mum said I was going to get to go Edinburgh, even though it was pretty hard to stop listening to my brain telling me to be scared and even though it was going to be three years and even more too early, I thought, well, if I can get through going back to school on my own, maybe I could do that too. And that somewhere in the 80 percent of all the dust in our house there’s maybe still a little bit of Jax.

13

Sadie

THE DAY AFTER my sleepless night, the bus was running twenty minutes later than usual, not due to a much-hoped-for collision with a cow but some diversionary roadworks. As we pulled up across the road from Pearl’s, I could see Leonard standing at the side door of the office, looking anxiously in the direction of the bus. When he saw me get off, his face broke into a huge grin and he clapped his hands together and just held them there as I crossed the road. Like he was happy to see me or something. I had a sudden flash of guilt about those two weeks I’d been away without explanation. But if he was holding a grudge, he didn’t show it.

“The best of jolly good mornings to you, my dear! Unseasonably chilly today, isn’t it? Come on in. The kettle’s on.” Pop a brew on, Sadie, love.

In the lunchroom, the silver teapot and two cups were already set out and, as we were clearly behind schedule, Leonard busied himself pouring. I sat down at the table and rested my chin on my hands, allowing my eyelids to close for a few lovely, lovely seconds. Or minutes. The aroma of warm flowers brought me round and I opened my eyes to see Leonard sitting opposite me, hands folded around his cup, wearing a slightly concerned look.

“Sadie my dear, is everything...are you all right?”

So because it was clear he could see something was up, and because I’d been awake all night thinking about that bloody plan on Norman’s bedroom wall, and because I felt guilty I’d never really given him anything about my life when I knew so much about his, he got it all.

Leonard sipped his tea while I told him how everything went wrong when my father went and died when I was nineteen, leaving me the sole survivor of the already meager Foreman family of two I’d spent so long trying to keep intact. And that I’d woken up white-hot angry about that every single day for a year. So angry that I couldn’t concentrate on my university course, or my procession of part-time jobs, or even on the tedious task of sucking air in and out of my lungs, which I’d not very seriously considered putting a stop to once or twice. So angry that drinking my body weight in alcohol and having sex with anyone who was brave enough to pay me any attention seemed like the best idea I’d ever had. Like maybe there was a chance it would help because nothing else did.