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Buku Stone Cold Heart by Caz Frear

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Stone Cold Heart by Caz Frear

Author:Caz Frear

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: HarperCollins

Published: 2019-05-28T16:00:00+00:00

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Stone Cold Heart by Caz Frear

19

Saturday

Lydia has a particular interest in cases that protect and promote the rights of women . . .

 

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Stone Cold Heart by Caz Frear

 

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Stone Cold Heart by Caz Frear

Author:Caz Frear , Date: July 3, 2019

,Views: 99

Author:Caz Frear

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: HarperCollins

Published: 2019-05-28T16:00:00+00:00
19

Saturday

Lydia has a particular interest in cases that protect and promote the rights of women . . .

Next morning, I lie on the world’s most uncomfortable futon, fangirling over Lydia Coe and avoiding the bacon sandwich love-in that Dad’s preparing downstairs. Last night, under the cloak of whiskey, the idea of Dad frying the rashers while I buttered the toast seemed twee and benign and essentially “Why not?” but this morning it feels phoney. Our relationship’s better suited to late-night confessionals than cozy chats over the breakfast table.

When I can’t avoid it any longer, I get up, have a cold shower—because I can’t figure out the temperature dial—and get dressed in yesterday’s jeans and a smart cream blouse I find hanging on a clothes rail. Judging by the label, I’m assuming it’s Jacqui’s. At least, I hope it’s Jacqui’s. I can’t go to work wearing one of Dad’s conquest’s clothes.

“Morning, sweetheart. You sleep all right?” Dad looks fresh, full of zing, at least ten years younger than he did last night.

“Yeah, not bad. I’ve, er . . . I’ve borrowed this,” I say, tugging at the blouse as I look around the kitchen. There’s red and brown sauce, enough bacon to feed a platoon, and the Jackson Five are ABCing on the radio at full volume.

It’s all too chipper. I need to weasel away.

I walk straight to the sink and pour myself a pint of water, mainly because it means keeping my back to him while I make my excuses. “Look, I’m not really hungry, Dad. Sorry. And I’ve got places to be . . . Don’t worry, though, the bacon’ll keep. Chuck it in a carbonara or something. Jacqui will know.”

“I’ll know what?”

My sister, the ninja.

I turn around. “Oh, hello, where did you spring from?” My nephew’s trailing her in a green-and-blue football kit—an iPad in one hand, a packet of Skittles in the other.

“We’ve been here ages. Dad said to keep the noise down so we didn’t wake Princess Catrina. Heard you had a rough night.” For one crossed-wire second I think Dad’s told her about Frank, but then I remember Dad doesn’t tell Jacqui anything unpleasant and by rough she means boozy. “Hey, is that my Boden top, you cheeky cow? Well, I want it back, I’m not joking. And it’s dry-clean only. Don’t be throwing it in with your cheap-dye jeans.”

It could be 2003 again. Kelis bragging about her “Milkshake” on the radio and me and Jacqui declaring war in this very kitchen over a top or a hairband while Mum tried to referee.

“Yeah, yeah, cool your jets. I can read a label.” I peer past her. “Hey Finn-bo, don’t I get a hug anymore?” Finn shuffles toward me, wafting his small body against mine—a seven-year-old boy’s version of a hug, I suppose. “So what are you doing here? Have you got a game nearby?”

Finn makes a vaguely affirmative sound and sits at the table, blindly swiping at the iPad screen. Jacqui hovers behind him, picking the rind off a piece of bacon.

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