Trent tells us not to worry. To chill. That he’s seen it all before. That it looks like I’m using too much tongue.
‘Relax, bro, we’re all friends here, right?’
He’s brought out his laptop to show us a video of the three of us playing together as kids. Layla flashes me a lopsided grin as we take seats at the opposite ends of the couch and Trent is all over it.
‘Well,’ he says, giving her a wink, ‘some of you are more than friends, hey, Montgomery?’
‘Shut it, Trenticles.’
I notice she’s blushing. I don’t know why but it kinda makes me happy. That maybe I’m not the only one into this. Whatever this is.
I roll my eyes. ‘Are we gonna watch this stupid thing or not?’
‘Damn straight we are, Casanova. Still can’t believe I found this gem on Dad’s old hard-drive. Haven’t watched it all the way through yet, but what I’ve seen is gold. Trust me.’
He presses play.
Suddenly we’re toddlers again.
There’s our backyard with its patchy green lawn and overgrown garden before my folks got it landscaped, and we’re giggling as we take turns running through a sprinkler. The camera work is shaky and Dad’s voice booms off screen, telling us to calm down, take turns, be careful of bindies. The video goes in and out of focus — there’s even a bit of muttered swearing as Dad fumbles to find his grip — then Trent and Layla come back into the shot. Trent’s undies are so drenched they’re hanging low on his lily-white body, while Layla’s hair is thick and curly and dark, the way I remember it. She’s waddling around in a striped one-piece, and then I trundle into the shot behind her, starkers, wearing my soaked undies like a floppy hat. Trent squats down on the sprinkler, laughing as the water bubbles up in his undies, and we all shriek like we’ve been hooked up to an IV of red cordial.
‘Look at ya little thingy!’ Trent points at the close-up of me sprinting across the screen, bare body on show for all to see. Layla tries to hide a cackle behind her fist. ‘Bit cold that day, mate?’
‘Where’s my Layla?’ a woman’s voice calls off screen.
I suck in a sharp breath. Shit. I know that voice in the video.It’s her.
Trent’s still hooting at the footage, swearing as little Layla dacks him on screen, oblivious to the fact we’re not laughing any more.
‘Where’s my Lay-Lay?’ the sugary voice says. ‘It’s time to go, sweetie.’
My heartbeat quickens as I dare to look over, hoping I’m overreacting, but Layla’s lips are tight as she watches her mum walk into the frame holding a beach towel.
I clear my throat. ‘Lay, we can turn it off —’
‘No, leave it,’ she says, not taking her eyes off the laptop. ‘I’m fine.’ Trent’s no longer laughing
‘Lay-Lay,’ her mum sings on screen. ‘Lay-Lay, come to Mummy. Ready to go?’
The three of us are silent as little Layla sticks out her tongue at her mum, who crouches down to eye level, sweeps her thick dark plait over her shoulder, and tries again.
‘Sweetheart,’ she says, extending her arms. ‘We’ve gotta go. Mummy’s gotta finish marking her school reports and I need you to come with me.’
Little Layla roars and stamps her foot on the grass, then runs in the opposite direction.
‘I mean it, Layla. I’m counting to three, okay? One … two … Layla!’
More screaming. Then crying. Then a shot of her mum wrestling a wriggling, kicking, shrieking Layla over her shoulder. Her tiny little arms hit and punch at her mum, but she only grimaces, chewing on her bottom lip.
Layla’s eyes fill with tears as she watches the video. ‘Turn it off, Trent,’ I hiss.
He’s startled and slow, and we hear little Layla’s repeated shrieks of ‘Hate you, Mummy!’ through the speaker.
Swearing, Layla snatches the laptop from Trent’s hands and slams the lid shut.