Clare
Monday 4th February, 7.00 a.m.
I’m not coming home tonight. The thought hits me as soon as I wake up, fizzing excitedly inside my brain, like one of those sherbets Mum used to buy me from miserable Ruby’s corner shop. I won’t be sleeping in this bed, I won’t be wearing these red and white pyjamas, I won’t be by myself.
It’s so cold outside; I can see misted condensation on the windows of our house and the room has a filmy, damp feel because Ian’s so bloody tight about the heating. Under the duvet, I wiggle my toes to warm up and reach an arm out for my iPhone, on charge by the side of the bed like it always is. Three new messages – two from Lauren, and one from him. The smile cracks open my face as I read it, and I feel a little shiver of anticipation run through me. Today’s the day. I have been keeping my secret to myself all weekend, but tonight, I’m going to tell him. He’s waited long enough.
‘Clare? Are you out of bed yet?’
Mum’s calling me from downstairs, I can hear Ian thudding around, making too much noise as he always does. Their bedroom is down the corridor from mine, but I never go in there. I hear the shower spray on, the sound of water hitting tiles, then his whistling begins – out of tune, like always. It’ll be like this until the front door slams and he goes to work; until then, the house is full of his loud voice and Mum’s anxious fussing. I’ve got an alarm, of course, but she insists on shouting for me every morning as though I’m six, not sixteen. Reluctantly, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as the freezing floorboards touch my feet. My phone, still in my hand, vibrates again and I feel another bubble of excitement, deep in my stomach. Just the day to get through and then it’ll be time. I can’t wait to see his face.