As predicted, Mum wasn’t impressed about being volunteered to do the run. “What? But I picked up from training on Tuesday,” she groaned as she dropped down a gear to climb Toft’s Hill.
“Sorry,” I said. “Amy wants to revise and Eve’s mum is going the other way.”
“Fine. Add it to the list.”
“Sorry,” I repeated.
Mum frowned at me in the rear-view mirror. “We really do need to talk about Saturdays, Gemma.”
I shuddered at the thought. “I’ll buy you a bar of Galaxy when I get my pocket money,” I told her hastily.
She caught my anxious tone and sighed. “I’ll hold you to that, though I reckon it’s Amy who should be buying it, not you.”
“Too right,” I agreed. “Giant size.”
A minute later we were entering Castle Heights. Castle Heights is a gated complex of seven large, mock-Georgian, detached houses, all set back from each other in a sweeping semicircle. As Mum tapped the code into the keypad by the wrought-iron gates and waited for them to open, I focused on our house: smack in the middle, proudly overlooking the communal oval of grass. I couldn’t help smiling. I was home, safe and sound.
“I hope your dad’s made dinner. I’m starving,” Mum said, parking behind Dad’s SUV.
“Me too,” I told her.
As soon as our footsteps triggered the outside security lighting, the front door opened. Caspar and Jake, our two Border collies, bounded out and started leaping and yelping and going bonkers, like they always do when we come home. I giggled as Jake tried to lick my face.
“Kriss!” Mum called out, pushing Caspar away from her suit.
Dad appeared, his arms out wide, his dreadlocks framing his beaming face. “Come to poppa, girls!” he greeted. The dogs, presuming he meant them, turned and leapt on him, but he shooed them inside and held out his arms for Mum and me. I giggled again. Dad looked so daft dressed only in his T-shirt, shorts and bare feet.
“Dad! It’s minus three!”
“So? I can deal wid a li’l cold snap, y’know what I’m saying?” he boasted, putting on what he thought was a Caribbean accent.
“I can’t,” Mum said with a shrug, heading inside.
The house was roasting. No wonder Dad was in shorts.
“The gas bill’s going to be enormous!” Mum tutted, turning down the thermostat in the hall on her way to the kitchen.
“You see, you try to make the home nice and cosy for the missus and the kids when they get back and what happens? Immediate grief,” Dad complained. He winked at me.
“Speaking of immediate grief, where’s Lizzie?” Mum asked, glancing around the kitchen. Lizzie is my sister. She’s seventeen, at college, has green hair, about three trillion Facebook friends and, despite working weekends in the showroom, is always broke.
“Ellie’s,” Dad said, going to stir something on the hob. A delicious aroma of spices filled the air. My dad’s a great cook.
“Did she say what time she’d be back?”
“Nope. Why? Is there a problem?”
“Nothing major. I wanted to talk to her about Saturday.”
“Saturday?” Dad asked.
“I need her to cover for me while I drop Gemma off at Cuddlethorpe. Problems with lifts, as per.”
“For football, you mean?”
“Yes,” Mum said. They exchanged that special little look I wasn’t meant to see and my stomach clenched.
Dad took a sip from the spoon, then said casually, “I’m free Saturday. I could do it.”
“No thanks, Dad,” I replied quickly. “Mum’s on it.” I plucked an apple from the fruit bowl and headed upstairs, pretending not to notice Mum’s resigned shrug and the hurt in my dad’s eyes. Amy, you owe me, I thought as I threw my uniform on my bed. You owe me big time.