Page 37 of The Book Swap

I glance toward Georgia and she gives a small smile in return. She didn’t invite me to the theater. She knew how much of Mum I could handle.

“Now that Erin’s finally here, we can give you our gift,” Georgia says. “Erin, care to explain it?”

It’s amazing how quickly adoration can turn to hatred where my sister’s involved.

“No, you go,” I say, smiling sweetly. “You had a whole speech prepared.”

“Okay, Mum,” Georgia says over the top of me. “This is from me and Erin.”

She hands Mum a box, with ribbon tied around it. I try to think of all the possible things that could be inside. Georgia isn’t a good gift giver. Not the way I am. She’ll either google “gifts for mum” and buy what’s at the top, or she’ll throw money at it and get something extravagant and unwanted.

Mum unties the ribbon and lifts the lid, pulling out a frame. She looks at it for a really long time, then holds it to her chest.

“Thank you, girls, that’s so thoughtful.” She puts it down on the table facing her, so I still have no idea of the photo Georgia has chosen.

“You’re welcome,” I say, smiling, and Georgia grins across at me, finding the whole thing hilarious.

Mum’s eyes land on me.

“I’m sorry to hear about your job,” she says. “You didn’t mention it when you stayed so Georgia’s been filling me in. How are you?”

“Actually, good.” I’ve always felt that my mum lost the right to know what’s going on in my life when she became responsible for blowing it up, but I’m filled with a sudden urge to impress her. To feel her arms around me as she congratulates me on what I’m doing. To have her hold me the way she used to. This is why I didn’t want to come. Because I knew this is what would happen. It’s a lot easier to keep up the pretense that I don’t care, when I can’t see her. “I’ve got a load of job interviews lined up. New boyfriend. I’m hardly home.”

She purses her lips. “I thought you must be busy. I’ve called. A lot.”

I picture myself at home on my bed with no boyfriend and no interviews, watching the word “Mum” flash on my screen until it disappears, telling myself I can’t answer because my hands are smeared in peanut butter. My throat hurts and I swallow.

“Yeah. You know me...” I shrug. “Always busy.”

Georgia’s watching me, elbows on the table and her hands pressed together.

“What interviews?” she asks. “I didn’t know about these.”

“Because I don’t tell you every tiny thing that’s going on in my life, actually.” I do.

She raises an eyebrow, as Mum looks between us.

“I’ve been teaching this girl, Savannah, some extra English. She got a D in her mocks and she’s got her GCSEs coming up in May. I go there for a couple of hours each week. Last week when I arrived, she’d actually read some Shakespeare without me forcing her to, and had opinions on it.” I can feel my pulse quickening as I speak, and try to tone it down. I’ve already told Mum more than I normally would, because Georgia’s here.

“That’s amazing, Erin. You’ve always wanted to teach.” Her face lights up and I shrug, picking up my fork. I start poking it into the wood of the table and Mum reaches across to grab my hand to stop me. I drop it and am moments away from rolling my eyes the way I would have in my teens.

She keeps her hand on mine. “Can we just talk honestly, Erin. I can’t stand this, I just—”

“Okay, I’ve got a Buddha Bowl and a Salmon Grill,” the waiter says, and I could jump up and kiss him.

“Buddha Bowl for me,” Georgia says, raising her hand, and Mum looks down at the ground. I’m conscious of every movement she makes, my chest constricting as her shoulders slump forward.

“Salmon,” she whispers, pushing the frame toward me to make space for the giant plate she’s being served. It turns as it moves, my heart thumping as I catch sight of what our gift is. It’s a photo of me and Georgia when we were little, both clinging to either side of Mum, kissing her cheek and staring at the camera as she laughs. Being in a room with Mum used to be one of my favorite ways to spend time. Now it just hurts. It hurts inside and all over my body.

“Chicken Open Kebab,” the waiter says, returning.

“Perfect—thank you.” I smile across at Georgia, who has guessed my order perfectly.

“Thought you’d like that,” Mum says, satisfaction washing across her face and erasing the hurt that was previously there.

“Thanks, Mum,” I say, my throat tight. A rush of love flows through all the resentment and words that have gone unsaid and I look up, cutting into my kebab. “Your hair looks really lovely,” I say, pushing the food into my mouth before I can regret it.

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