Page 52 of The One That I Want

‘Told them?’ I ask, confused.

‘About the articles – your writing assignment.’

‘Oh… Nothing.’

‘But it’s, like, always the first question your mum asks. “What are you working on, Greta?”’

‘First, excellent impersonation as always…’

She dips her head, accepting the compliment.

‘And second,’ I say, starting to panic, ‘you’re just thinking of this now? We had the whole ride over here to come up with something.’

‘I only just thought of it, and better now than when we’re in there,’ she says, jerking her head towards the door.

I have an idea. ‘It’s all right. I’ll just use the lie I’ve been telling Ewan,’ I say, not liking how the word ‘lie’ feels, even if that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

‘Who’s Ewan?’

‘The bloke from the coffee shop.’ Confusion settles on her face. ‘Surely I’ve mentioned him?’ Her dubious expression indicates that (for some inexplicable reason) I havenotmentioned Ewan to Tiggy. ‘I promise I’ll tell you lat?—’

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mum’s face in the window beside the front door. She swings it open and looks at us, her head to one side.

‘What are you doing? Why are you standing out here?’

I’m suddenly fourteen again and Tiggy and I have just been caught trying to sneakbackinto the house after a party Mum forbade me to attend.

‘Hi, Mum – sorry,’ I say, lifting onto my toes to kiss her cheek. The best way to defuse my mother is to shower her with affection.

‘Hallo, Liebling,’ she says, her sternness melting away.

‘Hi, Mrs D. These are for you,’ says Tiggy, handing over an enormous bunch of dahlias I picked up at the Sunday market this morning.

‘Oh, Elizabeth, they are beautiful,’ she says, her mouth curling into a smile. ‘Come, come,’ she says, shepherding us into the house.

‘They’re fromme, Mum,’ I say, but the moment has passed, and she calls upstairs to tell Dad and Ru that we’ve arrived, then goes back to the kitchen.

‘You were only carrying them because I had this,’ I whisper to Tiggy, holding up the two-bottle wine carrier.

She smirks at me with a shrug. Mum has always had a soft spot for Tiggy – and Mum’s the only person who’s allowed to call her Elizabeth.

My brother flies down the stairs and launches himself at me, winding me with his embrace. I pat his back feebly, waiting for him to release me.

When he does, he stands up straight, his chin lifted. ‘I’m three inches taller than you now,’ he says proudly.

‘Pretty easy when she’s only four-foot-ten,’ Tiggy teases, and they share a conspiratorial laugh at my expense. ‘Don’t I get a hug?’ she asks with a faux pout. She’s known him since he was born – she’s his Aunty Tiggy – but Ru has become slightly shy around her over the past few months. I suspect he’s developed a crush, something she hasn’t noticed and I’ve yet to share with her.

‘Oh, er…’ he mumbles.

They hug awkwardly and Tiggy shoots me a quizzical look over his shoulder. I’ll have to remember to fill her in on the way home.

‘Dolph!’ calls Mum and he rolls his eyes at us and heads into the kitchen. I’m not sure I’m ready for teenaged-boy behaviour from my little brother.

‘There’s my favourite lassies,’ says my dad in his distinctive brogue. He may be the last Scotsman on earth to still use the word ‘lassie’.

‘Hi, Dad,’ I say as he takes the stairs a lot slower than Ru just did.

As has been happening with more regularity, I’m struck by the not-so-subtle impact of time on my dad. He’s quite a bit older than Mum – seventy-two to her sixty – and he moves slower these days, with more care. Whenever I ask how he’s doing, he launches into a litany of ailments, then concludes with, ‘But getting older is better than the alternative, isn’t it, love?’

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