Page 13 of Secrets of Starshine
“What giant inflatable snowman?” Connie asks, looking confused. I blink at her in surprise, and she bursts out laughing.
“Got ya! Well, Cally, I’m glad you saw him too, and I’m glad you made it. Sounds like your impromptu road trip was exactly what you needed, doesn’t it? It must have been in the stars…”
Ella makes a gagging noise, and Connie gives her a fake glare before it turns into a grin.
“I have to say,” she continues, “that was a lot easier than it was with Ella here. When she landed on our shores all those eons ago—”
“It was less than six months, Connie!”
“As I said, all those eons ago – well, it took us even longer to get her to talk to us. She was all ooh, no, I’m mysterious, I want to be alone, heaven forbid I make friends!”
“I was not like that,” Ella says, leaning across the table to poke Connie in the chest. “I was just…from London!”
“Same thing,” replies Connie, shrugging. “See, Cally here has a head start in happiness now, because she hasn’t wasted forever trying to pretend she doesn’t want to be here!”
“Well,Imight want to be here – but I’m not sure about Sam,” I say, before finishing that last scrap of cake. Christmas is no time to start worrying about your weight, is it?
“He’ll come round, I’m sure,” answers Connie, patting my arm reassuringly. “Once he gets used to the wi-fi situation.”
“What do you mean, the wi-fi situation?”
“Well, basically there isn’t any – or at least not a lot, and not reliably, and not everywhere. The teenagers tend to hang out in the car park here because that’s their best bet. Not brilliant for phone signals either, just to warn you.”
I look at Ella in disbelief, not sure if Connie is winding me up again. She seems like the type that might.
“It’s true,” Ella confirms. “We even use walkie talkies!”
I gulp down some wine, not at all sure how I’m going to break this kind of news to my social media-addicted offspring. I might call it a digital detox – he’d call it hell, and entirely possibly decide to hitch-hike back to Liverpool, and then end up murdered, dismembered and stuffed in somebody’s boot.
“Don’t worry, love – we get by just fine without much of that stuff, but we’ll make sure we find you somewhere to stay with a landline so you can talk to your mum if you want to. Anyway, about Sam – I bet I can just picture him! I bet he’s really tall, and incredibly stylish…”
“He is, yes! How did you know?”
“Oh, I just have an instinct for these things,” Connie says, waving her hands and pulling the kind of mystical face you see on fake mediums at séances. “I think maybe he’s a fan of Vivienne Westwood? Is that right?”
She’s taken it a step too far, and I suddenly catch on.
“He’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?”
Connie laughs and nods, then stands up to greet my son. He is more than a foot taller than her, and as she hugs him, he looks at me over her head and raises his eyebrows.
He looks cold, which is probably explained by the fact that he’s been sitting in a car park in the middle of a blizzard for while, and also that he’s still only wearing a lightweight T-shirt – the one I got him last Christmas that has Debbie Harry’s face on it. He’s also modelling his Westwood necklace that’s made out of little silver bones – it cost a fortune from eBay, and I saved up for ages to get it for his eighteenth. It was worth every penny though, and he calls it his Cheer-Me-Up-Choker because it always makes him feel great when he’s wearing it.
Connie stands back to inspect him properly, and asks very seriously: “Are you over eighteen, young man?”
“Most definitely,” he replies, eyeing the bar.
“Well in that case, take a seat, and I will ply you with alcohol – if that’s okay with your mum?”
He starts to splutter out some predictably outraged comment about not needing my permission, but she shuts him up with a wink. People wink a lot here, I’ve noticed.
“Jake!” she yells at the top of her voice. “A Starshine Special for our new guest, please!”
Sam joins us at the now quite crowded table, and I resist the urge to reach out and touch his cold skin. It won’t make it any less cold, but it will embarrass him. I see him gazing around, taking in the dance floor, the dogs, the other teenagers, the costumes. He finishes his survey, and looks at me.
“So,” he says, almost smiling, “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’ve already found a party and dressed up as Olaf?”
“Looks that way,” I reply. “Stop moaning and put on a tiara for goodness’ sake. You know you want to.”
