Page 48 of Ghoul as a Cucumber

“Pax?” Mum and Dad exchange a look. Dad’s brow furrows, and I know he’s thinking about Pax waving a sword around in the garden. I think Mum is, too, because her lips pull into a little smile and she grabs him by the hand and drags him into the room.

“Welcome, Pax, I didn’t know you were coming over. Come in, come in. Gwen, this is Pax, Bree’s boyfriend—”

“Not my boyfriend.” If I claim Pax in front of my parents, then I’d be as good as rejecting the other two. Mum and Dad are pretty cool, but I don’t think they’re quite cool enough to accept me with three guys.

That’sthe reason why that word still makes my skin go cold and clammy, not because I don’t want to have boyfriends.

Not at all.

“If you must know, yes there is a problem,” Gwen huffs. “I’m trying to get the best results from this sale for the Mortimers, and your girlfriend is being very difficult.”

“I’mnothis girlfriend.”

“Breecanbe rather difficult.” Pax’s eyes bore into me as he strides across the room toward Gwen. “Stubborn, too.”

“Exactly. She doesn’t want to print over this rather dated and ghastly mural, which is going to turn off buyers—”

“But if Bree wants to keep the fresco, then the fresco stays.”

“Young man, that’s hardly your decision—”

“The fresco stays.” Pax cracks his knuckles.

Gwen gulps.

A dreadful silence descends upon the room, broken only by Pax’s knuckles cracking, one by one.

I know I should run in and get Pax away, but I’m so touched that he’s here to fight for me over a silly mural that I can’t quite force my body to move.

Mum manages to regain her composure first. She places her arms over Gwen’s shoulders and directs her toward the door. “Gwen, I’m sorry about this. Mike, could you take her into the kitchen and get her a cup of tea? Pax, sweetheart, could I speak to my daughter for a moment?”

Pax steps back. I nod, and he ducks out of the room. Mike leads a trembling Gwen to the kitchen, and I can hear him talking excitedly about the bay window in the snug and the Aga stove, trying to distract her from the large Roman warrior who is rather fond of frescoes.

Mum flops down on the purple bed. She pats the duvet meaningfully. I hesitate for a moment before slumping down beside her.

“Bree, honey.” Mum sucks in a breath through her teeth. “I know it’s hard to think about all these changes, but we have to listen to what Gwen says. She’s the expert, and if we have to do a little sprucing up to get the best price for Grimwood, then that’s what we have to do.”

“But she’s sucking the soul out of this place. Why does she have to throw out all our furniture and paint over the fresco…er, mural?” I kick the blanket box. A mistake. It’s made out of mahogany, and now my toe is throbbing. “You and Dad picked every piece of furniture in this house. Your heart and soul are in this place. Why are you so ready to slap up some paint and destroy it all?”

Mum turns to me, and beneath her sharp expression, I can see tears brimming at the edges of her eyes. My anger flicks off instantly, like a tap turning off. I lean into her and wrap my arms around her.

“I’m not ready. Not even a little bit,” Mum says stiffly. She won’t let the tears fall. That’s not who she is. “But what’s the difference if we change things now? Gwen’s right. Whoever buys this place is likely to paint over it themselves. That mural is hardly a work of art. Your dad copied it from a picture in a magazine because it was a cheap way of covering up the bad plaster job he did.”

I stare at the wall. “I didn’t know that.”

Mum pulls away. This is too much emotion for her.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’re so attached to this house, since you fled it the first moment you could.” Mum’s words are matter-of-fact, but she’s not looking at me, and I can still see those tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. “You haven’t been back to visit in five years, and you only came back this time because we begged you.”

The air flees my lungs. I feel like I’ve been punched.

Mum has never,evermentioned the fact that I haven’t come back since I left. She asked me home for Christmas and my birthday every year, but she accepted my excuses with her usual matter-of-factness and moved on to something else.

It’s not that I didn’t miss them. I had some horrible lonely nights in the New Zealand bush or in my tiny hostel bed in Vietnam when I closed my eyes, clicked my heels together three times and whispered ‘there’s no place like home,’ because I wanted to be back in Grimdale so badly.

But I couldn’t come back.

The idea of returning to Grimdale made me break out in a cold sweat.

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