Free Leopold Blue by Rosie Rowell Page B

‘Listen up, Beth!’ Xanthe cleared her throat: ‘
Jason Priestley in steamy 90210 love triangle
.’
    A sigh slipped out of Beth. ‘Jason Priestley is divine, don’t you think, Xanthe? Don’t you want to die when you see a picture of him?’
    Xanthe laughed.
    â€˜Who is Jason Priestley?’ Mum’s voice broke our spell. I bristled. Despite the fact that I’d have seen her approach if I hadn’t had teabags covering my eyes, I felt as though she’d snuck up on us.
    â€˜He’s like, he’s like so  … ’ Beth gave up. ‘You wouldn’t understand, Ma.’
    â€˜Careful with that lemon juice, Meg. Too much and your hair will go green.’
    Beth and I laughed.
    â€˜You think you invented hair bleaching?’ she said.
    A short humph and a creak of her knee as she sat down. ‘There is nothing in this world more lovely than Leopold in spring,’ she said. ‘It teases and beguiles you with its colours and warmth. But it never lasts.’
    Shut up! I shouted at her in my head. Beth was bad enough. I imagined Mum sitting on the rug next to Xanthe – surely it was too small for both of them? The teabags were making me panicky. It was as though I wasn’t there.
    â€˜Which poor woodland animal’s blood are you smearing over your toes, Xanthe?’ she continued.
    â€˜It’s called “Vixen”,’ I said in a strangled voice.
    â€˜It’s the only colour to be wearing right now,’ Beth added.
    My mother laughed. ‘Says who?’
    Beth snorted. ‘Everybody.’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ replied Mum. ‘Walk around this town wearing that colour and you’ll have the Dominee [*] knocking on the door.’
    â€˜This town is intolerable,’ I said. Even as the words came out, I cringed at the sound of my tone. It was the teabags still covering my eyes that was intolerable, but I couldn’t take them off. Not before Beth had.
    Mum spoke again, in what Dad called her ‘Oxbridge’ voice, with her vowels round and long, as though she were reading a BBC audiotape. She put on this voice whenever she quoted ‘great literature’, as though the literature would cease to be impressive in a normal voice.
    â€˜â€The town was a little one, worse than a village, and it was inhabited by scarcely any but old people who died with an infrequency that was really annoying.”’
    â€˜Stop!’ I pleaded.
    â€˜She likes to quote Shakespeare from time to time,’ Beth said, addressing Xanthe. ‘It’s an English thing.’
    â€˜It’s Chekhov,’ said Xanthe. ‘It’s a Russian thing.’
    The teabags plopped down into my lap as I sat up. Mum claimed you hadn’t read literature until you’d read the Russians. It had made me determined to avoid them.
    â€˜Yes, it is,’ Mum admitted with a little laugh.
    â€˜I like Chekhov,’ Xanthe said. She stretched out her legs in front of her and examined her finished toes.
    I sat back in the chair and looked up at the sky. It was late afternoon, the birds were beginning to chatter. I was filled with an unusual feeling – a mixture of laziness and contentment. I smiled as I realised what it was. Perhaps this was how it felt to be normal.
    Only one thing ruined the day and it wasn’t Xanthe’s fault, I decided later, it was Beth’s. She never knew when to stop. The afternoon heat had leaked away and we returned to my room. Beth hung in the doorway, midway through a story about netball trials.
    â€˜Beth,’ said Xanthe.
    â€˜Ja?’
    â€˜Scram. Go play with your Barbies.’
    I looked up. Xanthe had returned to the
Fair Lady
magazine. If it weren’t for the look on Beth’s face, I would have been sure I had dreamt up her words, her cutting tone.
    â€˜I’m standing on my side of the doorway,’ Beth replied, pointing to her feet. ‘I can