Free Deviant by Helen Fitzgerald Page A

survival. Is my room the one opposite this?”

    B ECKY DIDN ’ T FOLLOW HER , thankfully.
    Abigail closed the door and leaned against it, shutting her eyes for a moment. When she glanced around, she saw a huge king-sized bed with way too many pillows. She also saw her very own bathroom. And a double window with sumptuous floral curtains overlooking the back garden, complete with a kidney-shaped swimming pool like the ones she’d seen through the windows of travel agencies. Well, of course there was a pool: it was so hot, at least thirty degrees Celsius. She’d never experienced temperatures above twenty-five. She took her leather jacket off and gazed at the pool. She was dying to cool down in it.
    She guessed it was Melanie who had put an awful lot of effort into the room. Melanie was a willing servant of Grahame. And that was fine. The bedside table was stacked with lotions and potions. Melanie had placed a soft pink dressing gown on the bed and hung three prints of Scottish landscapes on the walls, probably to make her new stepdaughter feel at home.
    Before she even knew what she was doing, Abigail took the prints down and slipped them under the bed. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of that dump.
    She ran her fingers over the soft covers and looked at herself in the mirror of the oak dresser. A pale, haggard girl stared back. But the girl was giddy, too. Forget the smiling reflection; what about that pristine glass? It was polished to an unreal shine. Abigail stifled a squeal. So what if her mother had secrets shedidn’t want her father to know about? People with money were strange, her mother included, clearly. She’d learn to adjust.
    Wrapping herself in the thick feather duvet on the bed, she laughed and drifted off.

Knock knock
.
    What was that?
    Knock knock
.
    Where was she?
    “I’m coming in!” a voice said. Abigail rubbed her eyes and looked around. Fluffy duvet. Pillows. Private bathroom. Floral curtains, still open. Dark outside.
That’s right
, she remembered.
I’m on a different planet now
. She smiled groggily.
    “Dinner time.” The voice was Becky’s, who was in the bathroom turning on the shower. “Jump in, get dressed. Do you need some clothes?”
    “Yeah, thanks.”
    The shower (like everything else) was the Priciest Mother-Shower brought down from Priciest Planet-Shower to hurt fair-skinned Scots who’d only ever experienced a feeble dribbling. Blimey, Americans did things properly.
    “Clothes on the bed!” Becky yelled. “See ya down there!”
    When Abigail had dried herself with the impossibly fluffytowels, she put on the high-waisted denim shorts Becky had left for her, and then braved another glance in the mirror. She’d never worn shorts before. Her legs were blindingly white. The T-shirt was black, with a painting on the front of a bunch of faceless teenagers who looked like zombies. At the bottom of the painting was the letter “G.” The initial of the brand, or artist, she supposed.
Whatever
.
    The formal dining room was adjacent to the large dining kitchen at the back of the house. Her new family sat waiting for her, sipping red wine from round glasses so large that each could take a full bottle. Melanie and Grahame had changed into suave evening outfits. Becky had swapped her crop top for the same T-shirt Abigail now wore. Somehow, it looked much better on Becky. A wave of embarrassment overwhelmed her as she walked toward them with wet hair, bare legs and no shoes. “Sorry, I fell asleep and I only have these big boots.”
    “Don’t apologize.” Grahame opened his linen napkin and flattened it on his lap. “Jet lag’s a killer.”
    Melanie had made chicken tikka masala “to make you feel at home!”
    “Isn’t that Indian?” Becky gasped. The chili caught in her throat.
    “It is, but it’s the most popular dish in the country. Big Indian/Pakistani community.” Abigail stifled a cough as she shoved the food in her mouth. Melanie must have put at least