Free The Scrapbook by Carly Holmes Page B

hiding?’
    Mum holds her hand out for the photograph and when I lay it onto her palm she smiles down at it, stroking it gently with her forefinger. She still won’t look at me.
    â€˜Maybe you should tell me what you’ve been hiding, Fern.’
    I draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around myself, holding my heart close. ‘What are you talking about?’
    She looks up then, leans slowly over so that our foreheads are nearly touching. ‘I know you’re pregnant.’
    I shake my head and start to say something, some kind of denial, but the words keep slipping out of my head. She waits while I gather myself, clear my throat. ‘How? How did you …?’
    She shrugs and looks defiant, a little sheepish. ‘You’re not the only snoop in the family. I saw the picture of the scan in your handbag. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, but then I finally realised that you weren’t going to. Were you?’
    I don’t answer her.
    â€˜Is it Rick’s?’ Mum asks. ‘Have you told him? Is he pleased? You know it’ll be a girl, don’t you? You know it will be.’
    I stand up and walk to the door.
    â€˜Then god help the poor little bugger.’

A Blood Soaked Shoe Lace
    You said it was your fault for walking too quickly, for making me rush in my heels to keep up. I never told you that I was frowning down at my snagged black nylons, at the pearl-glint of flesh zigzagging down the thigh. They were new on that evening as well.
    The broken bottle bit deep into my shin as I spilled onto the ground. The tiny crunching noise it made as it broke the skin was somehow satisfying and I didn’t scream until I saw the glossy jut of glass below my knee and my blood on the cobbles.
    You’d been speaking, throwing words over your shoulder as you strode ahead, and then you were by my side and silent as you stared. I scrabbled for you but you held me away and raised my leg, braced my foot against your chest. You pushed me gently back so that I could see the apricot smear of street lamps tainting the night and you told me to be still.
    I thought I knew what you were doing and even despite the pain and the panic I wouldn’t have stopped you, would even have welcomed your body on mine, but you unlaced your shoe and tied the brown cord around my ankle. Tight, and then tighter. You lowered my leg to the ground and raised me up and the blood poured. I screamed again. And then I was in your arms and you were running to the car. A stray tomcat, tatty as an over-loved teddy bear, balanced on a dustbin lid and kept sombre watch as you wrapped your suit jacket around my leg. Its faded eyes fixed on me and I couldn’t look away.
    At the hospital they stitched me and scolded you for tying the tourniquet below the wound. You held my hand and told me you were sorry. By the time they finally let us go we’d missed the film so we went straight to the hotel with our champagne in your weekend bag and me, a hop-a-long, beside you. I didn’t really need to limp, the painkillers had done their job, but I liked the way you slowed your pace and held my waist.
    The bath was too hot but I got in anyway, leg straddling the side as you stroked water over me with a flannel. Foam in scented peaks around my face. You kissed each toe and wrapped me in a towel, carried me to the bed. The lamps were lit and I lay and watched you undress. Watched you tremble. When I stretched out my arms to gather you close you shook your head and sat on the edge of the bed, face in hands.
    So much blood.
    I curled my body behind yours and licked the abacus parade of bone at the nape of your neck. I didn’t speak.
    I’m going to take better care of you, Iris, I promise.

    We were quiet for a while. Your flesh flickered and dampened beneath my tongue. Your breath came fast. I knew you’d turn around.
    Later, in your sleep, you muttered my name and clasped my hip so tightly I nearly