Free Coming of Age by Valerie Mendes Page B

Haslemere. Are you coming to the station with me?”
    Amy’s courage seeps away. “I’ll wait here.”
    â€œSure? We’ll probably have a pub lunch on the way back.”
    â€œI’ve got tons of things to do for the party.”
    â€œHmm . . . Bad luck, sis . . . Looks like it’ll have to be indoors.”
    â€œOh, don’t say that.”
    Amy paces the house, unable to concentrate on anything. She polishes the rows of glasses for the party, checks the caterers’ list of food, which they’ll deliver tomorrow. She clears the hall of coats, muddy boots and junk mail.
    She dashes out into the rain to pick pink and yellow roses, their petals cool and wet. She arranges them in the living room. She carries a vase of them upstairs, to the bedroom on the second floor where Chris will sleep. Their fragrance fills the air.
    She puts blue candles in the holders on the dining-room table, fresh sandalwood soap in the downstairs loo. She throws away bundles of old newspapers, plumps the cushions, banishes Tyler’s basket to the kitchen, cleans the stained-glass windows in the hall.
    The house gleams.
    Tyler sleeps on a window-seat dreaming of rabbits, his ears twitching.
    Slowly, the rain eases, then stops. The sun struggles out from buxom purple clouds. Leaves drip.
    Amy runs up to her room. She changes her shirt three times, finally deciding on a plain white blouse, unbuttoned at the neck. Her hair flows over her shoulders, long and loose. She puts on Burnt Sienna lipstick, but her hand shakes so much the colour smudges. Impatiently, she wipes it off.
    When she hears Julian’s car, she darts down the stairs and across the hall, flinging open the front door. Christopher climbs out of the car and stands beside Julian, who opens the boot and pulls out Chris’s bag.
    Amy swallows. Suddenly her voice is trapped.
    Then, loudly, she calls, “Hi! Welcome to Terra Firma!”
    Chris turns. He shades his eyes against the sun and looks at her.
    He smiles.
    Amy carries a tea tray on to the terrace. The garden smells damp and fresh. She pours the dark liquid, gives out the cups, trying to steady her hand.
    China clinks.
    Chris and Amy talk. Their words flow into and out of each other’s, interweaving. They laugh. Their laughter floats upwards to the fairy lights. The garden steams beneath the heat of afternoon.
    Tyler barks for attention. Amy throws him half a short­bread biscuit. He crunches it with gusto, then scampers to the end of the garden, begging for a walk.
    The phone rings in the hall. Julian says, “I’ll go.”
    For the first time, Amy and Chris are alone. She looks across at him. Her heart thrums in the river of quiet between them.
    He leans forward. “So –” his hair catches the sunlight – “tomorrow. Who’s coming to your party?”
    â€œLots of friends. From school and the local club. Dad and Hannah will be there.”
    â€œJules told me about her.”
    â€œYeah . . . And Aunt Charlotte . . . and neighbours, people from the village . . .”
    Chris edges his chair closer to Amy’s. “I thought you might have a boyfriend.”
    Amy thinks of Pete Franklin. “No. The boys at school are, well, boys !” She bites her lip. “Nothing special. Nothing romantic . . . But what about you? You must be spoilt for choice. All those glamorous students, the girls you act with?”
    He grins. “I haven’t been short of offers. But nobody’s really taken my fancy. There’s no one I –”
    Julian returns to the terrace. “Just somebody for Dad.”
    Chris straightens his back. “I was sorry you couldn’t come to see me in Cyrano de Bergerac ,” he says more loudly than necessary.
    â€œSo was I.” Amy collects the teacups. “My exams got in the way of everything.”
    â€œBut they went well, yeah?”
    Amy catches the half-smile in Chris’s eyes. It