Free Growing Up Twice by Rowan Coleman

itself to nought. I had hoped he wouldn’t call again, a vain wish, I suppose, given his track record. He’s not a man who likes to be ignored. It crossed my mind in the early hours of this morning that maybe seeing him would be the best way to get him to leave me alone, but as soon as the weary sun had pushed its way through my bedroom curtains I knew it would be madness. The best thing to do is to put him out of my mind and move on. Funny really, not so long ago I would have been pacing the floor, desperate for him to call me again.
    I pick up my comb and I’m pulling it though my hair when the buzzer goes, making us both jump, as it always has every time it has rung as long as I’ve lived here.
    ‘Here he is, right on time.’ Rosie waves down to Kaled, a driver from the taxi office over the road. She has an account with the firm for work purposes and during the course of several trips took a particular shine to Kaled, whom she now asks for by name. He has even given her his private mobile number, which she does not hesitate to use much to the annoyance of his girlfriend and the pleasure of Kaled. In fact, over the last few months they have become firm and, by all accounts, platonic friends. I check my bag, keys, purse, inhaler, cheque-book (you never know) and phone, still switched on and three bars of battery showing. Still no call from Michael and the end of day four approaches.
    In the taxi Rosie sits in the front seat and chats away to Kaled nine to the dozen about the baby, the house move, Owen and anything else she can think of. It’s really nice to see her so relaxed and laughing; those two really get on well. I think they will miss each other a bit, or at least they would if it wasn’t for the fact that Rosie has already invited him to our moving-in party for the flat we have yet to acquire. It’s a shame Rosie can’t have such an easy and open friendship with all the men in her life, but then again none of us lives up to that ideal very often.

Chapter Twelve
    The bottom of Green Lanes where the Mehmet family business and home is located is always busy and the traffic is always heavy. The many Turkish restaurants and cafés are always full, mostly of men drinking coffee and whisky and just talking.
    The accountancy firm Mehmet & Mehmet has a shop front covered by venetian blinds and a brown-and-cream sign with back lighting that Selin’s dad is extremely proud of. He had it installed the day that Selin passed her first set of accountancy exams. Selin grew up in this house and the rest of her family still live in the two-storey turn-of-the-century apartment above the building, part of a dark and ornate red-brick block complete with turrets, tower and ornate balconies that now sits uneasily over rows of newsagents, mini-marts and pizza places. As we press the buzzer Rosie and I exchange glances, feeling nervous.
    ‘Have you brought some wine?’ I ask.
    ‘Yes, red so that I won’t be tempted,’ she says – she hates red wine.
    ‘And have you got the stuff?’ She winks at me and opens the blue carrier bag to show me. We are prepared.
    Ayla, Selin’s ridiculously pretty and slender sixteen-year-old little sister, opens the door to us. She has her hair smoothed back into a neat bun and two long gelled ringlets hang just below her jawbone. With the family olive skin and molten brown eyes she is a beautiful young woman.
    ‘All right?’ she says with a bright smile and kisses each of us on both cheeks.
    ‘Looking forward to the new term?’ I ask lamely, hating the fact that I sound like my Auntie Marge. As we follow her up the stairs I notice that she has literally no bottom. I guess she would think I was a mad old fogey if I asked her where she got her hipster jeans shot through with a silver shimmer. Jeans like that are a long-distant memory for my hips.
    ‘Yeah, thanks,’ she replies cheerily. ‘I’ve made some new mates already. Quite a few of the girls who’ll be in my class have summer