Free Found by Elle Field Page B

tomorrow: I get it .
    As for the business side of things, who cares? Felicity Farrell is dead ; Piers could have died . Who cares if some fashionista can’t buy the latest pair of skinny jeans or a vintage fedora from me. Felicity Farrell is dead ; Piers could have died. I feel sick as those two thoughts swirl around my head.
    There’s a time and a place for everything and, sure, maybe I could have answered my tweets, written a blog post about why I’ve gone AWOL – read one or two fewer Sookie Stackhouse books to do so – but what business is it of anyone else’s?
    I appreciate my parent’s concern, but having a go at me the minute I get home when I’ve got a funeral in the morning – this is not the time to make me question my life choices. I can’t believe they thought it was.
    ‘Arielle?’ Mum says carefully, and I can sense her hovering just behind me.
    ‘I’m going to bed,’ I huff as I walk out of the room without looking back at my parents.
    When I get to the safety of my bedroom I burst into hot, angry tears. That was not the welcome home I expected.
                 
    ‘We’re sorry about last night,’ Dad says as I emerge from my bedroom the next morning, iPhone in hand. I found it last night in the front compartment of my handbag, thank goodness, and noted with alarm the seventeen missed calls from my parents and Piers. ‘We didn’t mean to hijack you as soon as you walked through the door, but we’ve been really worried about you. You don’t seem to be coping very well with everything.’
    ‘You’ve been very evasive every time we’ve spoken on the phone,’ Mum chips in, ‘and you’re looking–’ She hesitates.
    ‘What?’
    I cannot believe this. If I thought last night’s attack was bad enough, this morning it feels even worse. Can they not let this drop, today of all days?
    ‘Like you’re not taking care of yourself,’ Mum finishes, nodding pointedly at my belly. I bristle at that.
    With everything that’s going on, it is not surprising that I might be comfort eating a little bit. Seriously . The last thing I need as I’m about to go to my first funeral is my mum telling me that I’m looking fat!
    Mouth-watering food and robust portion sizes are a dangerous combo in New York but, guess what: I’m healthy, I’m fit, and I’m OK. So what if my cheeks are looking a little chubbier and my tummy a little rounder? I can’t believe she’s just said that to me.
    I take a deep breath, and push to one side their hideous “well-meaning” chat.
    ‘Can this not wait?’ I mutter, reaching for the spotty teapot and a matching cup and saucer. Only my parents would actually use our tea set; most of the time it sits in the cupboard because a mug wins over a cup – always.
    ‘Are you going to have some toast with that?’ Mum asks.
    I nod wearily. I think I managed to get two hours of fitful sleep in the end and, even though it was lovely to be back in my own bed, it was hideous without Piers.
    But, yes, of course I am going to have some toast, several slices smeared in thick delicious blueberry jam after that weight jibe. And then maybe several more for good measure.
    ‘We want you to think about you ,’ Mum says kindly as I sit down and pour myself a cup of tea. I add a sugar, grab some toast from the spotty toast rack, and pick up the jam. ‘Every time I speak to you, you always talk about Piers, or Etta, or Felicity, or Obélix. We never get to hear how you’re doing. We’re worried, that’s all.’
    Piers, maybe, but given I’ve not wanted to talk about Felicity much, and Mum knew about Ob’s situation before I did – Jade keeping the baby, that is – I’ve barely been gossiping about other people.
    ‘I’m fine,’ I say defiantly between mouthfuls of toast – crumbs flying down the front of my black wrap dress. ‘Look, this is my first–’ I gulp, ‘death, you know, and with Piers...’ I shrug as I force myself to swallow my mouthful of toast that