What the hell just happened? I turn back to the American stranger, my face a question mark.
‘Who are you?’ I ask, and he takes a deep breath, shrugging.
‘I’m Clara’s husband,’ he says.
Chapter Thirty-OneCLARA
I don’t stop running until I get to the tube station, and from there, I head for Mum’s house.
I just need to get away. That’s all I can think. My brain is panting the wordsrun awayin time with my steps. I can’t face him, I can’t. And I definitely can’t face Jemma’s judgement, or Harry’s disappointment, or even Salma’s probable shocked amusement.
I let myself into Mum’s, listening for noises in the house. I can hear her and Angela in the kitchen, laughing about wedding flowers for their big day in a couple of weeks. I hear Mum giggle about not knowing the difference between mauve and violet, while Angela explains how the human eye can see ten million different shades. It’s scintillating stuff.
I turn away and towards the stairs, making a dash for my old bedroom. Of course Buffy is in there – it’s her room now after all – and she’s lying on my old bed looking at her phone. She growls when I burst in.
‘Shit,’ I exclaim, realizing this is not a safe space for me. ‘Shit.’
Seeing my expression, she stops growling. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks warily. The words sound wrong coming out of her mouth and I can see she has startled even herself with the compassion.
‘No,’ I tell her, shaking my head. ‘Just had a… shock, or whatever.’ She regards me coolly, and then nods.
‘You can sit down if you want.’ I do want, and I do sit.
In my coat pocket, my phone buzzes multiple times. It’s Jemma, of course.
What the fuck, Clara? Where are you?
Is this man really your… husband? How could you not have said anything?
Come home right now and deal with this. You cannot just run off like that.
I do the right thing and turn my phone off completely.
Jemma can’t tell me what to do! Whenshehas a husband turn up at her house one evening after months of silence, when he should be three and a half thousand miles away, THEN she can decide how to handle things.
I look down at my hands – they’re shaking.
Buffy reaches under her bed and pulls out a half-empty bottle of vodka. She offers it up to me and I take it withoutcomment. See, if Jemma were here, she’d probably be shocked or tell Buffy off, but I’mcool. I was getting drunk all the time when I was her age, why shouldn’t she? Although I was under the impression Gen Z weren’t big drinkers. It seems Buffy – much like her nickname – is a Millennial throwback. How nice.
I take a long swig, trying not to gag at the nasty, acrid taste. I don’t really want it, but I also don’t want Buffy judging me for being uncool. I’m SUPER cool.
‘Thanks,’ I say, and she shrugs, turning back to her phone. I sigh heavily, looking out the window. It’s starting to get dark. ‘It’s just that my—’
She looks up. ‘We don’t have to talk about it,’ she says quickly. ‘I don’t care.’
‘Right!’ I nod, thinking that she’s right. Wedon’thave to talk about this stuff! Why should we have to? Jemma’s annoyed with me for not telling her about Brandon, but we don’t have to tell each other everything! In fact, she’s the one who’s kept me at arm’s length since I got back to the UK. If she wanted to know I’d got married, she should’ve asked that specific question!
‘It’s just that Jemma doesn’t get it!’ I blurt and Buffy huffs dramatically. I ignore her resistance, continuing apace. ‘I mean, what’s so bad about running away from your problems anyway? That’s what running is for. It’s why we have legs!’ I wave towards mine. ‘It’s what our dad did and I bet he’s super happy wherever he is, having a fun, no-strings-attached life without complications.’ Noises start squawkingfrom Buffy’s phone as she embarks on a loud exchange on Snapchat.
‘I bet me and Dad would have a lot in common if he’d stuck around,’ I carry on anyway. ‘When he disappeared on us, Jemma dealt with it by hiding away in her books, and I dealt with it by, y’know,having fun. We were teenagers! And she acted like it was some kind of cardinal sin that I was getting on with my life, seeing mates, snogging boys. But that’s what you’re meant to do as a teenager, isn’t it? I bet it’s whatyoudo!’ I don’t wait for her to agree or disagree. ‘It wasn’t like I wasignoringwhat happened, I was just getting on with things.’
I try to think back to that weird time of my life. It all feels so long ago and faraway. Actually, I think Jemma and I got on OK before Dad left. Like, she’d always been really into reading and schoolwork – she was always a lot more… I dunno,studiousthan me – but after Dad went, that was when we really started to grow apart. We gradually just had less and less in common. She was at home, looking after Mum and doing her homework, while I was outliving my life. Because what’s the point of all this if you’re not enjoying yourself? If you’re notchoosing yourself? That’s what Dad did and I don’t blame him. Why can’t I?
And they didn’t want me there anyway.
I was always the third wheel in the family; the reject. I was the younger twin Mum never planned for – never wanted. She’d tried for a baby, and they’d got Jemma, plus one. I was the mistake, the accident, the extra burden they never would’ve asked for.
I take another sip of the vodka, instantly regretting it. Yeugh.
