He just grunts.
I nudge him with my shoulder, and he gives me a questioning look.
“Don’t be like that. This’ll be fun.”
“If you’d seen my old room, you’d know why I don’t like it here.”
“Start with that one over there,” I say, not getting into that. I pick up a dust sheet and lay it down the long side of the room. It’s spattered with flecks of pale green and gray, and I remember that time—Mum standing on a ladder, laughing, as Ruby pointed a paint brush at me as if it were a weapon.
I glance back at Wren, who is busy sticking a strip of tape below the plug socket.
“I know it must suck to have lost your home, Wren,” I say. He pauses for a moment but then carries on as if I hadn’t spoken. “But you need to find a way to get a new perspective on everything. Or you’ll go gray with worry.”
Now he looks up in amusement. “You can go gray from worrying about stuff?”
I nod and stand up to get the plastic sheeting. “Do you want to be the only eighteen-year-old with gray hair within three hundred miles? I don’t think so.”
“I thought that was the next big thing? Didn’t I see something about ‘granny chic’ on your blog?”
I grin. Yeah, he’d commented on that post too. I’d been in London with Mum and Dad and seen a young woman walk past. I just loved her style. She was wearing a floral skirt with a denim blouse tied at the waist, but it was her hair that really did it for me—silver gray and pinned up in two plaits, with a straight,choppy fringe. On the spur of the moment, I asked her if she’d like a guest slot on my blog, after which I spent about an hour chatting to her about her amazing hair.
“The granny look is when you dye your hair on purpose. And you have to really feel it—not just by being grumpy. This is a great room,” I say, waving my hand to take it all in. “All it needs is a bit of work.”
Wren stands up and looks at me for a while. Then he nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize. Just hurry up with the other sockets.”
One corner of his mouth twitches slightly before he gives a quick nod and walks over to the next one. Meanwhile, I cover the radiator, which has also definitely seen better days.
I’m in the middle of googling whether you can paint radiators with ordinary emulsion when I hear the floorboards outside Wren’s room creak loudly.
I turn toward the doorway and see a tall woman standing there. She has to be Wren’s mum. She has dark brown skin, the same eyes as Wren, and short, dark brown hair. She gives me a warm smile.
“You must be Ember,” she says, coming over. She looks genuinely pleased to see me, so I impulsively give her a hug.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” I say politely.
“It’s lovely to meet you too. And please call me Christine.” She moves away and looks curiously around, her eyes coming to rest on the dust sheet on the floor beside me. “I see you’re already hard at work.”
“Ember has grand visions for this place,” Wren says from theother side of the room, straightening up. “Did you need a hand, Mum?”
She shakes her head. “I just wanted to let you know I was popping out. Apparently, there’s a Tesco’s here somewhere. Do you need anything?”
Wren thinks for a moment. “Orange juice, maybe.”
“On the list. Anything else? Ember?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
Christine nods. Then she looks from me to Wren and back again. “Give me a shout if you need any help with the painting.”
“We’re fine, Mum.”
Wren’s mother disappears through the door again with a last warm smile, leaving us to it. I turn to him.
“Your mum is so beautiful,” I whisper.
“Thanks, that’s sweet of you. She used to be a model,” he replies.
