Read Online Another Love by Amanda Prowse - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amanda Prowse
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drunk.
‘Oh, now she gets up to help, when I’m no longer in danger! Come on, Rom! She’s had her jiggle juice, David, and she’s ready to party!’
Holly screamed her laughter at the exact moment that Romilly’s legs gave way. She had tripped on a divot that would not have troubled sober legs. Stumbling forward, Romilly ploughed into her mum, who had a rather sleepy Celeste in her arms. Romilly sent Pat tumbling to the left, and as she fell, she dropped Celeste with a hard thump on the ground.
The little girl screamed, as much in shock as any real pain, the soft grass and mud having cushioned what could have been a very nasty impact. David leapt from his deckchair, casting his beer to one side as he scooped up his daughter, kissing her face and shushing her quiet while he stroked her hair. ‘It’s okay, darling, you’re fine,’ he repeated, over and over. ‘You’re okay.’ Dr Miguel checked her over. Seemingly nothing was broken, but a giant egg-shaped bump was growing on her forehead, topped with a purple bruise.
Romilly lay on her back with her arms cruciform, looking up at the twilight clouds, watching them float overhead as mayhem reigned around her. She could feel the weight of David’s angry stare, her mum’s acute embarrassment and the twins’ hysteria as they flapped and squawked in panic. Viktor’s loud, inappropriate laugh cracked the air like thunder.
‘Why are you laughing, you prick?’ Holly shouted at him, and despite his lack of English, he was left in no doubt that he would soon be Viktor the ex-boyfriend from Russia.
David blocked the sky as he reached down and took Romilly’s hand, pulling her upright. She stood on the spot where she had fallen and wobbled as if on springs.
‘Think we’d better get her home,’ David murmured, embarrassed, as he awkwardly kissed his mother-in-law and nodded to Dr Miguel and Viktor.
After strapping Celeste into her car seat in the back, David went to retrieve his mandatory tub of tommyatoes from Lionel. While he was gone, Romilly turned from the front seat to look at her daughter. The bloody, blue bruise on her little forehead looked angry.
‘What the fuck?’ Romilly slurred. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’
Celeste wailed in response.
‘Why is she crying?’ David asked as he climbed into the car, his jaw jutting with anger.
‘Fuck knows!’ Romilly laughed, loudly.
‘Charming.’ David was beyond furious, but he knew that having a row right then would be pointless and would only increase Celeste’s distress.
They were only a few miles from home when Romilly woke in the front seat. The car was too hot and the air was thick. The motion of the car swaying from lane to lane on the M4 was all it took; it was almost simultaneous: as she opened her eyes, she vomited. A sticky pink foam splattered across the dashboard and windscreen.
‘Jesus Christ, Romilly!’ David yelled as he punched the hazard-lights button and coasted over to the hard shoulder.
Celeste, woken by his shouts, immediately started screaming and then she too started vomiting, the smell of her mother’s sick having this effect on her.
David wound down his window as they sat on the hard shoulder. His daughter was crying and shouting from the back seat, with sick dripping from her chin and outstretched arms. His wife was crying and vomiting into the footwell, puking all over her shoes, her handbag and her dad’s punnet of tommyatoes. He literally did not know which way to turn and so he sat, paralysed with fear, anger and a good measure of disgust, trying to remain calm. A police siren whined behind him. He loosened his seatbelt and climbed out of the car to greet the officers, wiping sick and a few chunks of strawberry and cucumber from his thigh as he did so.
Romilly narrowed her gaze and watched in the side mirror as the officer put on his hat and approached David, who stood by the verge with his hands in his hair. He looked like he might be crying as he explained
‘Oh, now she gets up to help, when I’m no longer in danger! Come on, Rom! She’s had her jiggle juice, David, and she’s ready to party!’
Holly screamed her laughter at the exact moment that Romilly’s legs gave way. She had tripped on a divot that would not have troubled sober legs. Stumbling forward, Romilly ploughed into her mum, who had a rather sleepy Celeste in her arms. Romilly sent Pat tumbling to the left, and as she fell, she dropped Celeste with a hard thump on the ground.
The little girl screamed, as much in shock as any real pain, the soft grass and mud having cushioned what could have been a very nasty impact. David leapt from his deckchair, casting his beer to one side as he scooped up his daughter, kissing her face and shushing her quiet while he stroked her hair. ‘It’s okay, darling, you’re fine,’ he repeated, over and over. ‘You’re okay.’ Dr Miguel checked her over. Seemingly nothing was broken, but a giant egg-shaped bump was growing on her forehead, topped with a purple bruise.
Romilly lay on her back with her arms cruciform, looking up at the twilight clouds, watching them float overhead as mayhem reigned around her. She could feel the weight of David’s angry stare, her mum’s acute embarrassment and the twins’ hysteria as they flapped and squawked in panic. Viktor’s loud, inappropriate laugh cracked the air like thunder.
‘Why are you laughing, you prick?’ Holly shouted at him, and despite his lack of English, he was left in no doubt that he would soon be Viktor the ex-boyfriend from Russia.
David blocked the sky as he reached down and took Romilly’s hand, pulling her upright. She stood on the spot where she had fallen and wobbled as if on springs.
‘Think we’d better get her home,’ David murmured, embarrassed, as he awkwardly kissed his mother-in-law and nodded to Dr Miguel and Viktor.
After strapping Celeste into her car seat in the back, David went to retrieve his mandatory tub of tommyatoes from Lionel. While he was gone, Romilly turned from the front seat to look at her daughter. The bloody, blue bruise on her little forehead looked angry.
‘What the fuck?’ Romilly slurred. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’
Celeste wailed in response.
‘Why is she crying?’ David asked as he climbed into the car, his jaw jutting with anger.
‘Fuck knows!’ Romilly laughed, loudly.
‘Charming.’ David was beyond furious, but he knew that having a row right then would be pointless and would only increase Celeste’s distress.
They were only a few miles from home when Romilly woke in the front seat. The car was too hot and the air was thick. The motion of the car swaying from lane to lane on the M4 was all it took; it was almost simultaneous: as she opened her eyes, she vomited. A sticky pink foam splattered across the dashboard and windscreen.
‘Jesus Christ, Romilly!’ David yelled as he punched the hazard-lights button and coasted over to the hard shoulder.
Celeste, woken by his shouts, immediately started screaming and then she too started vomiting, the smell of her mother’s sick having this effect on her.
David wound down his window as they sat on the hard shoulder. His daughter was crying and shouting from the back seat, with sick dripping from her chin and outstretched arms. His wife was crying and vomiting into the footwell, puking all over her shoes, her handbag and her dad’s punnet of tommyatoes. He literally did not know which way to turn and so he sat, paralysed with fear, anger and a good measure of disgust, trying to remain calm. A police siren whined behind him. He loosened his seatbelt and climbed out of the car to greet the officers, wiping sick and a few chunks of strawberry and cucumber from his thigh as he did so.
Romilly narrowed her gaze and watched in the side mirror as the officer put on his hat and approached David, who stood by the verge with his hands in his hair. He looked like he might be crying as he explained
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