Read Online Letters From My Sister by Alice Peterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alice Peterson
Ads: Link
your mouth with your tongue, that’s what Bells sounds like. It’s easier for me because I have learned her language since I was a little girl.
‘Yes, I think Beckham’s great, and Posh Spice too. I can see you love him,’ he intimates, looking at the football badges on her dungarees.
‘You have children?’ she goes on. Oh, please, stop talking.
‘Really?’ He smiles.
‘You have children?’ she asks, urgently now.
He watches her intently, trying to work out what she just said. ‘No, I don’t have children,’ he replies, and I nod, as if to say, Well done, you got it right. ‘Well, I hope not.’ He pulls a crooked smile.
‘How old?’
‘Bells!’ I say, exasperated. I want to blindfold her and put a scarf around her mouth too.
‘It’s OK,’ the man says, beginning to pack his food into bags. ‘Twenty-nine.’
‘My sister, Katie,’ she announces, thumping my arm. ‘I staying in London.’
He tells her that that sounds like fun. As he speaks I can’t help thinking that if he brushed his hair, took off his glasses, fattened up a little … he could really be quite attractive.
‘You want cashback?’ the assistant asks him.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Nectar card?’
He digs into his pocket and produces a few cards. As he hands the right one to the girl he turns to look at me again. It’s strange but I feel like we have met already.
‘’Bye,’ he says, finally.
‘Yeah, ’bye,’ I say, still trying to put a name to his face.
‘’Bye-bye,’ Bells adds.
The man turns around once more. ‘By the way, I’m really thirty-four! I find it hard facing up to my age first time round.’ I laugh as I watch him walk away.
Bells asks the woman serving us how old she is. I suppose it’s better than asking her how much she weighs, I think desperately.
‘Excuse me?’ she says.
Before she has time to ask again, I tell her once more not to ask strangers personal questions, especially their age. ‘Let’s get our food and go. I’m sorry,’ I apologize to the checkout girl.
‘It’s fine,’ she says.
I push the trolley brusquely towards the exit door. ‘No, don’t say anything,’ I say sharply each time I think Bells is about to approach someone else.
‘No!’
‘Don’t even think about it!’
‘In the car!’
I put the keys in the ignition and breathe a sigh of relief that we made it out of Sainsbury’s in one piece, that no one chased us out, threatening to beat us up with a long hard baguette. ‘This is only day one, I can cope with this, I can cope,’ I mutter to myself.
God help me, I have two weeks of this. I can forget being anonymous for the next fourteen days, can’t I?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1988
I’m thirteen years old. ‘How did you meet Dad?’ I ask Mum in the car. She is taking Bells and me to watch Dad conduct an auction. It’s strange seeing her out of her work overalls. Today she’s wearing a green dress and her hair is pinned up with her special tortoiseshell comb. It’s one of the first times we have all gone out together. A trip to London! Normally we don’t do anything. My best friend Emma occasionally comes round but we stay at home.
‘Well, my mother had given me an Impressionist painting, so I went to Sotheby’s to see if it was worth anything. It was a bit of a mystery as it wasn’t signed but it looked like a Pissarro. I was rather desperate to sell it. I’m afraid I was too poor for sentimentality,’ says Mum, twitching her nose.
‘What was it worth?’
‘A free dinner,’ she laughs. ‘I met your father and he asked me out. I knew he was going to be a part of my life the moment I met him. Sometimes you can’t explain it, it’s just a feeling.’
‘Like love at first sight?’ I ask.
‘Yes, I suppose it was. He was an assistant back then. He was very naughty, you know. This very lugubrious specialist was explaining that my painting sadly wasn’t an original, and as he was talking your father was imitating him behind his back. He
‘Yes, I think Beckham’s great, and Posh Spice too. I can see you love him,’ he intimates, looking at the football badges on her dungarees.
‘You have children?’ she goes on. Oh, please, stop talking.
‘Really?’ He smiles.
‘You have children?’ she asks, urgently now.
He watches her intently, trying to work out what she just said. ‘No, I don’t have children,’ he replies, and I nod, as if to say, Well done, you got it right. ‘Well, I hope not.’ He pulls a crooked smile.
‘How old?’
‘Bells!’ I say, exasperated. I want to blindfold her and put a scarf around her mouth too.
‘It’s OK,’ the man says, beginning to pack his food into bags. ‘Twenty-nine.’
‘My sister, Katie,’ she announces, thumping my arm. ‘I staying in London.’
He tells her that that sounds like fun. As he speaks I can’t help thinking that if he brushed his hair, took off his glasses, fattened up a little … he could really be quite attractive.
‘You want cashback?’ the assistant asks him.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Nectar card?’
He digs into his pocket and produces a few cards. As he hands the right one to the girl he turns to look at me again. It’s strange but I feel like we have met already.
‘’Bye,’ he says, finally.
‘Yeah, ’bye,’ I say, still trying to put a name to his face.
‘’Bye-bye,’ Bells adds.
The man turns around once more. ‘By the way, I’m really thirty-four! I find it hard facing up to my age first time round.’ I laugh as I watch him walk away.
Bells asks the woman serving us how old she is. I suppose it’s better than asking her how much she weighs, I think desperately.
‘Excuse me?’ she says.
Before she has time to ask again, I tell her once more not to ask strangers personal questions, especially their age. ‘Let’s get our food and go. I’m sorry,’ I apologize to the checkout girl.
‘It’s fine,’ she says.
I push the trolley brusquely towards the exit door. ‘No, don’t say anything,’ I say sharply each time I think Bells is about to approach someone else.
‘No!’
‘Don’t even think about it!’
‘In the car!’
I put the keys in the ignition and breathe a sigh of relief that we made it out of Sainsbury’s in one piece, that no one chased us out, threatening to beat us up with a long hard baguette. ‘This is only day one, I can cope with this, I can cope,’ I mutter to myself.
God help me, I have two weeks of this. I can forget being anonymous for the next fourteen days, can’t I?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1988
I’m thirteen years old. ‘How did you meet Dad?’ I ask Mum in the car. She is taking Bells and me to watch Dad conduct an auction. It’s strange seeing her out of her work overalls. Today she’s wearing a green dress and her hair is pinned up with her special tortoiseshell comb. It’s one of the first times we have all gone out together. A trip to London! Normally we don’t do anything. My best friend Emma occasionally comes round but we stay at home.
‘Well, my mother had given me an Impressionist painting, so I went to Sotheby’s to see if it was worth anything. It was a bit of a mystery as it wasn’t signed but it looked like a Pissarro. I was rather desperate to sell it. I’m afraid I was too poor for sentimentality,’ says Mum, twitching her nose.
‘What was it worth?’
‘A free dinner,’ she laughs. ‘I met your father and he asked me out. I knew he was going to be a part of my life the moment I met him. Sometimes you can’t explain it, it’s just a feeling.’
‘Like love at first sight?’ I ask.
‘Yes, I suppose it was. He was an assistant back then. He was very naughty, you know. This very lugubrious specialist was explaining that my painting sadly wasn’t an original, and as he was talking your father was imitating him behind his back. He
Similar Books
