Read Online One Minute to Midnight by Amy Silver - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amy Silver
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I started to cry, too. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you …’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you needed me.’
We lay in silence for a bit, arms wrapped around each other, my heart full, completely safe. I told him my resolutions, and then I got up to go back to my room.
‘I’d better not fall asleep here,’ I told him. ‘Mum will kill me.’
‘You did just tell her I’m gay, didn’t you?’
‘She’ll still kill me.’
‘Okay.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine. Night, Nic.’
‘Night.’
I tiptoed back to my room and crawled into bed, falling asleep almost instantly. I dreamed that Julian and I were on holiday, riding through a desert somewhere on a motorbike. The sun was setting and we stopped to take pictures, but when Julian took off his motorbike helmet I realised that his eyes were green, not brown. It wasn’t Jules at all, it was Aidan.
Chapter Five
27 December 2011
I GET UP in darkness, again. This time there’s no time to walk the dogs. Hop in the shower, get dressed, get my notes together, drink my coffee, out the door. I need to be in Jericho, in Oxford, by nine-fifteen. If I leave at half seven I’ll make it.
At seven forty I dash back upstairs to say goodbye to Dom. He’s just stirring.
‘You off already?’ he croaks sleepily.
I kiss him on the head.
‘You’ll be back for dinner, yeah?’ he asks. I don’t say anything, I just kiss him again. ‘Have a good day, love,’ he says. ‘Good luck with the interview.’ On my way out of the front door I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror and recoil slightly. My hair, which was cropped quite short in the summer, is now in that awkward neither short nor long phase. I could definitely do with some styling. And I look pale, a little tired. Like someone who’s been inside for too long.
* * *
I get stuck in traffic on the M40. Traffic. The day after Boxing Day? Where the hell is everyone going? Hopefully, I root around in the glove box. And there it is, contraband. A packet of Marlboro Lights, half full. Dom would kill me if he knew.
I light a cigarette and flick on the radio. Some mindless chatter for a minute or two, then The Pogues with Kirsty MacColl, ‘The Fairytale of New York’. This, just as I’m passing the sign for the off ramp to High Wycombe. It feels like a sign, or a horrible cosmic joke. In reality, it isn’t so remarkable – after all, they play this song to death every single Christmas now, now it’s been voted Greatest Christmas Song in the World Ever.
Still, for a moment all I can see is Julian, twirling my reluctant mother around the kitchen, singing at the top of his lungs in a terrible fake Irish accent. That was what, twenty years ago? Me, Mum and Jules, drinking illicit sparkling wine and scoffing mince pies, the year Jules’ parents went to visit his aunt in Australia, the first Christmas we ever spent together. I turn off the radio and put out my cigarette.
The car in front of me moves a few yards, brakes, trundles a little further on, brakes again. I force myself to keep my eyes on the bank of red brake lights ahead, refusing to look over to the right hand side of the road, to my old hometown. The sky above looks ominously grey. Somehow the weather always seems miserable at this point in the road. I light a second cigarette (bad, bad girl) – anything to distract me. But as soon as I get past the turnoff to High Wycombe I start to feel better. Not going back there always feels like a little victory.
I can hear my phone ringing from the depths of my handbag. As luck would have it, the traffic’s just started to move again, so I can’t answer. I’ve already got six points on my licence and I don’t fancy any more. As soon as we grind to a halt, I grab the phone and dial into my voicemail.
‘Hello? Ms Blake? It’s Annie here. Annie Gardner. I’m really sorry to inconvenience you, but I can’t do nine-fifteen. I’ve got a meeting here I can’t get out of. I
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you needed me.’
We lay in silence for a bit, arms wrapped around each other, my heart full, completely safe. I told him my resolutions, and then I got up to go back to my room.
‘I’d better not fall asleep here,’ I told him. ‘Mum will kill me.’
‘You did just tell her I’m gay, didn’t you?’
‘She’ll still kill me.’
‘Okay.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine. Night, Nic.’
‘Night.’
I tiptoed back to my room and crawled into bed, falling asleep almost instantly. I dreamed that Julian and I were on holiday, riding through a desert somewhere on a motorbike. The sun was setting and we stopped to take pictures, but when Julian took off his motorbike helmet I realised that his eyes were green, not brown. It wasn’t Jules at all, it was Aidan.
Chapter Five
27 December 2011
I GET UP in darkness, again. This time there’s no time to walk the dogs. Hop in the shower, get dressed, get my notes together, drink my coffee, out the door. I need to be in Jericho, in Oxford, by nine-fifteen. If I leave at half seven I’ll make it.
At seven forty I dash back upstairs to say goodbye to Dom. He’s just stirring.
‘You off already?’ he croaks sleepily.
I kiss him on the head.
‘You’ll be back for dinner, yeah?’ he asks. I don’t say anything, I just kiss him again. ‘Have a good day, love,’ he says. ‘Good luck with the interview.’ On my way out of the front door I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror and recoil slightly. My hair, which was cropped quite short in the summer, is now in that awkward neither short nor long phase. I could definitely do with some styling. And I look pale, a little tired. Like someone who’s been inside for too long.
* * *
I get stuck in traffic on the M40. Traffic. The day after Boxing Day? Where the hell is everyone going? Hopefully, I root around in the glove box. And there it is, contraband. A packet of Marlboro Lights, half full. Dom would kill me if he knew.
I light a cigarette and flick on the radio. Some mindless chatter for a minute or two, then The Pogues with Kirsty MacColl, ‘The Fairytale of New York’. This, just as I’m passing the sign for the off ramp to High Wycombe. It feels like a sign, or a horrible cosmic joke. In reality, it isn’t so remarkable – after all, they play this song to death every single Christmas now, now it’s been voted Greatest Christmas Song in the World Ever.
Still, for a moment all I can see is Julian, twirling my reluctant mother around the kitchen, singing at the top of his lungs in a terrible fake Irish accent. That was what, twenty years ago? Me, Mum and Jules, drinking illicit sparkling wine and scoffing mince pies, the year Jules’ parents went to visit his aunt in Australia, the first Christmas we ever spent together. I turn off the radio and put out my cigarette.
The car in front of me moves a few yards, brakes, trundles a little further on, brakes again. I force myself to keep my eyes on the bank of red brake lights ahead, refusing to look over to the right hand side of the road, to my old hometown. The sky above looks ominously grey. Somehow the weather always seems miserable at this point in the road. I light a second cigarette (bad, bad girl) – anything to distract me. But as soon as I get past the turnoff to High Wycombe I start to feel better. Not going back there always feels like a little victory.
I can hear my phone ringing from the depths of my handbag. As luck would have it, the traffic’s just started to move again, so I can’t answer. I’ve already got six points on my licence and I don’t fancy any more. As soon as we grind to a halt, I grab the phone and dial into my voicemail.
‘Hello? Ms Blake? It’s Annie here. Annie Gardner. I’m really sorry to inconvenience you, but I can’t do nine-fifteen. I’ve got a meeting here I can’t get out of. I
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