Read Online Only We Know by Simon Packham - Free Book Online Page B

you haven’t, Tilda’s doing a pretty good impersonation of one right now. She’s pretending to watch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy on her laptop, but as far as I can see she’s far more interested in trying to pull her hair out.
    â€˜You look nice, Lauren,’ says Mum, surreptitiously running her eye over my ensemble. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be warm enough?’
    â€˜Yes, Mum, I’ll be fine.’
    I’ve had too many ‘You’re not going out like that, are you?’ conversations with Dad to risk the strapless dress we bought in the States. That’s why I’ve opted for a knee-length red skirt, white scoop-neck top and my old bomber jacket. No heels either – or someone’s bound to go on about how tall I am and I hate that – just my favourite blue Converse All-Stars. I’m keeping my hair up too. No point confusing everyone with a total makeover, but I think I’ll still pass.
    â€˜Will there be any … alcohol there?’ says Mum, reaching for her pre- Casualty glass of red.
    Tilda lets go of her hair for a moment. ‘What do you think?’
    â€˜So what if there is?’ I say. ‘I don’t drink anyway, you know that.’
    I’ve promised Mum I’m never going to hurt her again. Sometimes I have a feeling she doesn’t believe me. ‘Oh, it’s not you that I’m worried about, Lauren. It’s the others. Did you know that British teenagers caused over a hundred and thirty-four million pounds’ worth of damage at parties last year?’
    I can’t help laughing.
    Mum smiles too. ‘It’s not funny you know. She hasn’t put anything about the party on Facebook, has she?’
    â€˜Izzy’s not stupid, Mum. You’d like her, she’s really nice.’
    Dad appears, grim-faced in the doorway, the spitting image of the guys who escort dead bodies to funerals. ‘You’re sure about this, are you?’
    Tilda looks up from her screen.
    Mum takes another sip/gulp. ‘She’s sure, aren’t you, Lauren? Now off you go and have a great time.’
    Â 
    You know what really annoys me about my dad? The fact he genuinely believes his new Corolla is a ‘cool car’. I can almost hear his inner monologue as we turn into the main road and start accelerating: Eight airbags as standard, stain-resistant heated front seats, premium audio with navigation and a dedicated APP suite, not to mention automatic climate control – just slip her into cruise mode and away we go.
    But then, unfortunately, he starts to speak. ‘I see United are in for that Danish bloke.’
    â€˜Are they, Dad?’
    â€˜Doesn’t mean they’ll get him though.’
    â€˜No, Dad.’
    He flicks on his favourite ‘old guy’ radio station. ‘You must know this one. I used to love the Sex Pistols. Nearly saw them live once.’
    Please don’t sing, Dad. Please don’t sing.
    And perhaps there is a God because instead of screaming along with it he turns the volume down. ‘I’ve had a letter from your grandma.’
    My belief in God wavers again. ‘Oh, right.’
    â€˜She wants to see you. I thought we could drive down at half-term.’
    â€˜I don’t get it. I thought she never wanted to see me again.’
    Dad clears his throat. ‘That’s not really what she said.’
    â€˜So what’s her bloody problem then?’
    Even the Sex Pistols can’t quite cover the awkward silence. Dad reaches for a travel sweet. ‘I think you know what her problem is.’
    â€˜Yeah, and that’s why I’m not going.’
    â€˜Please, Lauren. She’s obviously desperate to see you. And, well, it … it might be your last chance.’
    â€˜Grandma’s not dying, is she?’
    â€˜No, no, of course not. But when you get to eighty-four, you don’t know how long you’ve got.’
    I’ve not