The lead weight in her gut grew heavier.
She hadn’t given him the idea, had she?
Her brain fuzzed with white noise then cleared. No. Absolutely not. They’d been happy. They’d talked and laughed. Confided in one another. At least she’d thought they had. He was the only person in the world who knew her secret wish to be a prima ballerina like Darcy Bussell. A mother dead set against airs and graces and ‘a stumpy torso’ had put short shrift to that dream, but even so, one Christmas he’d bought her a tutu. She’d worn it round the house when she did the hoovering until one day it had got caught on the kitchen door handle and tore. She’d told him about it, gutted that his gift had been ruined. He’d laughed, said never mind, and suggested as he poured her a glass of zinfandel that maybe it was time for a new dream.
The only thing she hadn’t told him was just how much she disliked Terry’s chocolate oranges. He wrapped one up for her each and every Christmas. He always looked so pleased with himself when she opened it she hadn’t dared put him straight. She wondered if he had felt like that about his entire life. Regularly swallowing down the things he really wanted to say, desperate to keep the smile on her face. Unable to choke through one more toad-in-the-hole to the point *snap* he’d simply had enough. A rush of nausea washed through her. She wouldn’t have minded. Would’ve changed meal plans in an instant. Didn’t he know she was easy to please? That his smile was enough to keep her smiling? That anything he had to say she would’ve happily listened to?
She stared at the door in front of her. Gary’s office. Still unopened since she’d violently pulled it shut the other week, the handle level with his ankles …
She reached out to the handle, hearing the minor chords from a film soundtrack as she did. Ridiculous, of course. Her life didn’t come equipped with a soundtrack. And it wasn’t like she was going to find him in there. Or a secret family. Or, heaven forbid, a body. When the police and the coroner and heaven knew who else had been round that Thursday (she must send Flo a thank you note for calling 999 on her behalf), they’d checked everywhere, as if she might have all sorts of men hanging from the ceiling. Nope. Just the one. The last person on earth she would’ve ever believed would take such drastic measures. And just like that, her hand dropped away from the handle.
Maybe tomorrow she’d see to any tidying it might need. Yes. That would be fine. Tomorrow she’d go into his office and start tidying up. Tomorrow would be a brand new day.
Chapter Fifteen
Dog walking services. Not one but two health and safety workshops. A reminder to wash your hands after you went to the loo. (Gross. Wasn’t everyone old enough to have worked that one out on their own?)
Everything under the sun was on the work notice board apart from a blinking room in a blinking house for blinking let.
Raven’s skin went prickly. Was she really making the right decision? Moving out to give herself some headspace? It seemed like the only option. Live with Uncle Ravi or endure a nonstop commentary on her poor life choices? Hmm … yeah, neither of those were sounding divine. Yes, moving out would eat into her savings, but it would also afford her time away from the Disappointment Faces her parents wore so well. She’d mulled and mulled and mulled over it and somehow it was already Friday morning, the clock ticking with the urgency of a tell-tale heart. As if her mortality was on the line. (It wasn’t as if she was going to go My Little Pony about things at this point in her life). It was strange feeling guilty for something she had yet to do.
Sure, it wasn’t murder she was plotting. She was, to all outside appearances, a truculent teen throwing up two fingers to a life of assured financial security and professional respect. As such … it was a psychological form of murder. Every bit as stabby and complicated and, yes, darkly romantic (if everything ultimately turned out well). Could complete and utter destruction of her parents’ dreams for her have a happy ending?
Would she like to become a Law Lord?
Sure.
What self-respecting baby Goth wouldn’t, with a job title like that?
The business cards alone would be worth the slog, but … would she rather write a graphic novel about an Above-the-Law Lord who defied parental expectations so that she could make good on an innate ability to protect life’s more vulnerable earthlings?
Maybe. Once she learned how to draw. Or figured out how to get the computer to do it for her.
She tried not to think too much about the fact that writing a graphic novel about a Law Lord would entail actually learning about the law, but, hey. That’s what Google was for, right?
She’d left the house as her mother had begun pointedly pre-packing the car for the trip to Birmingham on Sunday afternoon. A blanket in case of a breakdown. A box of energy bars in case a blizzard blew in (it was snowing in Scotland so, of course, her mother wanted to be prepared for all eventualities). An up-to-date first aid kit. Natch.
