“You don’t have to go, Cal,” she said.
“Good! Why the hell would I? I put up with him for eleven years, and now you want to send me over there, just like you did with Sarah?”
Hilary shook her head. “No, that’s not it at all. I didn’t want you to feel left out, so that’s why I suggested—”
“So he didn’t even want to see me.” The sides of Callum’s mouth twitched and his eyebrows furrowed the way they do when he’s working on homework.
“Well, he—”
“Forget it.” The whole house shook with the force of Callum’s long legs thundering up the stairs and slamming his door.
The next day at breakfast, he apologized to his mum, avoiding Robin’s eye.
“I’ll go to Atlanta,” he said grimly. “But only to keep an eye on Robin and check that Sarah’s okay.”
“I don’t need you to babysit me,” Robin said, trying to sound outraged despite being relieved.
“Are you sure?” Hilary searched his face, but he drained the last of his tea and left for the bus without waiting for Robin.
—
A few weeks later, they were strapped into plane seats, buckled tight and nervous. Robin had never flown before, and Callum hadn’t flown since his last family holiday with his dad, years earlier. No happy memories.
She reached for his hand as the wings creaked and widened in preparation for takeoff, and the chassis wobbled up and down as the big beast gained speed. Once the nose tipped up and there was no going back, they sank into their seats and stared through the window in awe as the ground fell away.
They’d filled a bag with magazines at Heathrow, another with boiled sweets and toffees.
“When does the film start?” Robin asked, looking all around to see the nearest TV screen.
“Not yet. They’ll tell you when it’s coming on,” Callum said patiently.
“When do they bring food?” Robin asked.
“Soon! God!”
The film eventually started, a heavily edited version of a romantic comedy that neither of them would normally have watched.
“My headphones don’t work,” Robin said, banging them on the seat in front so that the man sitting in it looked through the crack.
“Sorry,” Callum said to him. Robin rolled her eyes but said sorry too.
As it approached Atlanta, the plane descended fast. A terrifying, clattering fall that Robin hadn’t been expecting. When the wheels touched down with a bump that turned from fear to reassurance, some of the smokers at the back clapped and Robin looked at Callum to see if she should too. He shook his head. “Don’t do that,” he said.
They’d flown for over nine hours, were full of sugar and caffeine from the miniature cola tins and wild-eyed in the strip lighting of the airport.
After heaving their suitcases off the baggage carousel, they carried them out into Arrivals and stood, looking for a familiar face.
Suddenly Sarah ran at them.
“Robin!” she yelled, but hugged both of them. It was an unexpected display and caught Robin off guard.
“Hey,” Robin said.
Sarah had stepped back, red-faced. “How did you like flying?” she asked.
“My headphones were broken,” Robin said. “But it was fun,” she added, because Sarah looked crestfallen.
“Where are they?” Callum asked.
“Your dad’s at home but Mum’s over there.” Sarah pointed to a woman nervously holding a railing. She had short golden hair, rather than the long platinum perm she’d left with, and she wore an expensive-looking blazer over white jeans. She was pencil thin.
“Why’s she dressed like Princess Diana?” Robin asked.
“What are you all laughing about?” Angela said as she came closer.
“Nothing,” Sarah said.
They’d started to walk in the direction of the exit when their mother grabbed Robin and hugged her so quickly and tightly that Robin swung like a rag doll before slackening and eventually hugging her mother back. They stayed like that for a long moment, Angela stroking her daughter’s hair and Callum and Sarah shuffling their feet.
For the last hug they’d ever give each other, it was a good one.
TWENTY-FIVE
SARAH|PRESENT DAY
In my bedroom at Cornell Lodge, I have a map of Chorlton with the roads marked off as I’ve visited them. Every pointless pen line had chipped at my faith in the plan. I need a new approach—this is taking too long.
Early this morning I decided I had nothing to lose by trying the Spice Lounge that Robin—perhaps—gave such a scathing review. Maybe she gave them another chance?
At the library, I’d printed off a picture of Robin from her record-company website.
In the picture, her hair’s the way she’s worn it for as long as I can remember. Cropped short, black bouncy curls sticking every which way. Even in a still shot, her eyes burn with that same foot-stamping rage that she’s always had, her eyebrows knitted as she looks at the camera, daring it to capture her refusal to flirt with the lens, which I know the record company always wanted her to do. “I’m the fucking guitarist, not a go-go dancer,” she’d said at Dad’s funeral, when she’d had a couple of drinks and had been asked eager questions by second cousins.
I was fuming at her. Angry at her for turning up late, angrier still for turning up and being her. Being the black diamond that everyone stares at, listens to, talks about. How dare she? I’d thought. How dare she be thriving when I’m barely surviving? How dare she have got away? How dare she have everything she’s ever wanted, just by ricocheting her way out of our lives? We spoke without really saying anything. She asked me questions about my life that only served as contrasts to hers. “Oh you’ve been working with Hilary and Dad?”
“We can’t all be rock stars,” I’d said, my jokey tone a lie.
“What will you do now though, now the business will close?” she’d asked.
“I’d like to have a family,” I’d said, the truth in lieu of a ready lie. She’d nodded, blushing. No doubt embarrassed for me and my pedestrian desires. Then she’d turned to another second cousin to tell him more stories about life on the road.
In my blocky photo printout, her lips curl in a practiced sneer. If the Spice Lounge has messed up another order, they’ve probably been treated to this look.