Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4)

Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4) Page 37

I wait till the list comes to an end and a beep sounds.

“Hi!” I say. “Danny, it’s Becky! I’m back! So… give me a ring sometime!” I give him my number, then put down the receiver.

The kettle comes to a noisy boil and I briskly start spooning grounds into the coffee pot, thinking of who else to call. But… there’s no one. The truth is, I haven’t lived in London for two years. And I’ve kind of lost touch with most of my old friends.

I’m lonely pops into my head with no warning.

No I’m not. I’m fine.

I wish we’d never come home.

Don’t be silly. It’s all great. I’m a married woman with my own home and… and plenty to be getting on with.

Suddenly the buzzer rings and I look up in surprise. I’m not expecting anyone.

It’s probably a package. Or maybe Luke decided to come home early! I walk out into the hall and pick up the entry phone.

“Hello?”

“Becky, love?” crackles a familiar voice. “It’s Mum.”

I gape at the receiver. Mum? Downstairs?

“Dad and I have come to see you,” she continues. “Is it all right if we pop up?”

“Of course!” I exclaim in bemusement, and hit the buzzer. What on earth are Mum and Dad doing here?

I quickly go into the kitchen, pour out the coffee, and arrange some biscuits on a plate, then hurry back out to the lift.

“Hi!” I say as the doors open. “Come on in! I’ve made you some coffee!”

As I hug Mum and Dad I can see them glancing at each other apprehensively. They’re both dressed quite smartly and Mum has even got on the pearl brooch she normally wears to weddings.

What is going on? What?

“I hope we’re not disturbing you, love,” Mum says as she follows me into the flat.

“No! Of course not!” I say. “I mean, obviously I have my chores… things to be getting on with…”

“Oh yes.” Mum nods. “Well, we don’t want to take up your time. It’s just…” She breaks off. “Shall we go and sit down?”

“Oh. Er…” I glance through the door of the sitting room. The sofa is surrounded by boxes spilling their contents, and covered in rugs and foam peanuts. “We haven’t quite got the sitting room straight yet. Let’s go in the kitchen.”

Whoever designed our trendy kitchen bar stools obviously never had their parents come over for a cup of coffee. It takes Mum and Dad about five minutes to climb up onto them, while I watch, completely petrified they’re going to topple over.

“Spindly legs, aren’t they?” puffs Dad as he tries for the fifth time. Meanwhile Mum’s inching slowly onto the seat, gripping the granite breakfast bar for dear life.

At last, somehow, they’re both perched up safely on the steel seats, looking all self-conscious as though they’re on a TV talk show.

“Are you all right?” I say anxiously. “Because I could go and get some different chairs…”

“Nonsense!” says Dad at once. “This is very comfy!”

He’s lying. I can see him clenching his hands round the edges of the slippery seat and glancing down at the slate floor below as though he’s balanced on a forty-fourth-floor ledge.

“The seats are a little hard, aren’t they, love?” ventures Mum. “You should get some nice tie-on cushions from Peter Jones.”

“Er… maybe.”

I hand Mum and Dad their cups, pull out a bar stool for myself, and nonchalantly swing myself up onto it.

Ow. That hurt.

God, they are a bit tricky to get onto. Stupid shiny seats.

“So… are you both well?” I say, reaching for my coffee.

There’s a short silence.

“Becky, we came here for a reason,” says Dad. “I have something to tell you.”

He looks so grave, I feel worried. Maybe it’s not the house after all. Maybe it’s something worse.

“It’s to do with me,” he continues.

“You’re ill,” I say before I can stop myself. “Oh God. Oh God. I knew there was something wrong—”

“I’m not ill. It’s not that. It’s… something else.” He massages his temples, then looks up. “Becky, years ago—”

“Break it to her gently, Graham!” Mum interrupts.

“I am breaking it to her gently!” retorts Dad, swiveling round. “That’s exactly what I’m doing!”

“You’re not!” says Mum. “You’re rushing in!”

Now I’m totally bewildered.