Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
His face goes straight back into his paper, and I roll my eyes. God forbid I talk about my career with my father. So I go to Mum, and she holds out her spoon, offering me a taste.
“Hmmm,” I hum, wiping the corner of my lip.
“More seasoning?” she asks.
“It’s perfect.” I pick up the bread knife and start slicing the fresh loaf. “How was your day at Abbie’s shop?”
“Oh, wonderful,” she chirps. “I never knew working could be so much fun.” Looking out the corner of my eye, I see her nose scrunch.
I gasp dramatically. “So not only did you do a day’s work, you enjoyed it?” I look over my shoulder to Dad, who still has his face buried in his newspaper. “Did you hear that, Dad? Mum went to work and actually enjoyed it. Outrageous.”
“What, darling?” he asks, looking up with high, telling brows, as Mum giggles again.
“Nothing,” I muse. He heard me. “What else is cooking?” I ask, piling the bread in the basket and opening the oven.
“Lamb hotpot. Your grandpa’s favourite.”
I close the oven. “Grandpa and Grandma are coming?”
“They’re here. In the lounge in their usual spots.” Of course they are. They’re always here. I head for the lounge to see them. “And Clark will be here soon with Rachel,” Mum calls.
I stop at the door, looking back. “A family dinner?” I ask. No one mentioned a family dinner.
“It’s your thirtieth!” Mum reminds me. “Of course we’re having a family dinner.”
I force a smile. “Wonderful.” I wanted to eat and go to my room to clear my inbox. Tomorrow is already going to be long. God damn it.
I carry on to the lounge and find Grandpa in his chair on one side of the fire, Grandma in hers on the other side. As always, he too has his face buried in the Financial Times, keeping himself in the know, despite having retired long before Dad supposedly retired as well. Grandma’s knitting needles are going like the clappers. “Evening, you two.”
“The birthday girl!” Grandpa snaps his paper shut and tries to stand.
“Grandpa, stay,” I order, hurrying over.
“I’m not a dog, Amelia Gracie,” he grumbles, ignoring me and creaking up. “And I still have use of all bodily functions.”
“Except your bladder,” Grandma says quietly and sardonically, making me laugh.
“What did she say?” Grandpa asks.
“Nothing. Sit down.” I help him back to the chair and go to Grandma. “What are you knitting?”
“A scarf for your father.” She beckons me into her ample bosom and squishes me. “Happy birthday, Grand Girl.”
“Thanks, Grandma.”
“I’m so sorry to hear about you and Nick. Such a lovely boy.”
I know she’s sorry. She’s told me every time I’ve seen her.
“Such a shame,” Grandpa adds before going back to his paper. “Such a lovely boy.”
“It was for the best.”
“Says who?” Dad asks, entering.
I sigh, not wanting to rehash this again. “Me,” I say with certainty. “I say, Dad.”
He hums, looking most unconvinced, but thankfully, the front door opens, and I hear Clark calling out his arrival, saving me from my daily reminder of my questionable choices.
“Oh look, Clark and Rachel are here.” I give Dad a wide smile and go to the entrance hall to find my younger brother. “Thank you,” I breathe, throwing my arms around him.
“For what?” he asks, laughing.
“Dad was about to launch into all the reasons why I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
He huffs, pulling away. “Again?”
“Yeah.”
“Happy birthday.” Clark grins. “Shit, this means I’m only two years away from the big three zero.”
“Thanks.” I move on to Rachel, his fiancée, who’s another reminder that I’m doing things all wrong. “Good to see you.”
“Happy birthday.” She hugs me.
“Thanks. How are the plans coming along?”
Rachel breathes out her exasperation. “It’s nearly a part-time job.” Which is fine because she only works part-time in a chemist after happily slashing her hours when Clark asked her to be his wife, and therefore the mother of his babies, and, therefore, when the time comes—and I don’t expect it to be long—a stay-at-home mum. Rachel won’t be working for much longer.
“Four weeks,” she confirms, letting Clark pull her into the lounge to say hello to our grandparents. I follow and take a seat on the couch.
“Clark, come.” Grandpa pats the arm of his chair for him to sit.
“He’s not a dog, Grandpa.”
“What do you make of this nonsense?” Grandpa points at the paper as Dad joins them, ignoring me. The boys doing boys things. I don’t bother finding out what nonsense Grandpa is talking about. I’ve long learned when my input is welcome. Like, never when it comes to business. I gaze toward the kitchen. That’s where I should be, and it’s where Rachel just went, and where Grandma would be if Mum would let her.
So I pull my phone out and start working my way through my emails. I also check when I last heard from Tilda Spector. Six weeks. I hum to myself, deciding I can wait until the conference next week to talk to her.