Actually those flavours go very well together. So.

And it’s only later that life disintegrates.

He doesn’t understand. He won’t understand. He’s not just opposed to the plan, he’s angry. Physically angry. He hits a tree, like it’s the tree’s fault.

‘It’s fucking nuts,’ he keeps saying, striding back and forth over the grass, glaring at the squirrels. ‘Bonkers.’

‘Look, Linus . . .’ I try to explain. ‘I have to do this.’

‘Don’t give me that bollocks!’ he yells. ‘I thought your therapist banned those words? I thought the only thing you “have to” do in life is obey the laws of physics? Didn’t you learn anything? What about living in the present, not the past? What about that?’

I stare at him, silenced. He was listening more than I realized.

‘You don’t “have to” do this,’ he continues. ‘You’re choosing to do it. What if you have a relapse? What then?’

‘Then . . .’ I wipe my damp face. ‘I won’t. I’ll be fine. I’m better, in case you hadn’t realized—’

‘You’re still wearing fucking dark glasses!’ he explodes. ‘You’re still practising having three-line conversations with strangers! And now you want to face down some bitch bully girl? Why would you even give her the time of day? It’s selfish.’

‘What?’ I stare at him, reeling. ‘Selfish?’

‘Yes, selfish! You know how many people have tried to help you? You know how many people are willing you to get better? And you pull a stunt like this, just because you “have to”? This is dangerous, if you ask me. And who’s going to pick up the pieces afterwards? Tell me that.’

He’s so righteously indignant, I feel a surge of fury. What does he know? What the fuck does he know about me?

‘There won’t be any “pieces”,’ I spit at him. ‘For God’s sake, seeing one girl in Starbucks isn’t dangerous. And anyway, it wasn’t what happened that made me ill. That’s a common mistake people make, actually. Stressful events don’t make you ill, actually. It’s the way your brain reacts to stressful events. So.’

‘OK, so how’s your brain going to react to this stressful event?’ he shoots back with equal ferocity. ‘Do a dance and sing Happy?’

‘It’s going to react fine,’ I say savagely. ‘I’m better. And if by any chance it doesn’t, don’t worry, I won’t expect you to “pick up the pieces”. In fact, you know, Linus, I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble already. You’d better find someone else to hang out with. Someone who doesn’t possess any dark glasses. Maybe Tasha – I’ve heard she’s super-fun.’

I’m scrambling to my feet, trying to keep my poise, which isn’t easy when the landscape is looming at me and my head is singing loud protests.

‘Audrey, stop.’

‘No. I’m going.’

Tears are coursing down my face, but that’s OK, because I’m keeping it twisted away from Linus.

‘Well, I’m coming with you.’

‘Leave me alone,’ I say, wrenching my arm out of his grasp. ‘Leave me alone.’ And finally, after managing to ignore it all day, I surrender to my lizard brain. And I run.




Here’s what I’m not supposed to do after a stressful event: ruminate about it. Brood. Replay it over and over. Take responsibility for anyone else’s emotions.

Here’s what I’ve been doing ever since my fight with Linus: ruminating about it. Brooding. Replaying it over and over. Taking responsibility for his fury (yet resenting it). Lurching between despair and indignation. Wanting to call him. Wanting to never call him again.

Why can’t he understand? I thought he’d admire me. I thought he’d talk about Closure and Courage and say, ‘You’re right, Audrey, this is something you have to do, however hard it is, and I’ll be right behind you.’

I’ve barely slept, the last two nights. It’s like my mind is a cauldron, cooking away, throwing up noxious bubbles and fumes and fermenting itself into something quite weird. I feel light-headed and surreal and hyper. But kind of focused too. I’m going to do this, and it’s going to be like a major turning point, and afterwards things will be different – I don’t know how exactly, but they will. It’s like I’ll have got over the hurdle or run through the finishing tape or whatever. I’ll be free. Of something.

So in short, I’m a bit obsessed. But luckily Mum and Dad are too preoccupied with Frank to notice me right now. I’m way down under their radar. Basically, Mum found the Atari in Frank’s room last night and it all kicked off again and now we’re in Family Crisis Mode.

As I come down to breakfast, they’re at it again.

‘For the millionth time, it’s not a computer,’ Frank is saying calmly. ‘It’s an Atari console. You said no computers. I classify a computer as a machine which can process information in a number of ways, including word processing, email and internet browsing. The Atari does none of these, therefore it’s not a computer, therefore it wasn’t a basic breach of trust.’ He shovels Shreddies into his mouth. ‘You need to tighten up your definitions. That’s the problem. Not my Atari console.’

I think Frank should be a lawyer one day. I mean, he’s totally nailed the argument, not that Mum appreciates it.

‘Do you hear this?’ Mum is appealing to Dad, who looks like he wants to hide behind his newspaper. ‘The point is, Frank, we had an agreement. You do not play any kind of video games, end of. Do you know how damaging they are?’

‘Jesus.’ Frank holds his head in his hands. ‘Mum, you’re the one with a problem with computer games. You’re becoming fixated.’

‘I’m not fixated!’ She gives a scoffing laugh.

‘You are! You can’t think about anything else! Do you even know that I got ninety-five in my chemistry?’

‘Ninety-five?’ Mum is stopped in her tracks. ‘Really?’

‘I told you yesterday, but you didn’t even listen. You were all, Atari! Evil! Get it out of the house!’

Mum looks a bit chastened. ‘Oh,’ she says at last. ‘Well . . . ninety-five! That’s great! Well done!’

‘Out of a thousand,’ says Frank, then adds, ‘Joke. Joke.’

He grins at me, and I try to smile back, though my stomach is churning. All I can think is: Three o’clock. Three o’clock.

We’ve stuck to the meeting place in Starbucks, even though the Lawtons have been constantly texting, wanting to change it to a ‘more conducive location’ and offering their own house or a hotel suite or a room at Izzy’s counsellor’s office. Yeah, right.

Frank has been in charge of all the correspondence. He’s brilliant. He’s batted away all their suggestions in a way that could totally be Dad, and refused to give them an alternative email address, which they keep asking for, and texted in exactly Dad’s style.

It’s actually quite funny. I mean, they have no idea it’s just us, two kids. They think Dad and Mum are coming. They think this is a big family meeting. They hope it will be ‘cathartic for all’, according to their last text.

As for me, I can’t believe I’m going to see Izzy again. It’s going to happen. The big showdown. I feel like I’m a spring that is slowly coiling up and up, tensing, waiting . . .

Only seven hours to go.

And then suddenly it’s seven minutes to go and I truly feel sick. My head is pounding – not with a headache, but with a kind of impending, heightened sense of reality. The street seems brighter than normal, somehow. Noisier. Rawer.