Читать книгу: «And Then I Turned Into a Mermaid»
First published in Great Britain 2019
by Egmont UK Limited
The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
Text copyright © 2019 Laura Steven
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
First e-book edition 2019
ISBN 978 1 4052 9503 1
Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 9517 8
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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To Millie – my favourite mermaid in the world
Contents
Cover
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE: Barcastic Barracuda
CHAPTER TWO: A Fishy Birthday
CHAPTER THREE: Cake for Dinner
CHAPTER FOUR: The Transformation
CHAPTER FIVE: So Many Questions
CHAPTER SIX: The First Hurdle(s)
CHAPTER SEVEN: The Embarrassing Friend
CHAPTER EIGHT: The Blow-Up
CHAPTER NINE: What’s Your Trout?
CHAPTER TEN: The Trapdoor
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Clamdunk
CHAPTER TWELVE: Back to Reality
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Jack-in-the-Box
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Carrot to Eagle
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Purple Tail
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Pease Pudding
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Baboon Buttholes
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: The Biggest Spectacle at the Zoo
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Do Penguins Bark?
CHAPTER TWENTY: Look, a Penguin
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: The Strangest Merpower
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: The Good Ship Haddock
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
Barcastic Barracuda
Molly Seabrook loved the sea and hated the sea in equal measure.
She loved it for all the obvious reasons: the gushing and fizzing of waves on the shore, the dolphins leaping during summer, the kaleidoscope of red and orange and pink during sunset.
She hated it because the sea was home to fish. And fish could be caught and battered and served to paying customers in the Seabrook family’s fish ’n’ chip shop where Molly and her sisters were forced to help out. And sometimes, to attract those paying customers, she had to dress up as a giant haddock. With fins and everything.
She also hated the sea because her bonkers mum was partial to skinny-dipping, which the kids at school absolutely loved to make fun of. Every single lunchtime, without fail, Miranda Seabrook dived into the sea. Naked. And every single lunchtime, without fail, Molly was so ashamed that she wanted to roll around in flour and toss herself in the deep-fat fryer just to avoid the pointing and staring.
So again, obvious reasons.
Today, even though it was the end of October half-term, the haddock suit was still hotter than the sun. Trapped in a tomb of polyester scales, Molly was essentially one enormous sweat gland. Salt crystals dripped from her eyebrows and into her stinging eyes. It was nearly the end of her shift, so she looked around for somewhere to ditch her remaining flyers.
She soon found her target. Molly thrust a wodge of leaflets into a snooty old lady’s canvas shopping bag as she went past. Ordinarily she would feel bad for reverse pickpocketing, but that same snooty old lady had called the police last week and reported Molly’s mum’s skinny-dipping. Really, Molly wanted to put an end to her mother’s naked antics more than anyone, but having to watch a seaweed-covered Miranda Seabrook being lectured by an angry police officer? While dressed as an oversized fish? Surely it was more humiliation than any normal human being could handle.
The sun-dappled pier was rammed with tourists sucking on seamarbles – Little Marmouth’s famous boiled sweets. Seamarbles were sweet and tangy and blue, with miniature candy fish inside. Molly hated them on principle.
In fact, right now she hated most things. She hated the crying toddlers shoving sticky hands into her remaining stash of leaflets. She hated the seagulls cawing overhead in constant poop-threat. She hated the gaggle of popular kids from school daring each other to wade waist deep into the freezing North Sea, squealing and splashing and shrieking, stifling laughs whenever they looked her haddocky way. Most of all, she hated how she wanted to be one of them.
But the Seabrooks had never been popular. After all, popularity isn’t easy when you’re loud and brash and always smell like stale chip grease.
Molly lived in a wonky old lighthouse with her four sisters, each more embarrassing than the last, and a mum who liked to feel the sea breeze on her privates. Try as she might to fix those things, Molly knew with heart-aching certainty that she would never fit in.
Just as she was contemplating hurling her stack of flyers into the sea and abandoning the Good Ship Haddock, her youngest sister Minnie darted out of the shop and yanked her by the hand. Well, fin.
‘Molly-macaroni!’ she squeaked, tugging too hard and sending leaflets fluttering all over the promenade.
‘That nickname makes no sense. It’s like me calling you Minnie-lasagne,’ Molly grumbled, attempting to bend down to retrieve the scattered flyers.
Nobody stopped to help her. Not even Fit Steve, who worked at the ice cream parlour a few doors down. Two years above Molly, he was the most popular guy in school. And, as the name suggested, devastatingly fit. In fairness, at that moment he was busy scooping mint choc chip into a cookie cone for a foot-stomping five-year-old. Molly, who had a bit of a thing for Fit Steve, couldn’t help but be jealous of the ice cream cone. And the scoop. And the bratty child.
However, Fit Steve barely knew she existed. Considering the lunacy of her family, this was probably for the best.
‘Was you being barcastic?’ Minnie frowned. ‘Mum told you not to be barcastic.’
‘Yes. Barcastic is precisely what I’m being,’ Molly snapped. ‘That is absolutely, one hundred per cent a word.’
She was already annoyed at herself for getting annoyed. Her little sister was irritating, which is a serious design flaw in most siblings, but Molly was pretty much Minnie’s favourite person in the whole world. The curly-haired littlest Seabrook was the most bonkers of the lot, and yet Molly had always had a soft spot for her.
‘I thought you was,’ Minnie sniggered. She had Seabrook’s famous garlic sauce smeared in her hair like the world’s worst glitter gel. ‘Barcastic barracuda – ha ha ha!’
Honestly, barracuda? Molly’s sister had an unreasonably thorough knowledge of sea creatures for a five-year-old. Could she spell her own name? No, but she could tell you about the carpet shark in A LOT of detail.
Molly ruffled Minnie’s unruly black hair with her fin. ‘Whaddaya want, scampi?’
‘It’s your birfday tomorrow,’ Minnie said, squirming excitedly in her silver jelly shoes, which Molly noticed were on the wrong feet.
‘I am aware, yes. But no fuss, remember? And definitely no fish.’
‘De-fin-ertly no fish,’ Minnie confirmed. ‘De-fin-ertly.’
In most families, you probably would not have to say ‘no fish’ when talking about thirteenth birthday plans, but the Seabrooks were not most families.
Not even close.
CHAPTER TWO
A Fishy Birthday
Molly awoke on her thirteenth birthday in the bedroom she shared with her sister Melissa in Kittiwake Keep, the wonky converted lighthouse at the end of Little Marmouth pier.
Melissa was fourteen and closest to Molly in age, but Molly got on far better with Margot, who was fifteen and the most gifted practical joker in the northern hemisphere. Molly sometimes wished she could bunk with Margot, but then realised she’d probably wake up with a shaved head and a mouthful of gunpowder, because Margot really liked turning things into cannons.
But back to her birthday. Molly felt both completely different and completely unchanged. The difference was in the crispness of the fresh start: maybe this would be the year she finally grew out of her mood swings. The year she finally found popularity. The year she finally learned how to spell Egypt.
The unchangedness was in the fish.
Because of course there were fish, despite Minnie’s sincere assurances. Every birthday morning in the Seabrook household started with three dozen fish balloons and a giant whale piñata, which the blindfolded birthday girl had to thwack with a sea serpent carved out of driftwood, until finally the whale burst, and confetti and seamarbles rained down from above.
What was the confetti shaped like?
Fish.
Obviously.
Some birthday traditions were mercifully forgotten. The cardboard conch hat, for example. The spike of the shell had nearly taken Mrs Figgenhall’s eye out last year, which is not how anyone saw the assembly on Noah’s Ark ending. Mrs Figgenhall, their religious studies teacher, had lost her temper, clutched her eye socket and wailed that she now knew exactly how Jesus felt when wearing his crown of thorns. Molly thought this was a slight overreaction. In any case, it was mercifully the last time she was cast in any biblical performances.
Finally, Molly escaped the lighthouse and headed to school. Today was the first day back after the holidays, and by the time she had arrived at the Sterling Secondary School for Promising Little Marmouthians (SPLUM to its attendees), her birthday was all but forgotten.
First period was history, where Molly sat two rows behind Ada, staring at the back of her glossy head. Molly silently willed her best friend to turn around so she could do her evil nun impression. She was willing it so hard that she accidentally forgot to listen to Mr Hackney droning on about Ancient Greek mythology.
‘Ms Seabrook?’
Oh no. Mr Hackney was looking at her expectantly. ‘Er, yes, sir?’
‘Any ideas?’ He smiled warmly, and Molly felt a tad guilty for tuning out.
‘Sorry, sir, could you repeat the question?’
‘At whose ill-fated wedding did the Judgement of Paris take place?’
The judgement of what now? Molly forced herself to think of a Greek person, any Greek person, who could reasonably have been getting married twenty billion years ago. ‘Achilles?’
‘Not a bad guess.’ Mr Hackney beamed. ‘It was actually his mother, Thetis.’
In that moment, Molly was very grateful for her speedy brain. She’d never tried particularly hard in school – you didn’t need straight As to fulfil a chip-shop destiny – but always managed to pull semi-decent grades out of the bag. This made her extremely bright sister Myla furious. What was the point of having a brain, Myla said, if you weren’t going to use it to cure mumps?
‘Thetis was a legendary sea nymph and goddess of the water,’ Mr Hackney explained with gusto. ‘Now, as you all know, Paris choosing who should receive the apple addressed “to the fairest” sparked the infamous Trojan War . . .’
Bless Mr Hackney. He really tried very hard to make his classes interesting, with tales of myths and nymphs and goddesses and such, but everyone knew those things weren’t real. Why bother pretending?
At morning break, she and Ada hid in their favourite locker nook so they wouldn’t be forced outside by power-hungry prefects. The gap between the lockers and the wall was narrow enough that you couldn’t see it from down the hall, but big enough to fit two medium-sized thirteen-year-olds and four packets of cheese and onion crisps.
Faces inches apart, Ada crunched through three of the four packets while Molly filled her in on the fishy morning she’d had.
‘Honestly, Ades, how are we ever going to infiltrate the popular group when I’m basically one giant fish?’ Molly shoved a fistful of crisps into her gob. ‘And not a cool fish, like a piranha or something. I’m a trout, through and through.’
‘It’s impressive that you’re able to eat so many crisps then. Do fish even have teeth?’
Molly frowned. ‘I feel like I should know, being the daughter of a chip-shop queen.’
Ada snorted. ‘I.e. the worst kind of queen.’
She had always been a bit stuck-up about the chip shop, but Molly just laughed it off – and decided not to tell Margot, who was famous for blowing snot bubbles into the gravy of customers who offended her.
‘Did you get to talk to Fit Steve over half-term?’ Ada asked impatiently, as though that’s all she really wanted to know.
She and Molly had been swooning over Fit Steve and his best mate Penalty Pete (who had once scored the winning goal in a school football match) for months. And since Ada had spent her half-term in a Center Parcs with no phone reception, this was the first chance they’d had for a proper debrief.
Molly puffed out her chest with pride. ‘Yes. Twice.’
‘And? What did he say? Did you remember to do that thing we saw on YouTube? Pressing your tongue against the roof of your mouth so you look all pouty and cool?’
‘Yes,’ Molly said vaguely. ‘Definitely. It went well.’
It had not gone well. The video had not been clear on how to talk while mid-manoeuvre, so Molly’s words had come out in a garbled warble.
Wiping her crumb-coated hands on her blazer and reaching into her pocket, Ada said, ‘Anyway. Want your present now?’
Molly, whose mouth was once again full of crisps, just nodded excitedly and clapped her hands like a performing monkey.
The gift was small and daintily wrapped in navy paper covered with pretty silver stars. Between the stars, Ada had written in metallic Sharpie: ‘These are definitely not starfish, you paranoid loon!’ – but then drawn dangly legs on the stars so they did indeed look like starfish.
Molly chuckled as she tore away the paper to find a fancy lipstick sitting inside. It was so fancy it came in a small cardboard box, which is how you know it’s the real deal. Sure enough, the word MAC was stamped proudly on the black packaging. Molly gasped, pulling out the tube. It was a dusty pink colour with a glossy finish. It was gorgeous.
Ada smirked. ‘Just to make your trout pout a little less fishy.’
‘I love it!’ Molly threw her arms around Ada, which was easier said than done in the tiny nook, and she ended up punching the wall with her elbow.
At lunch, while Molly was queuing for hotdogs, Fit Steve was standing right there, right in front of her, black hair flopping attractively. She was so sure he would turn around and say hi, even though he was in year ten and much too cool for her. After all, they’d had two whole conversations in the chip shop over half-term, both of which had centred around battered sausages. What could possibly be more romantic than that?
And she had done the tongue-roof thing. She was basically an Instagram model. Was it too late to run to the loos and apply a little bit of lipstick?
In any case, Fit Steve was ignoring her. Molly decided to take matters into her own hands, and tried to make it a sausage hat-trick. It was hotdog day, so the perfect opportunity.
Unfortunately, the second she opened her mouth, the word ‘glumph’ plopped out, like a toad falling into a pond.
However, Fit Steve didn’t even notice her sudden transformation into a bullfrog, so that was that.
On Mondays, Ada had orchestra during lunch, so Molly usually ate with Melissa and Margot. Today, though, Melissa had ditched them in favour of the hockey team she’d recently joined, so it was just Margot and Molly. The way Molly liked it.
However, as Margot chattered away about a new prank she was planning – something to do with bird seed, batteries and pipe cleaners – Molly found herself envying her older sister’s ability to make people laugh. Unlike Molly, Margot was always smiling, always teasing people, always cracking jokes.
Molly wished she had that playful streak. Maybe if she was more like Margot, Fit Steve would suddenly realise that she was the girl of his dreams, and immediately kiss her face with his face.
She had no time to dwell on the idea, though, because Margot suddenly looked serious for the first time in her natural-born life. ‘Hey, it’s weird how Myla’s leaving, right?’
Molly shrugged. Myla, who was in her final year of sixth form, had an interview at Cambridge next month. ‘She might not get in.’ Molly knew that wasn’t true. Myla would get into NASA, if they hired seventeen-year-olds.
‘She’ll get in somewhere, though.’ Margot stared at her own hotdog with a strange look on her face. Almost . . . wistful? ‘Kinda sucks that everything’s going to change soon.’
Molly was going to protest, to say that it wouldn’t change that much, but she didn’t have the heart to lie to Margot. Since Minnie was born five years ago, there had always been five Seabrook sisters in Little Marmouth. There’s no way it wouldn’t feel different once Myla left.
Molly vowed there and then to make the most of this birthday, no matter how fishy. After all, it would be the last one they’d all be around for. Things were changing – fast – and soon Molly would look back and wish she’d appreciated her bonkers family while they were all still together. Fish and all.
‘Love you, Margs,’ Molly mumbled, fighting the urge to reach over and squeeze her sister’s hand.
‘That’s disgusting,’ Margot replied, and shoved a pipe cleaner up Molly’s nose.
CHAPTER THREE
Cake for Dinner
The semicircular kitchen at Kittiwake Keep was a chaotic hodgepodge of tables, chairs and sideboards, with an ancient, aubergine-coloured Aga laid flat against the only straight wall.
The swordfish-printed wallpaper was peeling away. There were windows all around the curve of the lighthouse, so there was always light flooding in. Mum complained about this frequently, since it only served to illuminate the stacks of dirty dishes piled high next to the sink. Their dishwasher had been broken ever since Molly could remember, and their mum never had the cash to fix it.
Tonight, as part of a Seabrook birthday tradition Molly didn’t actually mind, the five sisters were making cake for dinner while their mum single-handedly ran the fish ’n’ chip shop. Since it was Molly’s birthday, she got to choose the flavour, and she opted for the same kind she always did: white chocolate and raspberry.
Molly often thought she’d quite happily drown in melted white chocolate, and was known for always carrying Milky Bar buttons with her everywhere she went. The best time for them was in the summer, when they went all gooey and stuck together in one giant blob. Molly enjoyed putting the blob in the fridge to solidify, then gnawing on the entire thing like a beaver with a piece of tree bark.
Since she was the resident expert on the matter, Molly was in charge of melting the white chocolate over the stove, slowly so she didn’t burn it, while Myla weighed the dry ingredients. Margot and Melissa were blending everything together, and somehow Minnie had been entrusted with whisking the eggs. The radio blared out an upbeat pop song on the windowsill, and the kitchen was warm from the Aga’s heat.
Myla, the seventeen-year-old super-genius, cleared her throat importantly. ‘Did you know that it actually wasn’t Marie Antoinette who said, “Let them eat cake”?’
Myla mistook the silence for awe, not disinterest. ‘Honestly, it wasn’t! Most people believe she said it on the eve of the French Revolution in 1789, but actually it was Maria Theresa of Spain, the wife of Louis XIV. She said it a hundred years before Antoinette. Crazy, right?’
Molly stifled a laugh as she stirred the glossy chocolate. ‘Mmm. Crazy.’
‘What do nets have to do with anything?’ Margot asked innocently.
Myla stared at her sister as though she were the stupidest person in the whole of Europe. ‘Antoinette.’
Margot met Molly’s eye, and they both had to press their lips together to prevent the giggles from escaping. Margot tossed an extra pinch of salt in the batter for good luck.
‘Anyone else got any cake trivia?’ Myla asked earnestly, oblivious to her sisters’ mockery.
Melissa wrinkled her nose as she used a wooden spoon to mix the butter and the sugar together. ‘This is so unhealthy. For my birthday, I want a fruit salad.’
‘Imagine living in Melissa’s head,’ Molly muttered to Margot. ‘I bet she wants to ban fairgrounds for being too fun.’
But Margot didn’t hear her, because she’d stuffed a raspberry in each ear to block out the impromptu history lesson.
They popped the delicious white chocolate and raspberry concoction in the Aga. While they waited for the magic to happen, they started the washing-up so their mum didn’t have to come home to a messy kitchen. Of course, the kitchen was always messy, so it was a little like rearranging deckchairs on the Titanic, but it was the thought that counted.
Molly dunked her finger in the cake-batter bowl. ‘Hey, remember the time we went to see that unicorn show at the theatre for Melissa’s birthday?’
‘And Minnie stormed the stage?’ Margot wrestled the bowl from Molly and shoved her entire face in it to lick the last scraps. Melissa rolled her eyes.
Molly chuckled. ‘And started kissing the pink unicorn to death.’
‘Hey!’ Minnie said, indignant. ‘It did not die. Not like Granny Bettie. She’s dead.’
Molly couldn’t help it then. Minnie’s morbid exclamations made her snort with laughter every time. She was always pointing at stationary objects and insisting they were dead: rocks, street lamps, Margot during a particularly heavy sleep.
Myla smiled wistfully. ‘Or what about when Dad was still around, and we went bowling? And he . . . he . . .’
As Myla trailed off, Melissa shot a worried look at Molly and Margot. Myla was the only one old enough to have any real memories of their father – he left right after Molly was born. Minnie had a different father altogether, who wasn’t in the picture either. Which meant Myla often felt alone in missing their dad, and struggled to talk about him with her sisters.
This made Molly feel a bit guilty. What you’ve never had, you don’t miss, and yet it would’ve been nice for Myla to have someone to share the heartache with. There had always been a kind of distance between Myla and the rest of them, and Molly suspected this was partly why, though there was the whole super-genius thing too. Once, on the plane journey to their one and only foreign holiday in Majorca, Molly had asked if it got dark above the clouds. Myla had never looked at her the same since.
‘Oh no!’ Minnie wailed.
‘What is it, scampi?’
‘I forgots to put the egg in. Sorry.’ Sure enough, the semi-beaten eggs sat in a bowl over by the broken dishwasher.
‘Hey, it’s OK, Minnie-moo!’ Margot grabbed the bowl and gave it a good stir. ‘We can put them in now. The cake hasn’t been in the oven that long.’
‘OK.’ Minnie stared at the ground, tears pooling in her shiny blue eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Stop apologising, silly.’ Molly grabbed her by the armpits and hoisted her up on to her hip. It was getting harder to do that now that Minnie was so much bigger, and Molly suspected she’d need a titanium hip replacement by Christmas. ‘It was a tiny mistake.’ She ruffled Minnie’s hair, which now not only contained garlic sauce but also cake batter, raspberry juice and several toothpicks from the chip shop.
‘See?’ Margot said, scraping the eggs on top of the partially baked cake. It had already formed a solid top, which meant she couldn’t mix the eggs in properly with the batter. ‘It’ll be perfect.’
This was not convincing in the slightest.
An hour later, the girls were sitting around the wonky kitchen table forcing down what can only be described as cake topped with burnt omelette. The only one who seemed to be enjoying it was Minnie, who immediately demanded seconds, then thirds. The others found new and inventive hiding places whenever Minnie wasn’t looking. Molly really hoped she would remember to retrieve the slab of omelette from the pocket of her school blazer, because the last thing she needed was to be sent out of double chemistry for smelling like eggy fart.
Thankfully, there was soon a knock on the door, and Margot, Melissa and Molly all dashed out of the kitchen to escape the grossest dinner they had ever had. Molly got to the door first, and swung it opened breathlessly.
Eddie of the Ears stood before her, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.
Eddie, whose ears would’ve looked more at home on a baby elephant, was in Molly’s class at school. He was one of the regulars at the chip shop, and always ordered the same thing: chips and bits. Molly didn’t blame him. Those bitty, salty scraps of batter scooped from the top of the deep fat fryer were second only to white chocolate in her eyes.
Clutched in his hand was a large seashell with something painted on the curves.
Margot grinned in disbelief. ‘Eddie of the . . . Eddie.’
‘It’s OK,’ Eddie said, smiling widely. ‘You can say Ears. Although Eddie of the Eddie has a certain ring to it.’
Molly shifted uncomfortably, willing her sisters not to say anything too embarrassing. ‘What are you doing here?’
Eddie shrugged. ‘I just wanted to say happy birthday. Because, you know, it’s your birthday. And I want you to be happy. Wait, no, that’s intense. Er . . . happy birthday, anyway.’
He held out the seashell, which had ‘Happy Birthday Mollie’ painted on it in pink and green. It looked a little like a toddler had written it, but it still made Molly feel warm and grateful.
‘Thank you, Eddie. That’s so sweet.’
‘Sorry it isn’t more,’ he said, pulling his beanie hat down so his flaming-red hair wasn’t on show. ‘I don’t have a job or anything.’
‘You can have mine if you want,’ Molly laughed. ‘All the free chips and bits you can eat.’
‘Awesome. They wouldn’t even have to pay me.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. They don’t pay me either.’ Molly rolled her eyes. ‘Getting to live in this lavish mansion is payment enough, my mum reckons.’
‘Do you want to come into our lavish mansion for some cake?’ Margot burst out. There was mischief written all over her face, and Molly made a mental scan of the living room for potential booby traps. Definitely a whoopee cushion under the armchair, and almost no condiments in the kitchen were safe.
‘What kind of cake?’ Eddie asked.
‘Scrambled egg,’ Margot said solemnly. ‘Beans and bacon are optional.’
Eddie looked confused and awkward. ‘What?’
‘Long story,’ Molly muttered hastily. ‘Eddie doesn’t want to come in, do you, Eddie?’
She actually wouldn’t have minded chatting to Eddie some more, since he was always pretty funny in the chip shop. But she didn’t trust her sisters not to do anything embarrassing, and she certainly didn’t trust Minnie not to try to kiss him like the poor pink unicorn.
Eddie, however, looked suddenly crestfallen. ‘I . . . no, I suppose not. Sorry for bothering you.’
‘No!’ Molly insisted, realising how awful her rejection sounded. ‘You weren’t bothering me at all. It’s just . . . my sisters are kind of intense. That’s all.’
‘Rude,’ said Margot indignantly.
‘Don’t worry.’ Eddie smiled. ‘I get it. See you at school.’
Before Molly could protest, Eddie strolled away dejectedly, hands stuffed in his pockets. He climbed into a beaten-up old car, which was waiting with its headlights on at the end of the street. His mum must’ve waited to see if he was staying, Molly realised with a pang. He was completely sweet, and she’d totally offended him.
‘Margot!’ Molly snapped, swirling on her heel. ‘Why’d you invite him in?’
‘What?’ Margot held her hands up in mock innocence. ‘He likes you! God knows why, because you’re the absolute worst, but still. He’s cute.’
‘Yes, but our family is not cute. Not in the slightest.’
Suddenly rummaging around in her mouth, Margot pulled out a chunk of omelette that she’d stored in her cheek like a hamster, then stuffed it hastily down the back of the battered velvet sofa. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
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