Also by Sophie McKenzie
FALLING FAST
BURNING BRIGHT
GIRL, MISSING
SISTER, MISSING
MISSING ME
BLOOD TIES
BLOOD RANSOM
SIX STEPS TO A GIRL
THREE’S A CROWD
THE ONE AND ONLY
THE MEDUSA PROJECT 1: THE SET-UP
THE MEDUSA PROJECT 2: THE HOSTAGE
THE MEDUSA PROJECT WORLD BOOK DAY SPECIAL: THE THIEF
THE MEDUSA PROJECT 3: THE RESCUE
THE MEDUSA PROJECT 4: HUNTED
THE MEDUSA PROJECT 5: DOUBLE-CROSS
THE MEDUSA PROJECT 6: HIT SQUAD
Acknowledgements: with thanks to Moira Young, Gaby Halberstam, Julie Mackenzie, Melanie Edge, Lou Kuenzler and Lily Kuenzler.
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd,
a CBS company.
Copyright © 2013 Sophie McKenzie
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Sophie McKenzie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1stFloor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road, London WC1X 8HB
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
PB ISBN: 978-0-85707-103-3
EBOOK ISBN: 978-0-85707-104-0
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY.
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
www.sophiemckenziebooks.com
For Venetia Gosling
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
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26
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28
1
Flynn and I sat at the table by the window, waiting. We were still at Café Yazmina, though my daytime shift had finished over an hour ago.
The window was open and a light breeze filtered in, cooling my face. The closer we got to Dad’s arrival, the more churned up I felt. Flynn reached across the table and squeezed my hand. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ he said.
I nodded, not feeling convinced. I fingered the tiny silver heart on the chain bracelet he’d given me.
‘We’ll help,’ my friend Grace said from across the table.
‘That’s right.’ Her boyfriend, James, sat beside her, his arm draped loosely across her shoulders.
I looked at them both, then at Flynn’s determined face. Around us the café was filling up for dinner, despite the early hour. A large party had just walked in and the waiting staff were busy putting tables together to seat them.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Flynn said with a grin. ‘James is even prepared to say I’m his role model.’
‘Role model for being a git,’ James grunted.
We all laughed. I felt the tension easing away from me. Maybe our plan would work. After all, Flynn had changed and Dad was reasonable – certainly a lot more reasonable than Mum. Plus, Flynn and I had been working up to this moment for weeks: what we were going to say and how we were going to say it.
Once Dad knew how much effort Flynn had put into dealing with his anger problems, he’d surely be happy for me to go out with him again.
‘How long till your dad arrives?’ Grace asked, twirling a lock of her blonde hair around her finger.
I checked the clock on the wall. It was almost 6.20 p.m. ‘Ten minutes or so.’ As I spoke, Yazmina – the owner of the café – bustled over, a huge presence in her flowing, glittery skirt and long, tasselled earrings. She smiled down at us then waved expansively at the room behind us. Her bangles jangled.
‘We are very busy,’ she drawled, flashing her white teeth in a big smile. ‘River, I know you have finished your shift, and you are changed now into your own clothes, but might you help for a few minutes?’
I followed her gaze to the table across the room, where the people from the large party were sitting charting to each other.
‘Just to serve the meze . . . the starters,’ Yazmina went on. ‘Only for a few minutes. You will finish before your father arrives, yes?’
I hesitated. I didn’t mind helping out at all, but I’d been so focused on what I was going to say to Dad that it was hard to adjust back into service mode.
‘I’ll do it.’ Flynn stood up. ‘If your dad arrives early, he’ll see me working. That’ll help make a good impression.’
I smiled at him gratefully and sat back in my chair as Yazmina glided away with Flynn following.
It was the end of June, a hot, close Friday evening. Flynn and I had been going out since last October. But back in January Flynn had hit his da and broken his nose. His da’s a drunk who used to beat Flynn’s mum and terrorise the rest of the family. After Flynn attacked his dad, his mum had gone back to her home in Ireland with Flynn and his sisters.
It was terrible being apart from each other and, at the beginning of March, Flynn had come back to London on his own. Since then he’d been working hard, sleeping on friends’ sofas and studying in his spare time. He’d also been seeing a counsellor about his temper – that was my condition for going back out with him. Flynn hadn’t liked the idea at first but he’d found a free service through his old school, where one of the tutors had also helped him organise everything he needed to take his exams.
And it had worked. I hadn’t seen Flynn fly off the handle for almost three months. Well, I didn’t see Flynn at all for the first few weeks – he insisted it was the only way to prove he had changed – though we’d sent each other texts most days. We started meeting up again at the very end of the Easter holidays and, once we’d seen each other, it was just too hard to keep apart. To be honest I think it helped me to know that Flynn was there, always ready to listen when I got bored of my revision or to give me a hug when I complained I was never going to pass Maths or Science.
I’d only been back at school for a few weeks before study leave started, after which my GCSEs kind of took over everything for a while. Flynn was perfect through that whole time. He always insisted I should do my work before we met up, revising hard for his own AS levels too. He never once overreacted or got angry about anything. I was impressed – and surprised, though I shouldn’t have been. Flynn’s the most determined person I’ve ever met. Once he decides to do something, nothing will stop him.
Still, I hated our relationship being secret. Mum and Dad had forbidden us to contact each other back in January. As far as they were concerned, Flynn was still in Ireland. We’d kept his return ultra secret. Of our old friends, only James, Flynn’s best friend, and Grace knew he was here – and we’d only told them about a month ago. Our plan was to introduce Flynn to Dad properly – they’d only met very briefly until now – then explain about his counselling sessions, his various jobs and his efforts to keep up with his schoolwork in the evenings. James and Grace were going to add their own character references.
Dad was such a forg
iving old hippy, I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t accept Flynn back in my life. And once I had him on side, we’d go on and approach Mum.
James got up to go to the toilet. As he passed Flynn, he said something quietly. Flynn turned, bending closer to catch the whisper. His fringe flopped over his eyes and he grinned at whatever James was saying.
I stared, transfixed by his face. It was partly the way his nose sloped, the way his lips curved. But it was more than that too. Flynn’s face was so mobile, so expressive. I never got tired of looking at it.
I watched Flynn stroll towards the kitchen. He moved with just a tiny hint of a swagger – all tall and lean and rangy and sure of himself.
‘You really love him, don’t you, River?’ Grace said timidly.
I jumped. I’d forgotten she was still there. I’d forgotten, in fact, the whole café around us.
I blushed. ‘He’s really different now, Grace.’ I turned to her. ‘You can see that, can’t you?’
Grace gave me a quick, shy nod but she turned away as she nodded, her sleek blonde bob swaying across her cheeks, hiding her face. It wasn’t exactly a wholehearted endorsement but I didn’t expect her to understand. Grace is lovely but she’s never felt comfortable around Flynn. I think he’s too intense for her. Too edgy.
I looked over again as Flynn re-emerged from the kitchen, a row of plates balanced along his arms. As he placed each one carefully on the table of eight, the rounded cut of the muscles on his upper arm showed for a second through his white shirt. It was crazy. I’d known him for nine months and my knees still buckled when I looked at him across a room. Flynn laid the last plate down and went back to the kitchen. Grace would never understand but it was precisely Flynn’s intensity that I loved. I mean, he came back to London to be with me. He said – says – that I’m all that matters to him.
‘Excuse me,’ said a male voice impatiently.
I spun round. A middle-aged guy from one of the corner tables was standing in front of me, scowling.
I stared at him blankly.
‘I heard the lady saying you worked here and I’d like some salt.’ He said it slowly, in the sort of voice you might use on a really stupid person. ‘There’s none on our table and the other staff seem to be busy.’
‘Sure,’ I said, rising to my feet, ignoring the irritation I felt at his rude tone. ‘I’ll fetch some.’
I scuttled into the kitchen, almost colliding with Flynn on his way out. He was now carrying a basket of pitta bread in each hand.
‘Hey, Riv.’ He grinned at me. ‘Slow down.’
The two male cooks were busy arguing on the far side of the kitchen. The scent of cardamom from the stew they were making wafted towards me.
‘Slow down yourself,’ I said, smiling back.
Flynn moved closer. ‘Well, as you’re here . . .’ He drew even nearer, his eyes like gold discs in the bright, overhead kitchen light.
Irresistible.
I stood on tiptoe and kissed his mouth.
I’d meant to just brush his lips, to make it a light kiss, but once I felt him kiss me back I didn’t want to stop. I put my arms round his neck and pulled him closer. He groaned. His hands were still full of the pitta baskets but I could hear the sound of bread dropping onto the floor. I smiled and kissed him harder, forgetting where we were. Forgetting the guys cooking in the corner of the kitchen. Forgetting all the people waiting outside in the café.
It was weird him not holding me while we kissed. Kind of sexy, actually. It made me feel more in control. I brought my hands down his back then let go. He pulled away, his forehead beaded with sweat.
Well, it was hot in the kitchen.
‘River.’ Yazmina’s heavily accented voice pierced through me.
I jumped back guiltily and turned round. Yazmina was standing in the doorway, a half smile on her lips.
Behind her, his eyes wide with shock, stood Dad.
2
I froze.
A few long seconds passed. Then Yazmina gave a low chuckle. She stood back, holding the door through to the café open.
‘Take the food out, Flynn,’ she said.
Flynn didn’t move. The cooks across the kitchen had stopped arguing and were watching us with interest.
I stared at Dad. His mouth had fallen open. ‘River?’ he said.
‘Hello, Dad.’
‘Hello, Mr Armstrong,’ Flynn said. He sounded a little sullen but I knew he was just embarrassed. This was so not what we’d planned.
My heart raced. Nobody spoke, then Dad said, ‘Hello again, Flynn.’ His voice sounded tight and he wasn’t smiling.
No, this was awful.
Yazmina sighed. ‘Flynn,’ she said firmly, looking down at the half-empty baskets of pitta bread in his hands. ‘Please take the food outside.’
Flynn nodded. He glanced at me for a quick, desperate second, then strode away through the swing doors.
Yazmina raised her eyes at me. ‘Perhaps you would pick up the bread on the floor, River,’ she said, her eyes twinkling. She turned to Dad. ‘If you’re going to shout, River can show you up to my rooms.’ Then she followed Flynn out into the café.
My face burning, I bent down and started picking up slices of pitta bread from the floor.
‘River?’ Dad sounded hoarse. ‘I can’t believe it, that . . . that was Flynn.’
I bit my lip, my chest tightening. ‘Yes, Dad,’ I said. I swallowed. ‘I . . . we . . .’
My heart sank. All our careful planning had been completely pointless. I’d intended to soften Dad up before Flynn came to join us. But now . . . No way was Dad going to believe Flynn and I were taking it easy . . . that we hadn’t even seen each other while he got started with his anger management counselling. Dad had just seen us kissing.
How embarrassing was that?
I stood up, pieces of bread in my hands.
Dad grabbed my arm. ‘I thought he was in Ireland,’ he said slowly. ‘I thought . . .’
‘I’m sorry.’ I couldn’t look him in the eye. I turned and walked over to the food waste bin in the corner. As I shoved the bits of bread inside it, I took a deep breath. What did I do now? It occurred to me that all I could do was ignore that kiss . . . carry on as originally planned. I turned back, taking in Dad’s worried expression, the creases around his bright blue eyes, his tanned, worn face. I walked over and hugged him, breathing in the familiar smell of earth and incense from his shirt.
‘Oh, Dad.’ I looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry . . . this wasn’t how we planned . . . but Flynn’s been back for a bit and—’
‘How long?’ Dad asked.
‘Er, about three months, but—’
‘What?’ Dad said, horrified.
‘He’s changed, Dad,’ I persisted. ‘He’s been seeing a counsellor. He’s totally getting on top of all the anger stuff and—’
‘Wait, River.’ Dad frowned. ‘Stop.’
‘I know it’s a shock but—’
‘Slow down.’ Dad shook his head. ‘This is serious, River. You promised your mum and me that you weren’t going to see Flynn again. Does she know he’s back from Ireland?’
I wrinkled up my nose. ‘No. I wanted to tell you first, Dad. She and Flynn don’t get on. But you’re . . . you . . .’
‘So when did he get in touch?’
I felt my shoulders sag. Why was Dad insisting on dragging the conversation down to all these details?
I looked up at him. His eyes were tender but wary. And there was something else in his expression too. Something closer to anger. That wasn’t like Dad, he’s the most laid-back man on the planet.
At that moment the swing doors burst open and Flynn strode back in. ‘Hi,’ he said awkwardly.
He stood for a second, gazing at me, then he turned to Dad, a determined look on his face.
‘There’s a corner table out there if you want it, Mr Armstrong,’ he said. He brushed back his hair selfconsciously. ‘For two, I mean,’ he added.
I blinked. I’d never
heard Flynn speak so . . . so deferentially. His whole face was tense, but he lowered his eyes as Dad stared at him. My heart went out to him. He was trying so hard to get my dad to like him. And all for me. Without thinking, I reached out my hand and took his.
Flynn shot me a swift grin.
‘I think we’ll go somewhere else, actually,’ Dad said in the stoniest voice I’d ever heard him use.
I could feel Flynn’s hand tensing in mine. I gave it a warning squeeze, then let go.
‘That’s fine, Dad,’ I said. I glanced at Flynn. His eyes were dark gold. I caught a flash of his old temper and shivered. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. I don’t know if I was talking to Flynn or to Dad or to myself. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
‘Come on, River.’ Dad held open the door out to the café.
I tore my eyes away from Flynn and walked through. As I headed for the door that led outside I could hear the man who’d spoken to me earlier complaining he still had no salt. Beyond him, I caught a glimpse of James and Grace, their mouths gaping with shock. So much for our plan to big-up Flynn. Bitter tears welled in my eyes.
Dad was lost in thought as we walked along Holloway Road to where his beaten-up old car was parked. My pulse raced as I tried to work out what to say next. All I’d wanted tonight was for Dad to realise Flynn had changed, so that he wouldn’t mind us going back out together.
But now, no way was Dad going to get his head around the idea of us dating again. He couldn’t even seem to get his head around unlocking his car. We stood on the pavement beside it while he fumbled in his pockets for the key, clearly not concentrating on what he was doing.
‘Dad?’ I said. ‘What . . . where are we going?’
Dad stared round at me as if he’d forgotten I was there. ‘I want you to come up to the commune with me,’ he said. ‘For the weekend, so we can talk properly.’
I frowned. This wasn’t one of my scheduled days to visit Dad. He was just popping over to see me after a meeting with one of the commune’s organic vegetable clients. I hadn’t actually been to the commune for several weeks now, not since before my GCSE exams, though I’d agreed with Mum and Dad ages ago that I’d spend my school holidays there.
Casting Shadows Page 1
