Watching You, Watching Me. Chloe Rayban

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СКАЧАТЬ Ten

      Dad took us on one of our London-wide cycle tours that Sunday. We were meant to be checking the cycle paths along the Thames to Richmond and back again, so we were out all day.

      I was at my least enthusiastic. I hadn’t had that much sleep the night before and cycling was the last thing I felt like. I do have a life of my own actually, in spite of all appearances to the contrary. And I wouldn’t have minded keeping an eye on what was going on across the road. As far as I knew, a load of council bailiffs were breaking into number twenty-five and Matt was being forcibly evicted. I kept going over and over in my mind the events of the last twenty four hours. Each time I ended on — and lingered over — our meeting earlier that morning.

      Dad kept on stopping and noting things down about the state of the paths on his Psion and I was supposed to be keeping my eye on the number and frequency of cycle-path signs. I had a pad fixed to my handlebars and a pen on a string — God, I must have looked naff. It had rained during the night and a splattering of mud up my legs added the finishing touch to my appearance.

      As our bikes sloshed through the puddles, I was deep into a soul-searching examination of the conversation I’d had with Matt. I know it hadn’t been much but I could remember each and every word. He’d been really nice about the house-martins — but maybe he was just getting his own back at Mr Levington. I went hot and cold, recalling things I’d said. Adding everything up, I’d probably come across as some lost, sad oboe-playing birdwatcher. Or worse — a pathetic school kid with an obsessively protective Dad …

      ‘Missed one,’ said Dad, as we rode under the shadow of Hammersmith Bridge. He came to a stop standing on his pedals, idling his bike.

      I took out my pencil and stabbed at the pad. I was feeling hot and cross and my cycle helmet was driving me mad.

      ‘What’s up, Tash?’ asked Dad.

      ‘I didn’t ask to come.’

      ‘Sunday cycle rides are meant to be a treat. I’ve made a really special picnic,’ said Mum.

      ‘Oh great, yum-mee,’ I said in a really flat voice. I know I was being a pain. Gemma and Jamie were riding on ahead making whoops and screams that echoed under the bridge. I guess it was a big treat — for them.

      Mum frowned at Dad. But Dad just swung his bike round and started after them.

      We cycled on past the smelly bit where the sewage farm butts up to the towpath. Gem and Jamie were making their usual exaggerated ‘I’m-going-to-be-sick’ noises. But I just pedalled on stoically. It was a crummy day, I felt like death warmed up and the delightful smell of sewage really topped the lot.

      It rained throughout our picnic at Ham House. We all clustered together under a tree but the rain still got through and the crusty loaf Mum had bought went disgusting and soggy. The rain really set in after lunch so we had to put on our gross waterproof kagouls. We rode home as fast as we could. I had my hood on underneath my helmet. I must’ve looked as though I belonged to some strange cult. My fringe was sticking to my forehead in flat spikes and my face felt red and hot. That’s the thing about rainwear — it doesn’t let the rain in but it doesn’t let anything out either. By the time we reached Frensham Avenue it felt like a tropical rainforest inside mine. I steamed up to the house just praying that Matt wasn’t looking out of his window at that precise moment.

      I made a bee-line for the bathroom before anyone else could get in there. Then I ran a deep hot bath with bubble bath in and ignored Jamie and Gemma beating on the bathroom door. Eventually Mum joined in.

      ‘Rosie’s here to see you. Hurry up and leave the water in — they can go in after you.’

      ‘Honestly,’ I shouted back. ‘Anyone would think we were living in the Third World!’

      ‘What’s that about the Third World?’ It was Rosie’s voice. She was standing outside the bathroom waiting for me.

      I climbed out of the bath and put on my towelling robe.

      ‘Re-using bathwater. Its Mum’s bid to save the world from drought and disaster,’ I said.

      I could hear Jamie through the bathroom door. ‘Did you know we’ve got a hippo in our lavatory?’ he said importantly.

      ‘Really!’ said Rosie, pretending to sound amazed. ‘How horrid. Why doesn’t it try to climb out?’

      ‘It’s in the top bit. There’s a lid on.’

      ‘All the same. It can’t be very nice in there.’

      ‘It’s not a real hippo, silly,’ said Jamie.

      ‘Isn’t it?’ said Rosie.

      ‘Come on,’ I said. I’d been talking to little kids all day. I’d had enough of it.

      ‘So?’ said Rosie when we were alone in my room.

      ‘I actually got to speak to him, properly, this morning.’

      ‘You did! What’s he like?’

      ‘He’s not nearly as full of himself as we thought.’

      I gave her a quick update on the events of the morning and then the night before, complete with an account of the party in lurid detail. But she only seemed interested in one thing — Matt.

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