Chapter Six

One of my favourite things about the summer were the long, light nights and even though Harford was only a couple of hours further north, the nights were even longer and lighter here than they were at home. The evening shadows stretched lazily across the golden grass by the time I finally escaped Mum's unrequested TED Talk on how books like mine were destroying the youth of today, the sun finally surrendering to the night and slipping away over the horizon. My head was swimming with everything I'd been through in the last twelve hours: meeting with Mal, karaoke with a wanker, the train ride from hell, Charlotte's bookshop, Mum's disgust. Not to mention the Baileys, prosecco and a McDonald's milkshake. I felt worse than her cake looked and if William didn't come running out to declare my bag had been found and secured, I'd be joining it in the bin.

‘As I live and breathe, if it isn't the world's greatest teacher, Sophie Taylor.'

The silhouette of a tall, stout man rose up against the paling horizon, flat cap on his head, work boots on his feet. Not William but almost as good. My dad.

When he lived in London, Hugh Taylor was strictly a suit and tie man. Polished shoes and freshly pressed shirt from Monday to Friday, only dipping into something more casual on the weekend, maybe a polo or rugby shirt teamed with chinos and a respectable loafer, and while the rest of us had silently agreed jogging bottoms were acceptable apparel in almost all circumstances, Hugh Taylor clung to his belted trews like his life depended on it. But something had changed in the last six months. As his sixtieth birthday loomed, my dad was trying his hand at all sorts of new experiences: TikTok, oat milk, trousers with lots of pockets, and rumour had it, there was even a hoodie lurking in the back of his wardrobe. Mum wasn't sure he'd ever worn it but she definitely saw him slip it into the trolley at Tesco.

‘World's greatest is a bit of a stretch,' I said, giving him an enormous hug. Even if he'd changed up his wardrobe, he still smelled the same, same deodorant, same fabric softener, same cheeky cigarette he'd had at some point in the afternoon and still thought none of us knew about. ‘I'll accept Hertfordshire's greatest though. I've been offered head of year next term.'

‘Soph, that's marvellous. Moulding young minds. Setting the next generation off on the right path.'

‘Or at least trying to convince them there are other career aspirations beyond dancing on the internet or appearing on a reality dating show.'

‘How old are the kids you teach again?'

Dad's forehead crumpled, trying to work out whether or not I was telling the truth.

‘Six to eleven and I wish I was joking,' I replied. ‘We had to send out new uniform guidelines for next term clarifying that the no-make-up rule includes false eyelashes and nail extensions. Ten-year-olds aren't what they used to be, Dad.'

‘Neither are eighteen-year-olds,' he muttered, kicking away a clump of dirt at his feet.

‘Mum was just telling me,' I replied. ‘I hear my little sister has decided to become the next Jeff Bezos.'

‘She'll be a billionaire by Christmas,' he said then tapped me on the arm and started down the garden. ‘Come and see the cottage.'

Dad claimed that, once upon a time, the cottage had been a perfect little rustic dwelling, stone walls and a thatched roof, roses round the door, the whole Snow White shebang, but the previous owners had let it go to ruin and now it was more of a horror story than a fairy tale. When my parents moved in, the crumbling limestone building was crammed full of useless junk – boxes of broken tools; a lawnmower without an engine; three kids' bikes without wheels or saddles; a very concerning device that looked an awful lot like a torture rack (after Dad plucked up the courage to take it to the tip, we all agreed to pretend it never existed – a Taylor family speciality) – but somehow the cottage was even more terrifying once it was empty. I didn't know if it was the caved-in roof, glassless windows or the thrilling smell of rotten wood and mould but it gave me the creeps, and while I personally wouldn't have chosen it as a place to give birth and raise a family, the fox population of Harford apparently felt very differently, claiming squatters' rights the moment it had been cleared out. Mum, William and I had voted to knock the whole thing down and start again but we'd been overruled when Dad insisted he was going to restore it to its former glory. Just as soon as the foxes were gone. Which I assumed would be never.

‘Can we have a look in the morning?' I replied, casting a reticent glance towards the shadowy building hiding underneath the trees.

‘Are you sure?' he replied, sounding just a little bit disappointed. ‘I've been working on it.'

Exactly what he told me at Christmas when he dragged me down there only to be surprised by a distinctly unfestive rat.

‘Positive,' I said with a shiver. ‘Let's go back in and get the kettle on. I want to hear all about the big birthday party plans.'

Only slightly dejected, Dad turned around and followed me back towards the house. ‘We'll have to do a tour in the morning before the hordes arrive.'

‘You're looking forward to it then?'

‘Mostly,' he said, smiling. ‘As long as everyone behaves, it should be fun. I've got some surprises planned for you all.'

‘Yes,' I frowned, remembering the unwelcome addition to the guest list. ‘I heard.'

When we got back to the house, William opened the door, still on the phone. Hope fluttered lightly in my chest.

‘Any luck?' I mouthed, letting go of Dad who marched merrily in his muddy boots.

He shook his head and my momentary optimism crashed and landed with a thud at my feet.

‘Not yet. The train is in the depot, they're cleaning it now. I'm sure they'll find it soon.'

‘Thank you,' I said, leaning into his half-hug. ‘I'm sure you're right.'

Or at the very least, I hoped he was.

The living room was one of my favourite parts of what William and I would always call the new house. It was so cosy, with its low ceilings and old, wooden bookcases, every piece of furniture selected for comfort rather than visual appeal, but somehow the higgledy-piggledy design worked. You had the choice of an old leather sofa or two oversized Liberty-print armchairs with mismatched mid-century modern footstools, all of them loaded with cushions, pillows, blankets and throws, begging you to settle in with a good book. And books were the one thing my family would never run out of. Everywhere you looked, not just the bookcases, but every available surface was covered in hardbacks, paperbacks, manuscripts and bound proofs, there were two Kindles on the coffee table and, in the corner, I spotted the Alexa my dad had adopted to read his audiobooks out loud to him. He'd resisted at first, convinced it was spying on him (it almost certainly was), but now more or less considered it a fourth child.

In the armchair closest to the window, still with a smudge of brown buttercream on her cheek, Mum was curled up, completely absorbed in an advance copy of a book I knew wasn't coming out for at least another year although, from the look on her face, the author might want to push the pub date back a few months more.

‘Pandora, love, there's something on your face,' Dad said from a safe and horrified distance.

‘It's icing,' I said quickly, allowing him to breathe out with relief as I tapped my own face to guide my mother's hand to the right spot.

‘Too much butter in the buttercream,' she grumbled as she licked her finger clean then set her reading to one side. ‘And too many similes in this bloody book. It's every other bloody sentence. Bloated, sloppy.'

‘What I'm hearing is, you don't love it.'

I reached for the proof but she slapped away my hand.

‘They made me sign a bloody NDA for that tosh. Don't sully your eyeballs with it.'

She snatched it away and tossed it in her massive handbag, the brooding photo of the author mooning out at me from the back cover. Poor man, he had no idea my mother was sitting in her living room, preparing to end his illustrious career with chocolate icing all over her face.

‘Sophie wants to know the plan for the weekend,' Dad announced, settling himself on the highest leather chair and pulling a super-slim laptop from between the frame and the seat cushion.

‘Yes, because Sophie just found out Sophie wasn't included on the shared spreadsheet,' I replied as I flopped down on the sofa. ‘So Sophie hasn't got a clue what's going on.'

He tapped away at the keyboard, lifting one hand to wave away my concerns.

‘You're always so busy with school, the last things you want to concern yourself with are guest lists and catering and marquee rentals,' he replied. ‘All you need to worry about is enjoying yourself.'

‘That's exactly what I'm worried about,' I said. ‘Also, marquee rentals?'

‘Maybe not quite a marquee but a tent.' Dad's eyes glittered. ‘A very big tent.'

‘He's lost his bloody mind,' declared Mum. ‘It started out as a nice afternoon barbecue with the family until him and Mal got together and suddenly it was an entire long weekend affair, then that dreadful bloody Gregory Brent got involved somehow and they might as well have hired PT Barnum as a party planner. He won't even tell me half of what he's got planned.'

So William hadn't been joking. This weekend was going to be a circus.

‘Gregory Brent is coming?' I enquired lightly and my mother rolled her eyes. Depending on the day, Gregory was either my dad's best friend or worst enemy.

‘He's coming,' Dad confirmed. ‘I imagine to try to poach another of my authors.'

It was a story we knew all too well. 1998. Dad and Gregory were both senior editors at Anaphora. Dad's favourite author, Nelson Allen, was looking for a new publisher for his next book and while my dad was at lunch with Nelson, passionately expressing his love for his work, Gregory took his top-secret manuscript to Herringbone, their biggest rival, negotiated himself an enormous pay rise and a promotion, then offered Nelson's agent double the Anaphora advance. Nelson took it.

Not that my dad still held a grudge or anything.

‘I doubt he'll poach so much as an egg at your birthday party, darling,' Mum pointed out. ‘But I did tell you not to invite him. I don't want you skulking around after him all weekend. It's supposed to be fun.'

‘It will be fun,' Dad replied, suddenly gleeful. ‘Especially when he finds out we've signed Genevieve Salinger to a three-book deal.'

‘Isn't that the Peruvian author who wrote the book about the man trapped in the body of a llama?' I asked with a wrinkled nose.

A reverent sigh of confirmation slipped from my mother's lips. ‘Llama Glama. A masterpiece. Made me see the world through completely new eyes.'

‘Right,' I agreed. ‘The eyes of a llama.'

‘A thrilling treatise on the human condition, The Metamorphosis for the twenty-first century,' Dad added. ‘Gen is the new Kafka. Mark my words, they're going to change the world with their writing.'

‘As long as they don't turn me into a llama, we're all good,' I assured him.

It wasn't that I thought Llama Glama was a bad book, I actually thought it was a lot of fun, but even though it was lauded by the critics, including my mother, it hadn't found a home with readers. The writing was dense and weirdly accusatory, like it was somehow the reader's fault the main character had woken up inside the body of its pet llama, and strangely enough, most people popping into their local bookshop for a sweet summer read weren't super into that. When I thought what Dad must've paid to secure a three-book deal, my chicken nuggets threatened to come back up again.

‘Gen is coming to the party on Saturday,' Dad said. ‘I hope it won't be too upsetting for Gregory.'

The expression on his face did not match the words coming out of his mouth.

‘So, if the big party is on Saturday night, what are we doing tomorrow and the rest of the weekend?' I asked, keen to move the conversation on.

Mum clucked dismissively. ‘It's the school holidays, what else would you be doing?'

‘Literally anything?' William suggested as he walked in, phone still in hand. ‘Just because she isn't in school doesn't mean Soph isn't busy.'

‘Right,' I agreed, raising my eyebrows hopefully at him, only for my whole face to crumple when he shook his head again. ‘I'm very busy. Doing. Stuff.'

‘How eloquent. So glad we spent all that money on your education,' Mum said with disapproval as she snatched Dad's laptop and scanned the party planning spreadsheet. ‘Right, Friday. Your Aunt Carole and Uncle Bryan should be here in the morning and we're expecting Gregory around – what time did he say, Hugh?'

‘He's taken the day off work, so he said around lunch,' Dad replied darkly. ‘So anywhere between seven a.m. and midnight.'

‘Perfect.' Mum carried on scrolling without looking up. ‘Your father has now decided to throw a barbecue tomorrow evening for family and a few close friends, because hosting a hundred people on Saturday night isn't enough work. I'd appreciate your help getting all that ready if you don't mind?'

It was presented as a request but we both knew it wasn't really.

‘Saturday, we thought it might be fun to take the visitors out and about, show them the sights,' she added. ‘There's a summer fête in town, that should be fun for your aunt and uncle and the Londoners.'

‘She must know different Londoners to me,' William muttered, sitting down on the arm of a sofa.

‘You won't need me to go to that though?' I said, my statement turning into a question as my mother narrowed her eyes.

‘Why not?'

‘Because I don't want to go to a summer fête with Aunt Carole and Uncle Bryan?'

‘Saturday night, all the hoopla kicks off,' she went on, not even dignifying me with a response. ‘Sunday morning it'll be bacon butties for the hangers-on then fuckity bye to the lot of them. Your father has invited all of Harford and half the publishing industry so you can both consider yourselves on call all weekend.'

‘As wonderful as that sounds, we've still got Sanjit's parents staying with us while they have their new kitchen fitted,' William said, snapping his fingers with disappointment. ‘I might not be available all weekend.'

‘Sanjit's parents sound like a Sanjit problem,' replied Mum, spearing her son with a pointed look. ‘I will need you here.'

Whatever he mumbled under his breath, he had the sense to keep completely inaudible. Thirty-eight or not, our mother was still terrifying.

‘Speaking of the invitees—' I began but, before I could finish my sentence, William shot up out of his seat, car keys in hand.

‘Would you look at the time!' he exclaimed. ‘Better get back, Sanjit'll be wondering where I've got to.'

‘Are you sure he won't be wondering how much longer he can enjoy the peace and quiet without you stomping around the house?' I enquired sweetly.

‘If I get a call from the station, I'll tell them to keep the bag, shall I?' he replied.

‘Bag?' Dad asked, blinking at me from behind his glasses. ‘What bag?'

‘Never mind, doesn't matter,' I said as William planted a kiss on Mum's cheek then patted Dad's shoulder on the way out. ‘Unlike the fact you've invited CJ to your party.'

‘Only Saturday night,' Mum said with a kindness that bordered on condescension. ‘Don't overreact, Sophie. I know things didn't work out between the two of you but we couldn't exactly invite all your dad's other authors and not CJ. You can survive for one Saturday night.'

Dad cleared his throat.

‘Well,' he started, searching for the non-existent right words. ‘As it happens, he called this morning to ask if it might be all right if he possibly popped up early. Since he's coming all the way from London.'

‘How early?' I asked.

‘Tomorrow. For the barbecue.'

‘Tomorrow for the barbecue,' I repeated flatly.

‘And, I didn't think it would be a problem since the two of you stayed such good friends—'

‘According to who?!'

‘But he asked if he could stay here,' Dad finished, as meek as the world's meekest mouse on International Meek Mouse Day. ‘Apparently the pub is full. And I told him he could.'

Mum squinted at me from across the room as I recalibrated my definition of Worst Day Ever. ‘Are you feeling all right?' she asked. ‘You've gone very pale. Is it your blood sugar?'

‘I think I might go to bed,' I replied, each word tight and controlled. If I didn't watch exactly what I said, there was every chance I would scream so loudly, every window in the house would shatter into a million pieces, and that would probably take the shine off Dad's big weekend.

‘You're in the back bedroom,' Mum called as I sloped down the hallway to retrieve my suitcase. ‘Carole and Bryan wanted the en suite and I thought it better to keep CJ downstairs, out your way.'

‘Appreciate it. See you both in the morning,' I called back, concentrating all my energy on putting one foot in front of the other. There was no fight left in me. For now.

‘Told you she wouldn't mind,' I heard Dad say as I trudged upstairs to my designated bedroom with my suitcase. ‘CJ said it would be fine.'

‘Hugh,' Mum replied. ‘I love you but you're an idiot.'

I couldn't have said it better myself.