Entangled Read Online Free PDF Page B

Leaned against the worktop and sipped my tea. My mind was racing – it couldn’t seem to stay on one topic for five seconds before flitting on to something else. How could this have happened? And why the hell hadn’t she taken the morning-after pill? And where was I when this was all going on? Easter. It had to have been at Easter. If I’d been here, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. My fault?

    Now there’s a coincidence. There I was talking about having a cuppa, and guess who walks in? Ethan: Man of Mystery, bearing a mug (white) of steaming hot tea. He set it down in front of me, carefully placing it in the corner of the table, far from the paper I’ve written on. Quite a pile now. Looks like it could turn into a pretty hefty tome. It’s already longer than any of the several false starts I’ve had at writing The Novel. Maybe this should have happened to me sooner. There are too many distractions in the real world, always some reason not to write. If only that was the case here.
    The tea is good. Scalding hot, and not too strong. It’s the first cup of tea I’ve had since I’ve been here. Maybe Ethan was saving it as some kind of reward? I huddle over the mug, with my fingers wrapped around it. It feels like a crackling fire. Or a hug. I could do with a hug. Arms to wrap around me and make all the bad go away.
    Finished now. And I’ve just realized that I missed the perfect opportunity to take Ethan by surprise. I should have chucked it in his face and made a run for it.
    Could I have done that?
    Could I do it next time maybe?
    I don’t know.
    Why am I being so pathetic? Got to get out of here somehow … don’t I?

    Do I have to get out of here? Why would I want to go back to the colossal pile of crap that is my life? Nothing will have changed. I wonder how they’re feeling now. I bet they’re glad I’m gone. Probably makes it a lot easier on them. They might (pretend to) be upset for a bit, but I reckon they’ll get over it before too long.
    Ooh, I wonder if I’m in the newspapers? I must be, unless they reckon I’m too old. ‘Missing seventeen-year-old’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it as a missing toddler, or even a twelve-year-old. I probably just made it into the local rag on the first day or so. I hope it was the front page, but I really really really hope they didn’t use my last school photo, cos I’d forgotten the photographer was coming that day and I’d slept in too late to wash my hair. Gross.
    Mum probably had to ask Sal for a decent photo, given that we haven’t used our camera for years. We haven’t even got a digital one. Dad was the designated photographer in the family. There are photos of me at home. Eight albums full, in fact. All carefully dated and labelled, hidden in the cupboard behind the TV, under a battered Trivial Pursuit box. The (almost) complete childhood of Grace Carlyle. Mum’ll be wishing she’d made more of an effort to keep them up to date now.
    Maybe Sal gave them the photo she took when I was asleep on the way back from a gig. The paper wouldn’t print that one though – I look like a corpse. If corpses drool, that is. But she wouldn’t do that to me, would she?
    Who am I trying to kid?
    Fingers crossed it’s the one from Kirsty’s party. Sal caught me by surprise, calling my name to make me turn around and then snapping away. She thought it was the funniest thing ever, cos she knows I hate having my picture taken these days. I grabbed the camera and looked at the little screen on the back, ready to DELETE DELETE DELETE. But the truth is, I looked kind of OK. My hair looked awesome (but only cos Sal had worked her magic on it earlier) and my eyes looked all twinkly and amused somehow. I looked like someone who good things were going to happen to (someone to whom good things were going to happen. Sorry). Plus, the top I was wearing actually made my breasts look big, which is a feat in itself.
    Yes. The newspaper will have used that one.