The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

‘It is,’ says Rory, bending the box to squeeze it through the window. ‘But that’s also the reason why you should do it. Don’t worry about Lorrie. Mum will keep her busy.’

I smile. Rory has plucked out the thought hovering at the forefront of my mind. ‘Hey, I owe you one.’

Chapter 9

I’ve done my fair share of sleeping on public transport. When you’re jostling between a hundred other passengers, tactical napping becomes an art form, one that requires a specific toolkit. You want a hat (berets work well), headphones (noise cancelling), and The Goldilocks Seat (middle of the carriage, headrest, least crowded). As a Londoner, I’m well trained in making the best of bad travel, which is probably why my cabin on the Caledonian Sleeper was such a pleasant surprise. Sure, you can touch every wall from the bunk bed, but there’s a duvet, mini toiletries, and a nice porter in the corridor who asks if you’d like tea or coffee as part of your wake-up call. On a train!

I pull my suitcase out from under the bunk and sift through layers of thermal vest tops to find my laptop buffeted by my tightly rolled M&S knickers. I sit on the lower bunk with my back against the wall, a can of mojito and a packet of pitta chips wedged between my knees. I check my email in case Kian has experienced a last-minute change of heart, although there’s not much I can do about now if he has.

A restless energy is lodged somewhere in my throat that makes me want to walk laps of the train. Seeing as two people can’t pass each other in the narrow corridor without grazing cheekbones, I resist. Instead, I wriggle into a pair of fleece pyjamas, accidentally flashing my boobs to an old couple at a level crossing in the process. Before I have time to feel embarrassed, the train picks up speed and heads out of the city.

***

As I step down from the carriage early next morning, the wind hits me like a slap in the face. I only just manage to hold onto the tassels at the end of my scarf before it’s pulled from my neck by the wind, its length whipping behind me like a flag. My suitcase rolls backwards at an alarming speed in the few seconds that I’ve not been holding it. A glance over my shoulder shows that I’m not the only one, going by the five-bag pile-up that a station guard has managed to intercept with an extended foot.

I swing my rucksack on, hook my suitcase on my elbow, and attempt to steer it towards the exit whilst gusts of wind lure the wheels in different directions. By the time I reach the covered doors, I feel thoroughly beaten up, my hair stuck across my forehead by the haze of drizzle threaded through the air.

It’s barely eight o’clock, but the tiny station car park is full of mud-slicked hatchbacks and grumbling taxis. I stand on tiptoes to spot the four-by-four that Kian said to look out for, but so far, I seem to be the only person in Inverness who doesn’t know exactly where they’re going. Passenger doors open, hooded heads dip inside cars, and swaddled children are chivvied round the corner. As the station falls quiet (well, as quiet as it can get when the wind sounds like an old man whistling with no front teeth) I start to feel real, acute panic. What in the fucking fuck was I thinking?

I walk back inside to where the Caledonian Sleeper train is and strongly consider getting back on it. How did I possibly think this idea would go down well? I’m so far north that the sun has barely risen, but already it looks to be sinking back down below the horizon, I’ve got a Pac-a-mac and a pair of barely used trainers in my bag to serve me in what feel like near Arctic conditions, and the only thing I know for sure is that somewhere in a thirty-mile radius is a sister who doesn’t know I exist.

I turn around and press my forehead against a brick wall. From behind, it must look like I’m initiating a game of hide and seek, except I’m a grown-up woman and the only things I’m hiding from are the consequences of my ill-thought-out decisions. I try and slow my breathing down, but it’s not working. My heart beats faster than the time Duncan took us bouldering on a staff ‘away day’; I got stuck three feet up the climbing wall and had to accept a piggyback from Max to get me off the bloody thing.

‘Ava?’

I spin, trying to push my hair out of my face (a futile act), and shift from one foot to the other. A man stands by the exit wearing an old hoodie and two-tone trousers that unzip at the knee. I can’t imagine a single scenario that would necessitate such a rapid transition into shorts, but it takes all sorts, as they say.

‘Ava Atmore?’

‘Hi. Yes. Kian?’

‘Yeah, that’s me. Ah, you threw me a bit there, against the wall, like. Are you all right?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’m great. I was just … trying to do up my coat.’

I bite hard on my bottom lip and will a change of subject. Kian, who is much younger than I thought he would be, rubs his palms down the front of his trousers and extends a hand to shake.

‘Nice to meet you. Glad we can put you up at the farm. Seemed like you were getting a bit desperate from your email.’

I smile through clenched teeth and shrug my heavy rucksack up onto my shoulders again. Taking sole responsibility for a farm at barely thirty years old would be terrifying. A few weeks ago, I’d rescued a shell-shocked Pickles from the roundabout near our house during a torrent of rush-hour traffic and that was stressful enough, let alone having a whole