All the Little Things Sarah Lawton (red white royal blue TXT) 📖

my arms around both of them. This is going to bring us all back together after the mess Molly made of everything, I know it. And I’m certainly not going to miss Tristan or his disgusting, grabbing hands.

‘I can’t believe it,’ whimpers Serena, her voice thick with snot and tears. ‘Tilly could have been in that car, too, if she hadn’t come to mine to revise yesterday. We’re not usually allowed sleepovers on Sunday, but we begged. I can’t believe it.’ Her voice trails off as the significance of this sinks in. I hadn’t even thought about Tilly possibly being in the car. She must have had a fairy godmother looking out for her today.

There’s a heavy quiet over us as we walk slowly away from school, towards my house. I think about asking them to come in but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t cope with all the brewing emotion, the tears, the wailing, the mucus. I don’t like it when people aren’t in control of themselves, it stresses me out. Mum is always too emotional. She’s going to be awful when she finds out about Tristan. I decide just to get that over with and, after another uncomfortably long hug with Molly and Serena, I go in to the house.

Mum is sitting on the sofa, staring at nothing, hands in her lap. She must know already. This bloody village!

‘Vivian, darling, oh god, are you okay?’ She jumps up out of her seat, and starts to hug me and pat and clutch at me, like she’s checking me for holes. I let her do it even though she knows perfectly well that I don’t like it.

‘I’m okay, Mum, I wasn’t close to Tristan. I’m more upset for Tilly, and Serena is taking it really hard, too. We don’t know what to do for Tilly.’ I manage to gently remove her hands and get her to sit back down on the sofa.

‘You can’t do anything, darling. Nothing is ever going to make this better for her. You just need to be there for her.’

‘Okay, Mum.’ I think to ask, ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, darling, I will be, of course. I just feel so awful for Tilly and Bob and Maureen. And you were in that car last week! I can’t bear it.’ She catches her breath, her hands at her face.

‘Mum, please, don’t get yourself upset – I can’t cope with it when you’re upset.’

‘I know, I know – I’m sorry. I’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll go and put the kettle on and make us some tea.’

I can hear her crying in the kitchen, but I don’t go in. I don’t know what to say to her when she gets like this, without getting angry at the pointlessness of it all, and I can’t let her see me angry.

She’s on at me again when she comes back in, sitting down too close to me: ‘Vivian, are you sure you’re okay?’

I shuffle up the sofa away from her. ‘I’m fine, Mum, I told you. I didn’t even like Tristan.’

‘What?’ The look on her face makes me realise that wasn’t the right thing to say, even though it’s the truth.

‘I didn’t like him.’ I say it again anyway, mutinous.

‘That, that isn’t really the point, Vivian.’

‘I already told you, it’s horrible for Tilly, but I don’t really care that much because he wasn’t very nice to me.’

‘So he deserves to be dead? Because you didn’t like him?’

I just roll my eyes. She’s such a drama llama, it drives me insane. He practically raped me, I’m not sorry he’s dead and I won’t say otherwise, not to her anyway.

‘He was seventeen, Vi, he had his whole life ahead of him!’ Tears are running freely down her face now, her stupid nose is pink and I can’t bear it, can’t bite quick enough to keep the words in.

‘Why do you make everything about you? He was my friend’s brother – this isn’t about you! Just shut up!’

She reels like I’ve slapped her, but she does shut up at least, and we sit in silence. I put the television on and pretend to watch it.

The afternoon and evening drag. It’s so uncomfortable. I can see the words that Mum is desperate to say to me itching under her skin, but she bites her lip. I’m older now, I know how to look after myself. I can handle this, obviously. But I don’t think she can. It’s always about her. Blaming herself for everything – she loves it. She thought everything that happened in London was her fault, how bad it got without her even noticing because she was so wrapped up in her crappy career. If she knew the whole story her fucking head would explode. It’s not long before a glass of wine appears, the bottle tucked down the side of the chair for easy access. She didn’t used to drink so much: that’s a hangover from back then, too.

Eventually, I tell her I’m tired and want to go to bed. She asks me if I want to sleep in with her, but I can’t imagine anything worse than her tossing and turning and kicking and breathing on me all night under the pretence that it’s comforting for either of us. I want my own bed, my own room, my clean space.

I’m finally in there, tucked away safely from her histrionics and thinking about everything that has happened and what might happen next when something flies in through my open bedroom window and lands right on me. I jump up, terrified it might be a moth – I hate moths, nasty dusty dirty fluttering things – but when I turn the light on I see a pebble on the bed.

Alex is outside my window. He waves and I put my finger to my lips – Mum is still awake. I want to sneak out but he’ll have to wait. She’s had most of two bottles of wine tonight, bloody alchy, so I