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

rattled him. Has he seen through my increasingly flimsy persona? Does he notice how Moira and I both laugh with a woodpecker lilt? How we tuck our chins in when we’re worried?

Back in the village, I trundle up the high street between the faint glow of amber light leaking through curtains, and pull up beside a retired fishing boat, its hull brimming with coarse, salt-burned heather. I need to fish for wi-fi. Let’s hope The Wailing Banshee is within range … I wriggle my laptop free and scan for a signal. Result! I clunk the engine off. It’s excruciatingly quiet, aside from the odd seagull screeching overhead.

Forty-seven emails ping through alongside three calendar invites. Going by the incremental use of capital letters and exclamation marks in the messages from Duncan, I see that his tone is increasingly irate. I open his most recent email alongside some older missives, reading them with newfound insight now that I can map Duncan’s thoughts over time.

Friday 18th October

Hi Ava,

Thanks for your last submission. Just a few minor tweaks here and there, but I didn’t think it was worth sending back for you to check.

Liking the tone, but still no sign of the Mysterious Moira. Any reason why? That line – ‘No one seems to live here and the ones that do are weird’ – Love it!

Look, I’m happy, we’re happy, the readers are happy, but we need a sense that you’re moving forward, OK?

Thanks, D.

Sunday 27th October

Ava,

No idea if these are reaching you. We need an update on the sister search and you’re not replying to my messages. I thought you were exaggerating about being in the arse end of nowhere, but evidently, I stand corrected. Seeing as you’re there on behalf of the website, I feel somewhat responsible for your welfare. FYI: no reunion video by Sunday = train back to London on Monday.

Let us know that you’re OK and haven’t been strung up by the locals.

Thanks, D

Wednesday 30th October

Ava – got your last diary entry but I’ve known episodes of Midsomer Murders to move with more pace than this. Reunion video. Sunday. Send me confirmation you’re prepped for it, all right?

Thanks, D

Thursday 31st October

RIGHT. SEEING AS I’VE NEVER KNOWN YOU TO MISS A DEADLINE, YOU’VE EITHER SLIPPED THROUGH A STONE CIRCLE AND RUN OFF WITH A HULKING HIGHLANDER OR YOU’RE ACTUALLY, LITERALLY DECEASED. PLEASE – FOR THE SAKE OF A POTENTIALLY RUINOUS LITIGATION CLAIM AGAINST THE WEBSITE YOU STILL TECHNICALLY WORK FOR – LET US KNOW THAT YOU’RE STILL BREATHING (and send us your big reunion video – due on Sunday, as discussed).

Thanks, D

I dash off a reply that once again outlines how furious I am about his ‘light touch’ edits and follow it up with a statement about ethical editorial practices. I read it back and sigh. I’m still one step above a nobody back in the office. If Duncan’s my boss, who’s he accountable to? Coming from the man who once commissioned a piece called ‘The Homeless Doppelgangers of Hollywood Stars’, I’m not holding out much hope for a comeuppance through conventional means.

The last email is far less concerned with my mortality. Disturbingly, it’s come from Ginger’s address: redhotgingermilf@gmail.com. Jesus.

Tuesday 29th October

Ava!

I snipped the top of my finger off trimming back the buddleia so Ginger is typing this for me. Nothing to worry about. They stuck it back on at the surgery, but it does sting, especially when I zested a lemon for some Ottolenghi pancakes that weren’t worth the effort.

Is there something wrong with your phone??? I sent you a picture of Sue’s new puppy on Saturday but it kept bouncing back. Do you need a new SIM card because you’re in a different country? If you roam there are charges, but I didn’t think you were leaving Edinburgh?

Pickles’s diet is going badly. I thought he was looking a little saggy, so I gave him ham for dinner and the vet got very angry. Something to do with the salt. Anyway, he’s now doubly overweight AND dehydrated, like a chubby raisin, so I’ve had to freeze chicken livers in an ice cube tray as a way to force hydration.

Love, Mum

—Hello, sweets! This is Ginger! I wanted to tell you I have a niece in Edinburgh – Lauren – who works in beauty. If you want your eyebrows microbladed, she can get you fifty per cent off. (Your mum has made it explicit that she does NOT want you to do this under any circumstance, but the offer is there!).

Ginger

XOXO

It’s times like this that I’m really glad Mum is incompetent with quite literally any form of technology. She thought I was copywriting for the surveillance industry when I first told her I was working at a website called Snooper, which stuck for a whole year because it took that long for her to ask me what I did at work each day. As such, the likelihood that she’ll find out I’m rubbing shoulders with the family she scorned whilst freedom fighting is slim.

I open Instagram on my phone and search the Edinburgh geo-tag for an innocuous picture of a flagstoned street gleaming with rain – something I can legitimately claim I snapped on a lunch break from my fictional sabbatical. I screenshot it, crop the edges, and send it over to Mum with the caption ‘Wish you were here!’ I’d like to think that she’d worry if I left it any longer without replying.

Once I know it’s delivered, I flick through the gallery on my phone, not quite ready to drive back to the farm. I linger on a picture of Pickles on my window sill, his legs tucked beneath his pendulous belly. A dull ache twists between my ribs as my thoughts jump to various images of home: Pickles snoring on the back doorstep in the brief winter sunshine; the smell of sweet potato simmering in the slow cooker; and Mum in her faux fur coat, a plastic tub of craft materials balanced on her hip. I bite