Set Me Free (6 page)

Lara

Dear Kitty,

I can safely say that things have been a bit rubbish recently. I'm not sure what's up with me, but I can't sleep. I get these night terrors, they're called, and this makes me grumpy during the day. Extremely grumpy. As in, shouting-at-people grumpy. I get so angry, and I don't even know why. I ended up screaming at Mrs Akerele and it was horrible. I have no idea what comes over me. Maybe in a way I know myself what's wrong with me, it's that it feels like I'm boiling inside, and every once in a while it spills over. I was always able to keep it locked inside me, but it's coming out and I can't stop it. It's scary.

In less freaky but still distressing news, I think Ian likes Polly. It's okay because I don't fancy Ian any more. I'm over that kind of thing now. Nobody wants to hang out with me in school anyway. Since the incident with Mrs Akerele, Polly and Tanya have been avoiding me. Polly's mum said to Tanya's mum that I'm not the best influence on their daughters. Tanya told me when I asked her why they're not sitting with me at lunch any more. It's okay because I've sort of lost my appetite, so I just avoid the cafeteria altogether. I eat on my own on the bench by the football pitch, how pathetic is that? Or I don't eat at all. Everyone thinks I'm a freak. It feels like they're right, because there's something wrong with me, but I'm not sure what. Even Mrs Akerele doesn't look into my eyes now. She sort of looks away. I apologised, but she's shell-shocked. I can't blame her.

On the other hand, Polly was always mean. I can't believe she was ever my best friend. She always said that me wearing glasses and having my head stuck in a book most of the time meant nobody was ever going to like me, as in no
boys
were ever going to like me, and I used to believe she said those things for my own good. What was I thinking? She believes she knows everything, and she speaks in a funny way. Her voice goes up at the end of every sentence, like she puts question marks everywhere. She's ridiculously pretty. While everyone else is straightening their hair, she has what she calls a
bedhead
, all messed up but
on purpose
. My hair is messed up full stop. She even looks good in her school uniform, and that's not easy because we have to wear these enormous blazers at all times and we're not allowed miniskirts. She
still
looks great. So Ian is going to ask her out, obviously. It hasn't happened yet, but I'm sure it will, especially now that I'm way off his radar. I did say to Polly that I fancied Ian and I hoped that would make him off limits, but of course it didn't. I should have known.

Anyway, I'm not even thinking about Ian any more. He looks at me like he feels sorry for me, which makes me feel so ashamed. I wish nobody knew about the Mrs Akerele thing, but it happened in the middle of class and people spread the word. Everyone loves a good story and Lara freaking out at the teacher was the story of the day. “Nobody was expecting you to flip,” Tanya said to me like it was all a lot of fun. She said it with one of her smiles, you know the ones where she opens her mouth and you can see all her teeth.

It gets worse. Somebody, I'm not sure who, put pictures of me on Tumblr with funny speech balloons like “I'm mental” and “Watch, she'll stab you” and it went viral. Everyone in the school saw it. I cried. I showed my mum and she said she was going to strangle the whole lot of them – if I hadn't been adopted, I'd say that my temper is genetic.

So yes, I can safely say things are rubbish.

To top everything off nicely, Dad has gone AWOL. When he first left, he came back every week, then every two weeks. Now we barely see him, and when we do, they argue all the time. My mum cries a lot.

I don't think my dad likes me much, especially since what happened with Grandma, which is rotten because he's my dad and it feels like he's giving up on me. So anyway, the long and short of it (like Nonna says) is that we are going to Scotland. Which is just as well because nobody in school wants to be seen with me. Especially not after those pics. Not that I'll be missing out on much. If we stayed it would be a case of going to the shops practically every day – or going to the
mall
, like Polly says because she wants to sound American. I would have to
oooh
and
aaah
while Polly and Tanya and the others try on clothes I'm too skinny and self-conscious to wear – in their book, skinny is good, but I'm not the right kind of skinny, apparently – and stand there while they take selfies. Just
kill me
. If I stayed in London, I'd rather be at home with a book and hide away all summer, but my mum wouldn't let me anyway, and also I don't want her to think I'm sad again like I was when my dad died and I saw a picture of my real mum, and then I was so low for weeks they sent me to Sheridan to “talk things out”. So I'm not going to do that again.

Going to Glen Avich: a win–win situation. I love Nonna, AND I love Glen Avich (though it's really cold there, like ridiculously cold). I was there only once for a few days, but it was amazing.

We all thought Nonna was crazy when she decided to leave London and move to the back of beyond with this guy called Michael, to open a coffee shop. In the Highlands of Scotland, which sounds so romantic but it's really
very far away
. We couldn't even pronounce the name of the place – Glen Avich, that strange
ch
sound that Scots make at the back of their throats. I practised because I like to do things properly, and now I can say it: Glen AviCH. The sky is so dramatic there, you feel like you're in a novel.
Bride of Shadows
by Megumi Henderson, my favourite book of all time, is set in Scotland. Coincidence? I think not. I think it's a sign.

B of S
is the story of a girl born in a magical clan who falls in love with a boy from a rival clan, Damien, and it's just the Most. Amazing. Book. Ever. Written. Mrs Akerele says that it's commercial fiction and I should be focusing on the classics, but she doesn't understand what that story means to me. She says that Megumi Henderson is not a very skilled writer but “she spins a good yarn”. I think Megumi is the best writer of all time, and Emily Brontë the second best (narrowly). I want to be a writer and I want to be skilled and
also
“spin a good yarn”. Mrs Akerele says she thinks I do have talent, but I should stick to writing what I know and stay away from vampires and werewolves. I say I'll write whatever I want and what I don't know I can make up, and I don't really like stories of vampires but I love werewolves and I can put whatever creatures I want in my stories. She said that if I'm wilful I'll never get anywhere and I should listen to advice. I
want
to listen, but I think I can only listen when it comes to other stuff. When it comes to books I'll do my own thing.

But I digress. I was talking about Scotland. I intend to spend a lot of time with my mum, my nonna and my brother, and also read a lot and do a lot of wandering. I love wandering, just walking without a destination, listening to music on my iPod. I'm off social media all summer, that's for sure. Otherwise I would have to put up with a Tumblr-ful of Polly's pouting selfies and that's more than I could bear. Also, more crappy pictures of me might crop up. And I don't think I can take it.

Anyway.

Things to do this summer:

 

1) Sort out my hair once and for all. I don't really have a plan on that one, though; it seems to get frizzy whatever I do.

2) Put on weight in the right places. That won't be hard because Nonna is forever feeding us.

3) Re-read all the Bride of Shadows books and highlight all the best bits, then copy them in my diary.

4) Try contact lenses again and absolutely DO NOT GAG if the optician puts his fingers on my eyeballs to slip them in (SHUDDER). I'm fed up with looking like Velma from
Scooby Doo
with my glasses, though Mum says it's not true, that they make me look very cute. But she always thinks I'm cute so I can't really rely on her opinion.

5) Try not to get angry.

Margherita

We drove through countryside that grew wilder and wilder, until daylight faded and a sliver of moon rose in the clear sky. We went from the motorways and the houses and shopping centres to the silence of the moors and mountains, up and up through winding roads. I had the strange feeling of making a passage to another world entirely, a world where nature was stronger than anywhere I'd ever lived before. I was taking my children to a place that had nothing familiar to us, somewhere new and alien, and it was daunting and scary and exciting, like coming back to life.

The sky was immense, and it was very dark, with the occasional lights like reflected stars in a sea of black. All of a sudden, we were cold. I stopped at a petrol station to bundle Leo in a blanket, and bought myself a cup of hot tea. As I was about to get back in the car, I stood alone for a moment and took a deep breath. A fresh wind blew in my hair and it felt as if it was purifying me, blowing away all that was old and no longer fruitful from my mind and soul. I looked at my little green Corsa fondly. All that was home to me was bundled in the back of my car. I gazed at them once more: Leo was asleep again, a bundle of tenderness snuggled in his new blanket. Lara looked so pretty in her oversized hoodie and jeans, her eyes closed as she listened to her iPod. Yes, all I needed was there. In the glovebox I had one of my most prized possessions: a battered notebook where my grandmother had copied her family recipes. She was my mother's mother and I was called after her, Margherita, though everyone called her Ghita. The recipes were traditional cakes and biscuits from Castelmonte, our home village in the Italian region of Piedmont, at the feet of the Italian Alps. My grandparents – Giovanni and Ghita Scotti – emigrated to England in the fifties, just after the war, and never went back. Anna, Laura and I had been to Castelmonte many times as children but had only been back a couple of times as adults, now that the family home had been sold and ties with Italy were more and more frayed. I hadn't baked from the notebook for a long time, and I felt the urge to do so again.

It was past midnight as we drove by the loch shore, its waters still and dark, and through the village with its empty streets to my mum's cottage. Above, the moon watched over us. Leo was fast asleep when we arrived, but Lara sat up straight, watching out of the car window. All the lights were on in my mum's cottage and she came out as soon as we parked at the side of the street. I stepped out into the sweet-smelling air and my mum held me close. “
Tesoro mio
,” she said over and over again, and although we were so far away from everything I knew, in a world of wind and moors and purple hills, it felt like home. For the first time, alongside the sorrow and fear there was a little spark of excitement. When I'd left London, I'd wanted to get a break from myself, in a way, as well as Ash, but there was no new Margherita to replace the one I needed to leave behind.

I watched my mum gather Leo in one arm and wrap her other around Lara's shoulder, clutching them both to her chest. And as I stood there in the semi-darkness in front of my mum's house, having carried the whole family safely over to this new reality, my perception shifted. A terrible weight fell off my shoulders then.

In spite of all my worries and fears and regrets, I felt safe.

In spite of all the uncertainty, I thought that maybe I would be just fine, the three of us would be just fine.

I smiled, and it was a genuine smile, not the pretend ones I'd had to put on in the last few weeks, while lying to everyone that I was all right, that I was coping great with the upheaval in my life and I had everything under control.

At that moment, Leo's penguin slipped out of my hands as I tried to hold on to my bag, my jacket and a few bits and pieces, and fell on the pavement. I was about to pick it up when someone came from behind and did it for me. I hadn't heard him approaching, so I jumped slightly. I turned around to see a man wearing a dark jacket and jeans, his eyes framed by silver-rimmed glasses, the light of the lamp post reflected in them. I had the strange feeling of having seen him somewhere before, but I couldn't remember where.

“Thank you,” I said, and he nodded briefly.

“Come on, Margherita,” my mum called, and I walked away. I don't know why I turned around just once more before I stepped inside the house, just to see the strange and yet familiar man walk away.

Michael was waiting for us in the living room, with a wide smile and his arms open.

“I'm sorry to fall on you like a ton of bricks . . .” I began.

“I don't want to hear any of that,” he said in his lilting accent, putting both his hands up. He had a booming, deep voice and he rolled his r's – he was like a huge, friendly bear. “It's an absolute pleasure to have you and the children.” He gave me a warm, tight hug.

I was touched. My sisters and I had been astounded when my mum announced she was remarrying, and Laura had been firmly against it. It seemed impossible, when Mum and my dad had been so in love, so close for over thirty years. But Michael had won us over by making my mum happy again, and by being so kind to us every time we met. There was an easy charm about him, and a zest for life, an optimism that shone through him and over everything around him. Also, Michael was a chef, like me and Laura – which, I suppose, helped him fit seamlessly into our family. If you want to win over a Scotti, cook for them, feed them beautiful food and they'll be yours forever.

“Let me go and get your luggage from the car,” Michael said, and made his way outside. My mum and I exchanged a glance. She smiled as if to say
I told you it would be fine,
and I found myself smiling back.

We settled Leo on the sofa, snug in a nest of blankets, and Lara and I sat down for a cup of tea and walnut cake before going to bed. Lara's head slipped on my shoulder as she ate. She was exhausted.

“How much you've grown in such a short space of time!” Mum said to her, squeezing her hand. “And your hair!” She stroked Lara's head softly.

“My hair is frizzy,” Lara said sleepily.

“Your hair is gorgeous. Come, I'll show you the cottage. You won't recognise it!”

We walked across the courtyard and my mum opened the door for us to walk through the threshold. As she switched the light on, my heart swelled. I couldn't believe how lovely the place was – it had only been an empty shell when we last visited.

They had left the bricks on show on the walls and on the rounded ceiling; it made the place look like a miniature castle but at the same time cosy and warm. Against the left wall there was a fireplace with a sweet-smelling peat fire smouldering away, its mantelpiece decorated with tiny yellow fairy lights. Right in the centre of the room was a wooden double bed covered in a creamy duvet, and just beside it was a little blue toddler's bed for Leo. Michael had carried in our luggage, and it sat on the floor in front of a huge antique wardrobe carved with flowers and blooms.

“What do you think?” My mum was beaming. I was momentarily speechless.

“Oh, Mum,” I said. “I can't believe this! It's just . . . perfect,” I sighed, rocking Leo gently. He felt warm and heavy in my arms, sleeping deeply like only children can.

“I knew you'd like it. Come, across here there's Lara's room . . .”

“My room!” Lara exclaimed, suddenly awake, and ran through. As I settled Leo in his bed, I heard Lara cooing. I followed her through and just had to join in. My mum had assembled the perfect room for her personality. The walls were turquoise, with an old-fashioned cast-iron fireplace lit with tiny dragonfly fairy lights. Behind her bed hung a fabric drapery decorated with hummingbirds and flowers in every shade of turquoise and blue. An antique wardrobe sat against the wall opposite the bed. And then Lara spotted the
pièce de résistance
: an antique writing cabinet with little drawers and shelves to keep her stationery in, and even an ink and pen holder.

Lara went from corner to corner, taking it all in, her eyes wide.

“Do you like it?” my mum asked.

“It's
amazing
!” she said, and threw herself on her bed, only to get up again and sit at her writing cabinet. “Just awesome. It's like you read my mind for the room of my dreams. Thank you, Nonna,” she said, and ran and hugged her tight.

“There's a bathroom, too,” she said, holding Lara. “In case you were wondering if you had to walk across the courtyard in the middle of the night! Look.”

The bathroom was tiny but perfectly formed, and I already saw myself soaking in a hot bath.

“I can't thank you enough, Mum.” It was my turn to hug her.

“You don't need to thank me at all.”

I was too wound up to sleep. Leo was snoring softly like a baby seal snorts under water, and I lay in my bed under the creamy duvet, watching the embers smoulder red in the gloom. I just couldn't switch off. In the small hours of the morning I gave up and went to check on Lara.

She was fast asleep, curled up in her turquoise bed. It was the first time in weeks she hadn't woken up through the night, and I was surprised, especially considering that we were in an entirely new place. I noticed with a smile that she had already sorted her books in the bookshelves and that her pens and Kitty were sitting on the writing cabinet.

I went back into my room and sat at the window. A few stars still shone in the morning sky, but a sea of grey edged with pink meant night was turning into day. I took in the silhouette of the pine-covered mountains and the patches of purple heather and the million shades of brown and green on the hills. It looked so wild, so raw, compared with the manicured London suburbs I lived in. On impulse, I grabbed my phone.

We are in Glen Avich,
I typed. I was about to tap the little message icon, but I hesitated for a moment. And then, before I could stop myself, I sent the text to Ash. He replied at once.

Good to know.

He must have been awake, waiting to hear from us.

All of a sudden I felt tears pressing behind my eyes again. Some ties, even if worn and constricting and infused with bitterness, are very difficult to break – maybe impossible. Not without severing parts of yourself with them, anyway.