Pictures of Lily Read online

  Also by Paige Toon

  Lucy in the Sky

  Johnny Be Good

  Chasing Daisy

  First published in Great Britain by Pocket Books UK, 2010

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Paige Toon, 2010

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of

  Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The right of Paige Toon to be identified as author

  of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections

  77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  Simon & Schuster Australia

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  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from

  the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-84739-391-3

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-84983-120-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places

  and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are

  used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead,

  events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset in Goudy by M Rules

  Printed by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, Berkshire RG1 8EX

  For my mum

  My rock of Uluru proportions

  I couldn’t have done it without you

  Prologue

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  I think of you, then. I think of you every day. But usually in the quietest part of the morning, or the darkest part of the night. Not when my boyfriend of two years has just proposed.

  I look up at Richard with his hopeful eyes. ‘Lily?’ he prompts.

  It’s been ten years, but it feels like only yesterday that you left. How can I say yes to Richard with all my heart when most of it has always belonged to you?

  I take a deep breath and will myself to speak . . .

  Ten Years Ago

  Chapter 1

  ‘Okay, enough! I’ve had it with your complaining! We’re here now and we’re here to stay, so get used to it, Lily!’

  My mother has finally snapped. I can’t say I blame her. I’ve been bitching about the idea of moving to Australia ever since she first hooked up with Michael on the internet.

  ‘Is the grass ever green here?’ I add, bored. If she thinks I’m going to quit complaining now, she has another think coming.

  My mum says nothing; she just sighs and checks her rearview mirror before moving into the fast lane.

  It’s late November – Australian summertime – and we’re driving up into the hills from Adelaide airport. To my left the yellow hills slope upwards, and to my right they fall away into deep, tree-covered gullies. The road is ridiculously windy so I’m gripping the armrest and having to squint in the bright sunlight because I forgot to unpack my sunglasses from my suitcase. Needless to say, I’m not in a good mood.

  ‘Don’t you think he could at least have come to collect us from the airport?’ I grumble.

  ‘We had to pick up the rental car, anyway. And as I’ve already told you, he had to work.’

  ‘Couldn’t the wallabies do without him for a morning?’

  The new love of my mum’s life looks after the animals at a local wildlife park. All he has to do all day is feed kangaroos and hold koalas for soppy tourists.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mum replies, a slight strain to her calm demeanour, ‘but his voicemail said something about a sick Tasmanian Devil.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I reply.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the Lily I know,’ she says narkily. ‘The Lily I know would be concerned about a sick animal. The Lily I know didn’t even want to go on holiday one year because her hamster was ill. The Lily I know used to care for her pets as if they were children.’

  ‘Yeah, and now they’re all dead,’ I interject.

  Silence.

  ‘What the hell is a Tasmanian Devil anyway?’ I add.

  ‘Oh, shut up, would you.’

  I smirk to myself and stare out of the window, pleased with my small victory. Then I remember that we’re in another country. On the other side of the world. And I remember that I haven’t won at all. I’ve lost. Big time.

  ‘Crafers – there it is.’ Mum flicks on her indicator and starts to move left onto the slip road.

  ‘What if you don’t like him?’ I ask. ‘Does that mean we can go home again?’

  ‘I will like him,’ she says determinedly. ‘And this is home, now.’

  ‘This will never be home,’ I reply darkly.

  England is my home. And as soon as I’m eighteen, I’m going back there. But that’s over two years away – and that feels like a whole lifetime. I am so pissed off at my mum for doing this to me, I can’t even tell you.

  Only she could meet a man on the internet. It’s almost the year 2000 – who does that sort of thing? I blame that stupid movie You’ve Got Mail. I swear it gave my mum ideas when she saw it last year. It’s all very well for Meg Idiot Ryan and Tom Pratty Hanks to email each other till their hearts are content, but who pays the consequences? Me, that’s who. Here I am in goddamn Kangaroo Land going to live with a man I’ve never even met because my mum has fallen in love. Again.

  We exit the tiny town that was Crafers and continue to drive up and down the perpetually winding road. We pass a paddock filled with brown and cream-coloured goats.

  ‘So this is Piccadilly,’ Mum says.

  ‘Piccadilly?’ I scoff. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  She glances in my direction. ‘That’s the name of the town.’

  ‘You’re calling this a town?’ I look pointedly at the occasional house and farm dotting the side of the road. Old cars, trucks and tractors sit unused on the ever-dry grass. ‘The Piccadilly I’m used to is Piccadilly bloody Circus in London, and that is a far cry from this!’

  My mum frowns with irritation as the road takes us through a modest vineyard. ‘It’s not far from here, according to his directions.’

  We pass a few more houses before Mum begins to slow down.

  ‘Roses, that’s what he said.’ She points ahead at the multitude of pink and red rosebushes on the side of the road, then turns left into the driveway of a red-brick house with a brown-tiled roof, and a veranda overhanging with shady vines.

  My mum turns to me. ‘Be nice, okay?’

  I’m about to ask, ‘Why should I?’ but she interrupts.

  ‘Please?’

  And at that moment, a tall, dark-haired young guy comes out of the wooden front door and I’m distracted from the look of fear in my mum’s eyes because he’s, well, unexpectedly hot.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I ask suspiciously as Mum forcibly relaxes her features and undoes her seatbelt.

  ‘That must be Josh.’

  ‘My new big bro?’ My voice is laced with sarcasm, but I’m secretly wishing I’d thought to brush out the knots that have accumulated in my long dark hair courtesy of a twenty-four-hour flight. Mum gives me one last pleading look with tired blue eyes before climbing out of the car. I grudgingly follow her.

  ‘Hi!’ she beams as she storms along the gravel footpath, leaving small puffs of cream-coloured dust in her wake. ‘I’m Cindy.’

  ‘G’day. I’m Josh.’ Josh holds out his hand and Mum shakes it before turning back to me.

  ‘This is my daughter, Lily.’

  The enormous smile on my mum’s fac
e keeps wavering, but Josh is too busy looking me up and down to notice. I fold my arms across my bust and glare at his chiselled face, waiting indignantly for his dark-brown eyes to meet my light-brown ones.

  ‘G’day.’

  ‘Do they seriously say that over here?’ I respond, ignoring his outstretched hand.

  ‘What?’ He hooks his thumbs into his jeans pockets and looks amused. His attractiveness has obviously given him far too much confidence and that annoys me.

  ‘G’day. I thought that was just on Neighbours.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ The corners of his mouth turn down and he glances at Mum. ‘Do you need some help with your bags?’

  *

  ‘Dad’ll be home soon,’ Josh says, when we’ve unloaded our suitcases and relocated to the kitchen. I could really do with some peace and quiet to unpack my bags, but my craving for tea and biscuits is outweighing my desire to be antisocial.

  ‘How far away is the safari park?’ Mum asks.

  ‘It’s a conservation park,’ Josh replies. ‘The boundaries extend to right outside our house, but it’s a five-minute drive to get to the main bit.’

  ‘Conservation park, that’s right,’ Mum quietly chides herself as Josh opens up a packet of biscuits and tears back the cellophane. I furtively watch him as he fills up the kettle and puts it on the stove before fetching three mismatched mugs from a painted yellow cupboard. His dark hair is messy, dishevelled. It looks like he’s slept on it, and as he rubs at the sleep in his eyes, I realise he probably has. It’s only nine o’clock in the morning and he must be, what – eighteen? Nineteen? He doesn’t look like an early riser.

  Josh turns around and I quickly avert my gaze as he asks, ‘Do you want milk or sugar?’

  ‘Yes, please. Milk and one sugar each,’ Mum answers for both of us.

  Josh dumps a carton of milk and a tea-stained sugar pot on the table. ‘Help yourselves,’ he says, as the old-fashioned kettle starts to whistle.

  I reach for the biscuits. YoYos, they’re called.

  ‘So Josh,’ Mum says, ‘what do you do?’

  ‘I work at a garage in Mount Barker,’ he replies.

  ‘Doing what?’ she prompts.

  ‘Fixing up cars.’

  ‘How far away is Mount Barker?’

  ‘About twenty Ks further down the Princes Highway.’

  ‘That’s right, it’s kilometres here, isn’t it? We’re used to miles.’

  I yawn. Loudly.

  Josh glances at me then his head shoots in the direction of the door.

  ‘Dad’s back.’ He gets up and goes off down the corridor.

  Mum immediately starts chewing on a painted-pink thumbnail. ‘Do you think I should go to the door to meet him?’ she whispers across at me. She looks nervous.

  ‘No. Wait here,’ I tell her. ‘And stop biting your nails.’

  She snatches her hand away from her mouth and smooths down her medium-length dyed-blonde hair. A wave of compassion momentarily floods me and dies away again. Listening, I hear the door open and close, the murmur of male voices and then Josh reappears in the kitchen, closely followed by his dad. Mum leaps to her feet and almost topples her chair over. Reaching back to grab it, she knocks the table, spilling tea over the green plastic tablecloth.

  ‘Sorry, I’m so clumsy,’ she apologises, flustered.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Michael booms. ‘Josh, whack a tea-towel over that, mate.’ Then Michael turns back to my mum. ‘Cindy,’ he says warmly, shaking his head. ‘At last.’

  ‘Hello, Michael,’ she says shyly. They step towards each other and awkwardly embrace, not quite managing a proper hug.

  Josh looks at me and rolls his eyes. I smirk back at him.

  Mum breaks away and turns to me. ‘This is Lily.’

  Michael comes over and places his hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t get up, don’t get up,’ he insists, even though I was planning on doing no such thing. ‘Good to meet you, Lily.’

  Michael is in his early forties and older than Mum by about eight years. She was only nineteen when she had me. Mum’s five foot eight, but Michael doesn’t tower above her at about five foot ten, and he’s chunky compared to her slim physique. He has browny-grey hair, a weathered face and kind chocolate-brown eyes. His Australian accent is strong and his voice is loud, but he’s not overpowering. Despite all my intentions, I instantly like him. I wonder if he knows what he’s let himself in for?

  ‘Chuck the kettle on, son,’ he tells Josh. ‘I haven’t had a cuppa all morning.’ Josh complies and Michael lifts out a chair so it doesn’t scrape on the floor and sits down next to me. ‘How was your flight?’ He glances from Mum to me.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Mum replies.

  ‘Long,’ I interject. ‘And the food was crap.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Michael empathises. ‘I thought we’d have a barbie for lunch. If you’re still awake by then.’

  ‘Want another tea?’ Josh begrudgingly asks Mum and me.

  My mum glances into her mug. ‘Only if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Of course it’s no trouble!’ Michael practically shouts. ‘Lily?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Josh gets on with the job.

  ‘Has my boy been looking after you?’ Michael asks.

  ‘Yes, very well,’ Mum replies.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Pay up, then,’ Josh says to his dad, standing over the table with his hand held out.

  ‘Later, son, later.’ Michael bats him away.

  ‘Did your dad bribe you to be nice to us?’ I ask Josh, amused.

  ‘Twenty bucks,’ Josh confirms with a grin.

  ‘I reckon you were ripped off,’ I tell Josh.

  ‘I can see these two are going to be trouble,’ Michael says to Mum rather wearily.

  ‘Mmm,’ she replies.

  That evening, Michael takes my mum out for dinner. She came into my bedroom to talk to me about it this afternoon, soon after my alarm clock had hammered its way into my exhausted consciousness. My eyes felt as if someone had taken a nail file to them, but I didn’t want to stay in bed too long because I want to be able to sleep tonight.

  ‘Lily,’ she said. ‘Michael has asked me out to dinner.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I was wondering if it’s okay if I go.’

  ‘Why are you asking me? You don’t normally ask my permission to do things.’

  ‘No, it’s just that, well, I feel bad for deserting you on our first night in a new country . . .’

  ‘Oh, a guilt trip. Don’t worry about me, Mum, I’m used to looking after myself.’ She immediately looked crestfallen. ‘Seriously,’ I added, feeling bad, ‘go out and enjoy yourself. Get to know the guy. He seems nice.’

  Her face broke into a huge smile. ‘He does, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, so don’t dick him around like you did all the others.’ Sorry, but my generosity has its bounds.

  Josh is in the living room watching telly when I finally emerge from my bedroom. Mum and Michael went out half an hour ago.

  ‘I thought you were asleep,’ he says.

  ‘I was,’ I reply. ‘It’s a weird and wonderful phenomenon, but people tend to wake up again.’

  ‘I was about to order a pizza.’ He doesn’t acknowledge my witty sarcasm. ‘Have a look and see what you want.’ He hands me a takeaway menu and I flop down on the three-seater sofa. He’s sitting on a worn-out armchair in the same faded blue velvetine fabric, with his feet up on the pinewood coffee table. ‘Dad left us some money,’ he adds.

  ‘Ooh,’ I say. ‘Whoopdeedoo.’ He frowns at me and I struggle to keep a straight face as I study the menu. Spotting what I want immediately, I hand the menu back to him. ‘Can I have a crisp?’ I nod at the packet of cheese-flavoured Doritos on the coffee table.

  ‘Don’t you mean, “chip”?’

  ‘They’re called crisps where I come from.’

  ‘They’re called chips where you are now.’

  ‘I won’
t be here for very long so I’m not going to change the way I speak.’

  ‘Is that right? Where are you going, then?’

  ‘Back to England, if you must know.’

  ‘And is your mum going with you?’

  ‘Why, don’t you want her here?’

  ‘If she makes my dad happy, she can stick around.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on that.’

  ‘Do you have to be such a pain in the arse?’ he snaps.

  ‘I don’t have to be, no.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I just choose to be.’ He glares at me. ‘So can I have a crisp, or what?’ He doesn’t immediately answer so I reach over and grab the packet.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he says gruffly when I’m already chowing down on a Dorito. He reaches for the phone on a side-table. ‘Have you decided what you want?’

  ‘Ham and pineapple,’ I reply.

  ‘Same as me.’

  ‘Shall we get one between us, then?’

  ‘No, I want a whole one.’

  ‘Don’t you like sharing?’

  ‘I’m sharing my house with you, aren’t I?’

  I tense up inside, but try not to let it show. ‘It’s big enough,’ I mumble. He ignores me, dialling the number.

  My new ‘home’ has four bedrooms, two of which have been allocated to Mum and me, although it’s only a matter of time before she moves in with Michael. There’s a reasonable-sized kitchen and a fairly large living room. Michael has an ensuite, but there’s only one other bathroom – which means I have to share with Josh. Great. I don’t care how good-looking he is, if he leaves wet towels on the floor I swear I’ll relocate them to his bed.

  Josh puts down the phone and turns up the sound on the television. We sit there in silence until the doorbell rings half an hour later to announce the arrival of dinner. It’s enough time to give me food for thought. I’m not usually a bitch, I just . . . Oh, I don’t know. I suddenly feel deflated.

  Josh returns with the pizza boxes and dumps them on the coffee table.

  ‘Are you at work tomorrow?’ I ask, as I struggle to detach the strings of mozzarella hanging on for dear life to a piece of pizza. Josh is clearly not a cutlery and crockery type.