The Road Trip by Beth O'Leary (books for 6 year olds to read themselves .txt) 📗

‘But I don’t think you need to worry about him not being as interested as you are,’ Mum continues. ‘He hardly leaves your side.’

‘Can I help?’ Dylan says from the doorway.

Mum gives me a significant look, as if Dylan coming in to help with the dishes is a sign he can’t bear to be parted from me.

‘I’m home!’ Deb yells through the house, slamming the front door. ‘Is the Addie shadow here? Oh, good, hi, Dylan. I need your help with a job application. Can you read it through for me and make it sound, you know . . .’ She chucks her bag down in the corner of the kitchen. ‘More clever?’

‘The Addie shadow?’ Dylan repeats, half laughing.

Deb waves that off, tsking as she finds no clean glasses in the cupboard. She heads for the dishwasher. ‘Damn, is that running?’

‘You’re welcome,’ Mum says mildly.

‘Addie’s shadow, like . . . I follow her around in a sinister fashion?’ Dylan asks.

‘No, just like you’re attached to her ankle,’ Deb says. ‘I’ll have to use a mug – Dad! Dad! Have you got my French bulldog mug through there?’

‘No,’ Dad roars from the living room.

‘You left it under your desk,’ Mum says. ‘I cleared it up this morning. It’s in the dishwasher.’

‘Under the desk?’ I ask.

‘Attached to her ankle?’ Dylan repeats, his brow furrowing.

‘When’s Cherry arriving?’ Deb asks.

‘Tomorrow,’ Dad calls, in a loaded sort of way. Dad’s sulking because when Cherry stays he has to clear out of his ‘study’, the box room at the front of the house that he’s filled with crap. Parts of train and aeroplane models, old issues of The Beano, laptops that died but for some reason must not be thrown away. Dad hates guests coming. It gives Mum the perfect excuse to tell him to clear out the junk.

‘Do you think I’m clinging to your ankles?’ Dylan asks me, with a very sweet frown.

My heart seems to open up for a moment, and everything suddenly feels simple. I loop my arms around his neck and kiss him on the lips.

‘I think you should cancel the Airbnb.’

He pulls back. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Mum says you can stay here while you wait to buy a flat.’

‘Ooh,’ says Deb, shoving past us. ‘Dylan’s moving in!’

My cheeks go red. ‘Not moving in,’ I say, already regretting it a bit. ‘He stays over most nights anyway.’

Dylan blinks his long eyelashes at me. Just as the worry starts to bloom in my belly he wraps me up and presses kisses to my cheeks, my forehead, my neck. I laugh, wriggling in his arms.

‘Thank you,’ he says, lifting his head to speak to my mum. ‘That’s so kind of you and Neil.’ He lowers his mouth to mine again, then presses his lips to my ear. ‘And thank you,’ he whispers.

‘Wait until you’ve stayed a few weeks,’ I say, pulling away, but smiling. ‘You’ll be so sick of Dad’s snoring through the wall and Deb banging around the kitchen at five in the morning, you’ll be out the door like a shot.’

Dylan collects Cherry from the station. I have no idea where he magicked the car up from. One day he just . . . had one. Brand new and smelling of that flowery air-freshener made by people who have clearly only heard about roses and lilies second-hand.

Cherry turns up on my parents’ doorstep looking like the perfect public-school princess, as usual. Her hair is in a simple high ponytail and she looks like she isn’t wearing any make-up, but I know how much time and effort – and how many products – go into giving that impression. Cherry and I shared a room in second year at uni. There isn’t much we don’t know about each other. Boundaries were blurred. Lines were crossed. Knickers were borrowed.

She throws herself towards me over the threshold. As we hug, we do that squealing thing girls do in American high-school films. That was a joke, once, but we definitely ditched the sense of irony a while back.

‘Addie! God, I’ve missed you!’

‘Come in,’ I say, tugging her inside. ‘Dad’s decluttered your room again.’

Cherry’s often here. Her parents are even more eccentric than she is: if she’s home for more than a week or two they usually rope her into doing something totally bizarre, like knitting a mile-long scarf for charity or helping to rehome a load of nuns.

‘I hope Neil left me a model aeroplane to do again,’ Cherry says, heading for the study. She sits and bounces on the bed, looking around happily. ‘Home!’ she says. ‘Well. One of them. One of my favourite ones. Oh! Mr and Mrs Gilbert!’

‘Welcome back, sweet,’ Mum says as Cherry bounds towards them for hugs.

My parents love Cherry. Everyone loves Cherry. Not loving Cherry is like hating puppies.

‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’ Cherry says, shoving Dylan out of her way with her hip. ‘We have so much to talk about.’

She’s already on her way through to the kitchen. We all follow in her wake.

‘I am such a good matchmaker,’ Cherry tells Mum as she fills the kettle. ‘Didn’t I tell you I’d find Addie someone?’

I frown. ‘I didn’t need—’

‘And it’s a good job you spent your summer in France,’ she says, waggling a finger at me, ‘because teaching? There’s no men in teaching.’

‘There are!’ I say, laughing. ‘Our head teacher is a man.’

Cherry rolls her eyes, flicking on the kettle. ‘Oh, of course the head is a man. I bet he’s old and dull.’

‘He’s young and interesting, actually,’ I tell her, pointing her to the mug cupboard. ‘And hot.’

‘Ooh! Set me up?’ Cherry says, digging around. ‘Where’s Deb’s bulldog mug? Has she locked it away?’

‘Are you always this loud?’ Deb asks, appearing in the kitchen doorway. ‘I don’t remember you being this loud.’

‘Deb!’ Cherry runs in for a hug and then stops short, socks skidding on the lino. ‘No hug! I remember. Hi! You look so pretty!’

Deb smiles. ‘Hey, Cherry. You can have my mug. It’s in the