Page 143 of The Reno
Prep food for tonight (Kat)In what world?
Collect Mum and Graham from the station (Kat)Sandra and Brian are on it
Make sure we have enough napkins.I brought some over from Lily’s
Just get ready, beautiful. I love you – L
“Abi! Kat!” Liam bellowed up the stairs. “We’re going to be late!”
“Shit,” I muttered furiously, flicking through my make-up bag, and Abigail laughed besideme.
We had been applying eyeliner for the past twenty minutes, sitting at my dressing table in our loft room. We sat on matching stools, the mirror lights illuminating our irises—mine blue, Abigail’s a deep brown, just like Liam’s. I bought Abi her own after she liked to linger by my dressing table, asking me what products I used.
“Oh yeah. I’ve seen someone use that before,” she said after I showed her my Lancôme mascara. “Some millennial on YouTube, I think.”
She pretended to play it cool until I bought her a tube, with Yasmin’s approval, and she jumped up and down, squealing. I will never forget the force of her hug around my waist, her small arms wrapped around my middle, and Liam’s satisfied smile watching us together.
Since then, we’ve always done our make-up together.
I checked my watch. “Shit. Seven twenty. We are late.”
Abigail just hummed, concentrating on applying her eyeliner. We promised Liam to leave at quarter past by the very latest. I glanced over at Abigail. Her dark hair had grown so quickly this year. Her mouth was open in a perfect “O” as she applied her mascara. Her eyeliner was impeccable.
I frowned. “How the hell are you doing that better than me?”
I swear she was practising this shit without me.
The girl was almost twelve and could apply make-up better than me—the cheek of it.
She shrugged. “I skive PE so I can practise.”
My eyes narrowed. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Either Abigail was comfortable with me or testing howoutrageous a statement could be before I was forced to tell her dad. Abigail had forgotten that I had a step-parent. I was well-versed in manipulation strategies. But as Abigail’s teenage years set in, all grey moods and apathy, I was selfishly grateful to be seen as the “cool” one. Abigail saved her fights for Liam and Yasmin.
I had to takesomewins, right?
“Katherine! Abigail!” Liam shouted.
“Dad!” Abigail shouted back. “Per-fec-tion”—she sounded out each syllable—“takes time. Didn’t anyone tell you that?”
We giggled as Liam loudly grumbled something, and when we were ready, Abigail and I walked down the two flights of stairs. The little 1930s semi was no longer a project or a deadline. It was a home now—scuffs on the skirting boards and recycling piled up by the bins. Abi had her own room at the back of the house, and we’d had a lot of fun designing it together. She’d gone for a power-blue wallpaper with birds and florals. A very sophisticated choice that I thought would take her into her teen years at least.
I walked down the hallway with a wall full of bright and eclectic art prints we’d collected at art fairs and markets around the Northwest. Amidst the prints were a scattering of photos taken over the past year. Liam and me next to the Christmas tree, his arms wrapped around my waist, his kiss on my temple. Liam and Abi playing football on the beach when we visited Yasmin’s parents in Formby in February. Lydia and I with our medals after we completed a 10K in April. Mum, Graham and me climbing a mountain in the Peak District on their visit a couple of months ago.
