Read Writing in the Sand for Free Online

pleased at the thought of getting out of the bedsit, she doesn’t care what her money would be used for.
    â€œWell,” I say, “as long as you understand you’ll have to contribute.”
    â€œNo worries,” she says, “I’ll get a little notebook and we’ll—” At this point it rings – the mobile I didn’t know she had.
    She flicks it open, glances at the screen, slaps it against her ear. She turns her back on me, but I can hear the low crackle of a man’s voice. She butts in: “Change the bloody record, Darren.” She pauses for a second. “Anyway, Amy’s here and I’m going home. Mum needs me.” Whatever it is he says now makes her stiffen: “That is not what you said last night.” She moves nearer the window, gives the skirting board a kick. “It didn’t sound like that to me.” While he rabbits on, I watch her shoulders relax. “Yeah, yeah,” she says, and gives her hips a little wiggle. “Okay, but look – if you ever —” She breaks off, listening to him intently. She licks her finger, runs it along an eyebrow. “All right, but this is the last time.” She swings round, a silly grin on her face. A moment later she turns away again, the phone still stuck to her ear, and hurries to look out of the smeary window – like Darren could already be outside. I scoop up the coins and put them in my pocket.
    Clearly, he’s not here yet but when she says, “Okay, sweetheart – as soon as?” I gather he’ll turn up any minute. I look round the manky room. Once out of here, why would anyone want to come back? She signals to me, sliding her eyes towards the door.
    But I’m not leaving, not until I get her mobile number.
    After a big slurping goodbye kiss into the phone, she raises her eyebrows at me. “What’re you hanging around for? You’ll have guessed what that was about.”
    â€œI’m very happy for you,” I say. “Just one thing, Lisa – can I have your mobile number?”
    When I realize she’s thinking up an excuse for not telling me, I say, “If I can call you, I won’t have to keep coming round.”
    Sighing hard, she finds a scrap of paper and writes it down. I make sure I can read it, then put it in my purse.
    When I get back in – stagger, more like – with a large bag of dog food, Mum’s watching a talent show. “Listen to this lad,” she says, “he’s got a gorgeous voice.”
    Though my arms are aching under the economy-size Adult Beef & Vegetables, I stand watching the TV. Slowly the bag slides from my arms, then thuds to the floor. It startles Mum. “What sort of hole did that make in the housekeeping?” I tell her it was on offer, and that we’ll have to guess Toffee’s weight so we can judge how much he’ll need each day. We study silhouettes of dogs on the bag, and decide he’s bigger than a fox terrier-type, but a bit smaller than a German shepherd.
    I fetch the scissors and cut the bag open. Toffee goes crazy at the smell. I take the kitchen scales from the cupboard under the sink, and weigh out the approximate number of grams. Then I pour the helping into a soup bowl that’ll be his from now on, and put it on the floor. He clearly loves this crunchy stuff – much nicer than the scraps we’ve been feeding him. It seems to be the right amount, because once he’s finished he sits quietly beside Mum.
    She’s been working up to the question: “You saw our Lisa all right?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œShe sends her love.”
    â€œIs Darren still hanging around?”
    â€œSeems like it.” All the way to the supermarket I’d been telling myself the four pounds was his, not Lisa’s.
    For apparently no reason she says – and it’s not quite a question – “I suppose you’ve not heard