Page 56 of How We Began

I completely ignored Tristan’s offer to come as mediator.

“How hard can it be?” I laughed. “I’m their daughter. I’m sure they’ll be perfectly understanding once I explain what has been going on.”

Not so much.

First indication: My key didn’t fit in the door and I wondered if they’d been burgled and had forgotten to mention it to Tristan and me.

Second indication: “Psst! Delilah!”

It was Mum, her head poking through one of her prized rosebushes.

“You can’t be here. Your dad will have a heart attack if he sees you on the doorstep.”

She waved her hand at me as one would at a really annoying fly trying to land in your Chardonnay.

“What do you mean I can’t be here? This is my home. You know? The place I grew up. My bedroom is right there,” I said, pointing at the window up and to the right of my head.

Then I thought of a more pressing matter. “Mum, why are you hiding in a rosebush?”

Fair question, I think.

“He’ll be angry with me for talking to you. Please leave, Lilah, and wait for him to calm down.”

“Calm down from what, exactly? Which bit has upset him the most?”

My pulse began to beat a rapid pace in my veins. One of the irritating boys from down the road was circling on his bike at the end of the driveway watching our little exchange play out with great interest.

“Oh, you know, dear. For ruining your career, ruining your life and starting up with some awful singer.” She gave her head a shake, a movement hindered by the killer-sized thorns right next to her cheekbone.

“Are you being for real? Sure I understand about him cutting me off financially, but stopping me from coming home?” God, that actually hurts more than I thought it would.

Mum raised an eyebrow and it occurred to me that she must be where Tristan inherited the infuriating habit from.

“Well, maybe Daddy Dearest should come out here and talk to me like a grown-up,” I shouted as loud I could, sure that the rest of the cul-de-sac were loving our little Jeremy Kyle style show.

“No, Lilah. He doesn’t want see you.” Mum had the good grace to look a little sheepish.

“And are you okay with this?”

“No, of course not, but I know which side my bread is buttered on. Something you obviously don’t.”

I can’t believe she actually said that.

She leant forward as far as the bush and thorns would allow, a conspiratorial expression on her face, and added, “I’ve been working on softening him a little for you. I’m sure that if you agree to stop uni at the end of this year and get a job back at the bank, he will soon forget all this nastiness ever happened.”

I stared at her, my mouth gaping open. She had to be joking, right? She was looking at me like she’d just offered me the world’s longest olive branch.

“Mum, that’s not going to happen. I’ll see you around, I guess,” I turned, heading back down the drive to Deathtrap Cooper.

“Oh, Lilah?” she called after me. “Your father’s putting the Putney flat on the market at the beginning of July.”

Great. So not only is my dad never going to speak to me again—what is he like five or something?—Tristan is now going to lose his home as well. All because of me.

I seethed the whole way home, cranking Deathtrap Cooper to its absolute max, 66 miles an hour.

To his credit, Tristan was remarkably calm about the whole thing, considering our family has just effectively exploded apart at the seams.

“Don’t worry about it, Lil, he’ll never sell. That flat is too much of an investment for him,” he told me.