The Family Friend by C. MacDonald (love story novels in english txt) ๐
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- Author: C. MacDonald
Read book online ยซThe Family Friend by C. MacDonald (love story novels in english txt) ๐ยป. Author - C. MacDonald
C. C. MacDonald
THE FAMILY FRIEND
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C. C. MacDonald is a writer and actor based in Margate where he lives with his wife, two children and dog Frankie. The Family Friend is his second novel.
Also by C. C. MacDonald
Happy Ever After
For Mum.
1
Erinโs heels clack along the uneven pavement like castanets. She got off the train eighteen minutes ago. She bought a vanilla doughnut from the delicatessen opposite the station and ate half of it before dropping it in a bin. She filmed herself doing all of this, told her smartphone camera why she was throwing it away โ too much sugar โ and why she bought it in the first place โ it was luminous yellow and made her smile. But when she watched the footage back, she came across a little irritated, probably because she was thinking about having wasted ยฃ1.20, so she decided not to post the video.
Erin runs her fingers over the ridges of a long fence that hems in the gardens of a row of bungalows, nausea bubbling up from her stomach, giving everything she sees a filter of unpleasantness.
She rounds the corner and emerges onto a wider road, where most of the cars drive over the speed limit, and spots the memorial opposite to a little boy who was one of its victims some years ago. Broken shards of old CDs hang from the tree at the memorialโs centre to ward birds away from the dutifully tended floral display and sun-bleached Arsenal shirt. The story goes that the boyโs mother was chatting on the phone and didnโt see him step out. The road is one back from the sea, protected from the harshest ravages of the North Sea wind, but not far enough away to escape the ice water in the air that seems to seep through Erinโs merino-mix cardigan as the light dies away.
Glancing up at the houses, the dusk reveals whoโs in and whoโs out. The colours glowing from the windows remind her of the blinking lights of a Christmas market. The strobing blue of a humungous flat-screen; pink warmth coming through a mid-range red Ikea roller blind upstairs; the ochre tint of an open fire, shadows licking a paved driveway.
A cloud must have moved as the sky turns from a muted purple to Technicolor terracotta. She stops outside one of the houses, a bungalow with a dormer stuck out of its roof. The square bay window that stretches over most of its frontage emits a golden hue that gives Erin a swell of warmth and she touches her chest as if she can feel it. She gets out her phone, scans the screen for a moment and posts something before dropping it back into her coat pocket. The January air makes her eyes water. She blinks them dry, scratches her right ear with her shoulder and walks towards the bungalow with the purpose of someone prepared to face the music.
She nudges the houseโs cast-iron gate gently with her knee and heads up the path. She glances through the window and stops.
A man sits at an oval dining table at the back of an open-plan living-kitchen-dining room, smiling. Heโs looking at a baby boy with copious dark hair, plumed up in a loose Mohawk, being held out by a striking red-headed woman with a face so chiselled it could have been drawn on a computer. She lifts the baby into the air, staring at him and, is she singing? It seems to Erin like she might be singing. She has the boy stand on her knees and makes him dance, using the hand that isnโt supporting him to move his arms and legs like a marionette. The man glances at the woman and the baby, looks down and his face cracks into a slow smile.
The woman puts the baby back into the crook of her arm and looks straight out of the window. Erin knows that she canโt be seen now that itโs darker outside but she ducks away from the womanโs gaze anyway. The man tickles the babyโs palms as he reaches towards him.
It looks like something from an advert for a gas company. The happy family laughing with each other in the warmth of the home. The woman holding court, mother, friend, lover. Perfect.
Except thatโs not her family. Itโs Erinโs.
2
BRAUNEoverBRAINS
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ERIN BRAUNE
Mum to Bobby. Salty sea-dweller. Bright up your life. Reformed thespian.
These are my hangover shades. Because this is my hangover.
Banger of a #gifted mini-break @digidetoxglamping. Huge thanks. The cocktails were ting. Not entirely convinced about not having my phone for twenty-four hours. Felt a bit like Iโd had a frontal lobotomy. Not the best. BUT my first night away from Bobby-boy was surprisingly fun. I canโt wait to see him but feel racked with guilt and nerves about having left my baby boy behind. IS THIS NORMAL? What if heโs pissed off with me and doesnโt want cuddles?! All your good wishes yesterday made leaving him a lot easier. This piรฑata was in the bargain bin
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