The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕

sure?’ I ask, largely hoping that she’ll say no. The thought of sitting up front with Andrew for a whole ten minutes is daunting to say the least.

‘Yeah. Go on,’ says Moira. She sits back against the cab, pulls the tarp over her legs, and guides Kian’s head onto her shoulder.

As soon as I slide into the passenger seat, Andrew flicks the ignition on, reversing the truck with more haste than I’d recommend, considering that there are two adults perched in the back.

We lurch forward and I hear Moira shout an obscenity through the glass as her head hits against the back windscreen. Andrew and I both open our mouths at the same time, followed by ‘You go first,’ then silence.

‘Why did you never call us?’ I blurt out. My brain dial has ticked from pain to anger so quickly I’ve surprised myself. ‘Do you realise how fucked up it is to let someone think you died in an explosion?’ I turn to look at him side on. Andrew’s fingers clench and unclench on the steering wheel, knuckles white.

‘It’s a bit bloody hard to tell someone you’re alive when you never realised you were dead in the first place.’

‘But … nothing? You didn’t think I was worth getting to know? That was acceptable for you, was it?’

‘That’s down to Lorrie, Ava. Not me,’ he replies, equally sharp. ‘We weren’t in a relationship. She didn’t seem the settling type, to be straight with you. I didn’t know who else she was familiar with and I wasn’t keen to fork out for a baby that might not have been mine.’

‘Sorry to disappoint, but I took a DNA test so it’s pretty conclusive.’

‘All right, if you say so. But back then there was no way of knowing for sure.’

We bump along the road in silence and sway in time with the motion of the truck. If vitriol frothed at my mouth before, a trapdoor has now slammed it shut. Poor Moira. No wonder she walks on eggshells around Andrew, worrying if the wrong word could set him off. Sod him. There’s no way I’m going to grovel.

‘Ava,’ he begins, but I turn my face to the side and look out of the window. I don’t want to hear anymore, not when it’s a straw man defence that manages to slut shame Mum in the process. The headlights map our journey back in silence.

We pull up at Braehead a few minutes later. I open the door before we’ve come to a full standstill.

Andrew hops down and unlatches the back for Moira and Kian as I hover by the gate. They both look shellshocked, with pink cheeks and wide eyes. It’s clear that the journey has slapped Kian sober. He slides out, stumbling a little as his feet hit the tarmac.

‘What’s the story, then? You staying or going?’ says Andrew, as Moira swings her legs over the side. She looks between us, her usual sunny disposition muddled beneath a cloud of doubt.

‘Just putting it out there,’ says Kian, far more coherently than before. ‘I know for a fact that we have all the ingredients for a shit-ton of cheese toasties inside.’

Moira nods, her lips pressed tight.

‘I’m going to stay here tonight,’ she tells Andrew.

‘Suit yourself. I’ll let your mum know,’ he replies, pulling himself back into the driving seat.

‘Ava, I – I guess we’ll talk?’

I don’t have the energy to reply. An intention that woolly doesn’t deserves one. Andrew clearly agrees, because it’s not long before his taillights retreat down the lane, tracing a thread between the dry-stone walls that lead back to the village.

Moira breaks into a weak smile and rubs her thumb on the back of my hand. ‘Duvets on the sofa?’

I nod. ‘Let’s go.’

Chapter 34

The next morning, Moira and I wake up in a duvet cocoon. After Kian’s insistence that he’d see to the animals himself, I uncurl myself from the covers to make tea and another round of cheese toasties. Moira lifts the duvet to let me back in, my laptop balanced on a pillow between her knees. My original, pre-edited articles are on display, one tab behind the other.

‘It still feels proper weird reading about everyone I know,’ says Moira, scrolling down the page. ‘You’re sure there’s no way you can get the edited ones taken down?’

‘I’ve tried, but Duncan’s not budging. I’ve phoned every day since I found out, but he’s screening my calls. Oh, and he replied to my complaints email with a copy-and-pasted section from my contract, highlighting the part: “editorial changes are the sole discretion of the employer”. Seeing as he’s my employer, there’s not much I can do about it. If all else fails, I’ve got a Plan B.’

Moira frowns, distracted. She scans the screenshots on her phone. ‘What does “yokel” mean?’

I groan and try to think of a diplomatic way to say it. ‘Umm, someone who doesn’t know much about the “real world” because they’re a bumpkin.’

‘That doesn’t sound so bad. I am a country mouse, really.’

‘It also implies they’re really thick.’

‘Ah, OK,’ says Moira, her lips pursed. ‘Objectively, I disagree, but sometimes the country lets itself down. I knew this one guy, right. He did a naked belly-flop into a hay baler a few years back. That was pretty stupid.’

‘What happened?’

‘He chopped off all the fingers on his left hand because he didn’t realise there was a rotating blade in the machine. Idiot. It’s swings and roundabouts really, because he won £250 for getting the clip featured on You’ve Been Framed. Nowadays, it’s the first result that comes up when you Google him, so it hasn’t made job applications easy, I’ll bet.’

I lean over to the coffee table and rip off a corner of my cheese toastie, snatching glances at Moira, who reads the rest of the articles in silence, unlocking her phone every so often to compare extracts. After a few minutes, she shuts the laptop, puts it on the floor, and leans back with her fingers interlocked in her