“I don’t know. About an hour, maybe two.”
Dad frowns. “OK, and then you’re coming straight back home?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh, I was just wondering when I should start Sunday lunch.” He disappears back behind his paper.
I’m just turning to leave when Mum appears. “Penny! Why are you up so early?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” I frown at her. “Why are you up so early? You do realize it’s Sunday?” Mum never normally gets up before ten on a Sunday; it’s the one day of the week she’s able to have a lie-in.
“I couldn’t sleep either.”
I shrug. “OK, well see you guys later.”
“How much later? Where are you going?” Mum asks.
“To the beach, to take some photos. I’ll be back by midday.”
“OK, well let us know if you decide to go anywhere else,” Dad says, peering at me over his paper.
“Will do. See you later.”
It’s only when I’ve gotten outside that I realize they’re probably still really paranoid about my last panic attack.
I send Dad a quick text.
Going to go down to the old pier
I guess it will make him feel a little better if he knows exactly where I’ll be.
• • •
The beach is completely deserted when I get there. It’s one of those bleak January days where the whole world seems to be painted in shades of grey. I kind of like it, though. I like being by myself with the sea and feeling as if the beach is my own private garden. I sit in the shelter of one of the shingles and watch the waves rolling out. And all of a sudden I’m engulfed by sorrow. It’s like now that I’ve finally stopped thinking about everything else—Elliot, my blog, school, Megan and Ollie—it’s left a space in my head for memories of Noah to rush into. I sit there for ages, rerunning everything that happened. I don’t feel angry anymore. I just feel sad. Finally, I force myself to get up. I need to think about something else. Something pain-free. I pick up my camera and head down to the old pier.
I love the old pier in Brighton. With its blackened, crumbling frame it looks like something from a spooky old film. And it looks even more atmospheric today with the wind whipping around it and the waves crashing at its legs. Behind me I hear a sharp whistle, like someone whistling for their dog.
I crouch down and zoom in on the pier thinking how cool it would be if I spotted the pale outline of a ghost hovering. I hear the whistle again, longer and more insistent this time. Maybe someone’s lost their dog or maybe it’s gone swimming in the sea. I turn around but I can’t see anyone. Then I spot a flash of color on top of the shingle where I was sitting. A flash of auburn. I instinctively train my camera on the object and zoom in.
“What the . . . ?”
I blink and look back through the lens.
Princess Autumn is sitting on top of the shingle. But it can’t be. I left her with Bella in New York. I start striding back up the beach, the pebbles crunching beneath my feet. There must be some explanation. I must have made a mistake. However, the closer I get, the more certain I become that it is her. I can see her blue velvet dress and the creamy-white color of her face and her hair billowing in the wind.
When I get within a few feet, I stop walking and look around. This has to be some kind of trick. But who’s playing it? And how? And why? Did Mum and Dad bring the doll home with them? Have they put it there? But why would they do that? It doesn’t make any sense. I turn and scan the length of the beach right down to the sea but there’s no one in sight at all. Then I hear a crunch on the stones behind me and I spin around.
“Oh my God!”
Noah is standing next to the shingle. He must have been crouching behind it. He’s wearing his leather jacket, black jeans, and scuffed boots, with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head.
“Bella told me she was missing you,” he says, nodding at Princess Autumn.
I’m actually unable to say a word. I’m so sure that I must be hallucinating, that this cannot be real.
Noah takes a step toward me and I instinctively take a step back.
“I need to speak to you,” he says with real urgency in his voice.
“But—I don’t understand.” A fresh gust of wind hits me straight in the face and snaps me back into reality. “Why did you—why did you lie to me?”
Noah looks down at the stones. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you the truth but I didn’t want to ruin everything.”
What?! Now my shock is giving way to anger. “Yes, I guess telling me you already had a girlfriend would have that kind of effect.”
Noah digs his hands into his jeans pockets. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I didn’t.”
“Oh my God.” I’m feeling really angry now. “Have you seriously come all this way just to carry on lying to me?”
“No—I—I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are! I’ve seen it all online. All the tweets and the articles and the—”
He interrupts me. “It’s all crap.”
“What? Even Leah Brown’s tweets about you?”
“Yes! Especially those.”
I glare at him. How can he lie so brazenly to me? And how can he expect me to believe him? “What do you mean ‘especially those’?”
Noah finally manages to look at me. “Her last album bombed. The record label was panicking. So, when they signed me, the marketing people said they wanted to orchestrate some kind of phony romance between us. They said it would help both our album sales. I didn’t want to go along with it but they said all it needed was a few staged photos and tweets. Although I couldn’t bring myself to do that bit,” he mutters. “It felt so sketchy. I hated it. I even thought about turning the deal down but I couldn’t; I’d signed a contract. I was locked in. So I figured, what the hell, it wasn’t as if I was actually going out with anyone. And then you came along.”