Elliot groans. “Oh god, what’s he going to put in it this time?”
“No idea. Remember that time he added pineapple to one of the layers to make it Hawaiian style?”
“I actually liked that one! I was more thinking about that time he heard that in Mexico they use chocolate in their sauces, so he melted a bar of Dairy Milk into the bolognese!”
“That was pretty gross,” I concede. “Maybe I should tell him to stick to breakfasts.”
“Nah, you know I love your dad’s experimenting, even if it doesn’t always work out. I mean, who thought putting ready salted crisps on top of a lasagna would make it so delicious and crunchy? He should patent that recipe. Move over, Jamie Oliver!”
All the talk of food makes time seem to disappear, and before we know it we’re back in front of my house. Elliot doesn’t even look at his front door but follows me straight through mine. A rich smell of herbs and frying meat greets us as we step inside.
“Something smells amazing!” Elliot calls out from behind me.
Dad appears in the hallway, wearing a lopsided chef’s hat. “Tonight it’s lasagna Greek style! Feta! Oregano! Lamb! Aubergine!”
“So it’s moussaka?”
“Oh, no.” Dad waggles a spatula at me. “It’s still going to be a lasagna. And wait until you see what it’s got on top . . .”
“Please, please, please not olives!” I wrinkle my nose.
“Even better . . . anchovies!”
Both Elliot and I groan.
“Hello, happy people!”
“Tom!” I turn round and squeal as my brother pushes open the door, followed by his long-term girlfriend, Melanie. “Happy birthday!”
“Thanks, Pen-Pen!” He throws his arm round me and ruffles my hair.
“Hey! Stop it,” I say, shaking him off. I skip past him to Melanie and give her a big hug. “Hi, Mel, how are things?”
“Great, thanks, Penny. Can’t wait to try what your dad’s been cooking up.”
I laugh. “Should be interesting, as always!”
The next few hours are a blur of food and laughs, wrapping me in a warm blanket as comforting as Mum’s old woolly cardigan, which I take with me whenever I have to get on an aeroplane. The Greek lasagna turned out perfectly (even if I took off all the slimy little fish and passed them to Tom) and now everyone is relaxed round the table: Mum talking to Melanie about her next wedding (a Cabaret-themed affair in Soho), Tom and Elliot laughing at one of Dad’s jokes.
An idea strikes me. I slip out of my seat and pad out into the hallway, grabbing my camera, which I’d left next to my backpack.
When I return, I turn the lens on my family—capturing their smiles and laughter. This is something “uniquely Penny.” It’s everyone I love, all in one room.
I look down at the photograph again. Well . . . almost everyone.
17 September
Seeing Ghosts
Thanks to everyone for their support on the last blog. Sorry I had to close comments—it was getting a bit out of hand. Maybe, though, we can get through this together? You guys always have the best advice.
For me, right now, the hardest thing to deal with is the ghosts. I don’t mean actual ghosts (at least, I hope not) but the shadows—the imprints—of the missing person that are left all around in my everyday life, ready to spring out at me at any moment and stop my heart all over again.
Every time I walk round a corner there’s another reminder of him. Even though I’m sure he must be far away from where I am, I keep thinking that I see him in a crowd of people just ahead of me. Once I even stalked some poor boy down the street, and when he turned round—of course it wasn’t him. It was just someone else with dark hair.
Am I going crazy? You know that saying that goosebumps happen when someone walks over your grave? That’s the same feeling I get—shivery, cold, a little bit scared—and it always makes me feel a bit pathetic. What can I do to drive the ghosts away and feel normal again?
Girl Online, going offline xxx
Chapter Three
After publishing the blog post two days ago, three main pieces of advice stood out from all the comments:
1. Surround yourself with friends and family. –Done.
2. Distract yourself: get out and do more exciting things, until the memories of him start to fade away. –That maybe I can do more of.
3. Move on. –Yeah, that’s Elliot’s main advice too. And yet somehow I don’t think it’s going to happen.
So I decided to try method number two. And, in order to distract myself, I accept an invitation that’s been sitting in my text messages for a couple of weeks now. Megan has been asking me to come up and visit her in London at the Madame Laplage School for the Arts—where she’s in the sixth form. It’s a really prestigious place and I’m super proud of her for getting in. It was such a big deal that she even featured in the local newspaper under the headline: SCHOOLGIRL WINS PLACE AT ACADEMY FOR THE STARS. Loads of famous actors and actresses have graduated from there (“As Megan never fails to remind you,” says Elliot), but it’s not just drama for which the school is famous. There are also musicians, dancers, artists—probably even a few photographers. She also has to live on campus, so in a way it’s like she’s already gone off to uni. Despite her crazy and sometimes arrogant ways, I do miss her.
“COME UP AND VISIT ME,” shouted one of her most recent texts. “You’ll love it.”