My mother’s mouth resembles a newly-stitched operation scar, her eyes steely.
David’s mother, Katje, is pale and quivering; the bolt of animosity that shot between the pair in the Arrivals Hall had been almost palpable.
“How’s Bill?” Katje whispers.
My mother spits the words with relish, and I turn, astonished to hear her speak of Dad this way.
David and I exchange worried glances.
“About our wedding arrangements…” I falter, gripping David’s hand.
But catching sight of our reflections in the mirrored corridor, our shared red hair, our green eyes, I see there can be no wedding.
I hope all Friday Fictioneers enjoyed the festive season and that we’ve returned refreshed and revitalised, ready to punch some wonderful tales into our lap-tops in 2016. Thanks to Rochelle, our able and multi-talented leader, for guiding our group through 2015; happy to see her at the helm again for 2016.