Finding Audrey - Sophie Kinsella Page 0,13

do? He doesn’t want to be freaked out, but he is. Well, of course he is. His sister hides inside and wears dark glasses—what else could he be?

But Felix’s blue eyes are as transparent and clear and soothing as a drink of water. He knows pretty much nothing except the fact that he’s Felix.

“Hello, you,” I say, and press my face close against his.

“Hello, you.” He squashes up even closer. “Do you want to build a snowman?”

Felix has a bit of a Frozen obsession, for which I don’t blame him. I can relate to Queen Elsa myself. Only I’m not sure I’m going to melt the ice away by some random act of love. Chip it away with an ice pick, more like.

“Audrey.” I hear Frank’s voice. “Linus is here. He sent you this.”

My dark glasses are back on as I raise my head from Felix. Frank is holding out a folded sheet of paper.

“Oh,” I say, nonplussed, and take it from him. “OK.”

As Frank heads away, I unfold the sheet and read the unfamiliar handwriting.

Hi. Sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean to freak you out.

Linus

Oh God.

I mean, oh God on so many levels. First, he thinks he freaked me out. (Which he did, but not because he’s freaky.) Second, he feels the need to apologise, which makes me feel bad. Third, what do I do now?

I think for an instant, then write underneath:

No, I’m sorry. I have this weird thing. It’s not you.

Audrey

“Felix,” I say. “Go and give this to Linus. Linus,” I repeat as he stares at me with blank eyes. “Frank’s friend. Linus? The big boy?”

Felix takes the paper and looks at it carefully for a moment. Then he folds it up, puts it in his pocket, and starts playing with a train.

“Felix, go on,” I prod him. “Give it to Linus.”

“But it fits in my pocket,” he objects. “It’s my pocket paper.”

“It’s not yours. It’s a note.”

“I want a pocket paper!” He screws up his face to howl.

For God’s sake. In movies, they fix the note to a dog’s collar and it trots off obediently, no nonsense.

“OK, Felix, you can have a pocket paper,” I say in exasperation. “Whatever that is. Here you are.” I rip a page out of a magazine, fold it up and stuff it in his pocket instead. “Now give this one to Linus. In the playroom.”

When Felix finally leaves, I have no confidence that the note will reach its destination. It’s a thousand times more likely that Felix will feed it into the waste disposal or the DVD player or just forget it exists. I turn up You’ve Been Framed and try to forget about it.

But about two minutes later there’s Felix holding the note, saying excitedly, “Read it! Read the pocket paper!”

I unfold it—and Linus has added a new line. This is like a game of Consequences.

Frank explained. Must be tough for you.

I smooth the paper out on my knee and write:

It’s fine. Well, you know, not fine. It is what it is. Hope you’re winning. BTW, you were a great Atticus Finch.

I send the paper off with Felix the Wonder Dog and stare ahead at the screen—but I’m not watching You’ve Been Framed at all. I’m just waiting. I haven’t done anything like this in forever. I haven’t interacted with anyone except my safe people for…I don’t know. Weeks. Months. Before I know it, Felix is back, and I grab the paper from him.

Hey, thanks. Actually we’re tanking. Frank is shouting at me because I’m writing this. You are a bad influence, Audrey.

I look at the way he wrote my name. It feels intimate. It feels like he’s taken hold of a piece of me. I try to hear his voice saying the word. Audrey.

“Draw the words,” Felix is instructing me. He’s totally got into his role as go-between. “Draw the words.” He jabs the paper. “Words!”

I don’t want to give this paper to Felix anymore. I want to fold it up and keep it somewhere where I can look at it in private. Study his writing. Think about him forming my name with his pen. Audrey.

I grab a fresh piece of paper from the side table where all my school supplies are stacked and scribble on it.

Well, it’s been nice chatting or whatever. See you.

I send it off and half a minute later the reply comes:

See you.

I’m still holding the first paper; the one with my name on it. I press it to my face and