Finding Audrey - Sophie Kinsella Page 0,3

clip on my iPad, Mum sits down and looks around the room. She’s trying to act casual, but I can sense her beady blue eyes scanning my piles of stuff, looking for…what? Anything. Everything. The truth is, Mum and I haven’t done casual for a while. Everything is loaded.

With everything that’s happened, that’s one of the saddest things of all. We can’t be normal with each other anymore. The tiniest thing I say, Mum’s all over it, even if she doesn’t realize it. Her brain goes into overdrive. What does it mean? Is Audrey all right? What’s Audrey really saying?

I can see her looking closely at a pair of old ripped jeans on my chair, as though they hold some dark significance. Whereas in fact the only significance they hold is: I’ve grown out of them. I’ve shot up about three inches in the last year, which makes me five eight. Quite tall for fourteen. People say I look like Mum, but I’m not as pretty as her. Her eyes are so blue. Like blue diamonds. Mine are wishy-washy—not that they’re particularly visible right now.

Just so you can visualize me, I’m fairly skinny, fairly nondescript, wearing a black vest-top and skinny jeans. And I wear dark glasses all the time, even in the house. It’s…Well. A thing. My thing, I suppose. Hence the “celebrity” quips from Rob our neighbour. He saw me in my dark glasses, getting out of the car in the rain, and he was all like, “Why the shades? Are you Angelina Jolie?”

I’m not trying to be cool. There’s a reason.

Which, of course, now you want to know.

I assume.

OK, it’s actually quite private. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell you yet. You can think I’m weird if you like. Enough people do.

“Here we are.” I find a clip of some LOC battle with “Archy” commentating. “Archy” is a YouTuber from Sweden who makes videos that Frank loves. They consist of “Archy” playing LOC and making funny commentaries on the game, and as I expected, it takes me forever to explain this concept to Mum.

“But why would you watch someone else playing?” she keeps saying, baffled. “Why? Isn’t that a complete waste of time?”

“Well. Anyway.” I shrug. “That’s LOC.”

There’s silence for a moment. Mum is peering at the screen like some professor trying to decipher an ancient Egyptian code. There’s an almighty explosion and she winces.

“Why does it always have to be about killing? If I designed a game it would centre on ideas. Politics. Issues. Yes! I mean, why not?” I can tell her brain’s firing up with a new idea. “What about a computer game called Discuss? You could keep the competitive element, but score points by debating!”

“And that is why we’re not squillionaires,” I say, as though to a third party.

I’m about to find another clip, when Felix comes running into the room.

“Candy Crush!” he says in delight as soon as he spies my iPad, and Mum gasps in horror.

“How does he know about that?” she demands. “Turn it off. I’m not having another addict in the family!”

Oops. It may possibly have been me who introduced Felix to Candy Crush. Not that he has any idea how to play it properly.

I close down the iPad and Felix stares at it, crestfallen. “Candy Crush!” he wails. “I want to play Candy Cruuuuush!”

“It’s broken, Felix.” I pretend to press the iPad. “See? Broken.”

“Broken,” affirms Mum.

Felix looks from us to the iPad. You can sense his mind is working as hard as his four-year-old brain cells will let him.

“We must buy a plug,” he suggests, with sudden animation, and grabs the iPad. “We can buy a plug and fix it.”

“The plug shop’s closed,” says Mum, without missing a beat. “What a shame. We’ll do it tomorrow. But guess what? We’re going to have toast and Nutella now!”

“Toast and Nutella!” Felix’s face bursts into joyous beams. As he throws up his arms, Mum grabs the iPad from him and gives it to me. Five seconds later I’ve hidden it behind a cushion on the bed.

“Where did the Candy Crush go?” Felix suddenly notices its disappearance and screws up his face to howl.

“We’re taking it to the plug shop, remember?” says Mum at once.

“Plug shop.” I nod. “But hey, you’re going to have toast and Nutella! How many pieces are you going to have?”

Poor old Felix. He lets Mum lead him out of the room, still looking confused. Totally outmaneuvered. That’s what happens when you’re four. Bet Mum wishes