Finding Audrey - Sophie Kinsella Page 0,50

well,” I say politely, “thank you anyway.” As she walks off, I grin at Linus, feeling a bit heady. “I did it!”

“You can talk to anyone.” He nods. “Next, why don’t you hire a soapbox and make a speech?”

“Great idea!” I say. “Let’s invite, like, a thousand people.”

“So the graph is going upwards. Miss Audrey is heading for the stars.” Linus knows about the jagged/not-jagged graph, because I told him about it. I drew it out and everything.

“Definitely.” I clink my coffee cup against his. “Miss Audrey is heading for the stars.”

Which just proves it: I’m in charge of my graph. Me. And if I want a straight graph, I’ll have a straight graph.

So at my next session with Dr. Sarah, I lie a little when I’m filling in my tick boxes.

Have you experienced worries most days? Not at all.

Do you find your worries difficult to control? Not at all.

She looks at the sheet with raised eyebrows when I hand it to her.

“Well. This is an improvement!”

“You see?” I can’t help saying at once. “You see?”

“Do you have any idea why you’ve improved so much this week, Audrey?” She smiles at me. “Life’s good, is it just that? Or anything else? Any changes?”

“Dunno.” I shrug innocently. “I can’t think of anything that’s changed in particular.”

Which is another lie. Something that’s changed is: I’ve stopped taking my meds. I just take the pills out of the blister packs and chuck them away in a screwed-up envelope. (Not down the loo, because all the chemicals get into the water or whatever.)

And guess what? I haven’t noticed a single difference. Which just proves I didn’t need them.

I haven’t told anybody. Well, obviously I haven’t, because they’d stress out. I’m going to wait, like, a month and then I’ll casually tell everyone and I’ll be like, you see?

“I told you,” I say to Dr. Sarah. “I’m cooked. I’m done. All better.”

Mum’s in an organizing mood. She’s sweeping around the house, tidying and shouting and saying “Whose shoes are these? What are they doing here?” and we’ve all hidden in the garden. I mean me, Frank, Linus, and Felix. It’s a warm day anyway, so it’s nice, just sitting on the grass, picking daisies.

There’s a rustling sound, and Dad appears round the side of the bush we’re lurking behind.

“Hi, Dad,” says Frank. “Have you come to join the Rebel Alliance?”

“Frank, I think your mother wants you,” says Dad.

Your mother. Code for: Don’t associate me with Mum’s latest nutty plan, I have nothing to do with it.

“Why?” Frank gives an unpromising scowl. “I’m busy.”

“Busy hiding behind a bush?” I say, and snort with laughter.

“You offered to help?” Dad says. “For the Avonlea fete catering? I think they’re starting.”

“I did not offer to help,” says Frank, looking outraged. “I did not offer. I was forced. This is forced labour.”

“You have such a great attitude,” I observe. “Helping your fellow man and everything.”

“I don’t notice you helping your fellow man,” Frank shoots back.

“I’ll help my fellow man.” I shrug. “I don’t mind making a few sandwiches.”

“Anyway, fellow man?” counters Frank. “That’s sexist. Glad you’re such a sexist, Audrey.”

“It’s an expression.”

“It’s a sexist expression.”

“I think we should go,” Dad cuts in. “Mum’s on the warpath.”

“I’m entertaining Linus,” says Frank, without moving an inch. “I’m entertaining a guest. You want me to abandon my guest?”

“He’s my guest,” I object.

“He was my friend first.” Frank glowers at me.

“I have to go anyway,” says Linus diplomatically. “Water polo practice.”

After Linus leaves, we hear Mum yelling, “Chris! Frank! Where are you!” in her most ominous You’ll-pay-for-this-later voice and it’s like we all realize there’s no point hiding out here anymore. Frank trudges back to the house looking like a condemned man and I take a few deep breaths because I’m feeling a little edgy.

I mean, I’m fine. I’m not panicking or anything. I’m just a tiny bit—

Well. A bit jittery. Dunno why. I’m probably just getting back to normal after all those months polluting my body with chemicals. I mean, when is the last time I knew what normal even was?

The kitchen is full of the most motley crew of people. There’s one old lady in an ancient purple suit and hair which is clearly a wig. There’s one middle-aged lady with plaits and sandals. There’s a plump couple who are wearing matching St. Luke’s Church sweatshirts. And a white-haired man on a mobility scooter.

The mobility scooter’s pretty cool, actually. But it is kind of getting in everyone’s way.

“Right!” Mum comes in and