Beautiful Broken Things(Beautiful Broken Things #1)(24)

She looked almost disappointed. ‘Really? Everyone says “Let It Be”.’

‘Only the people who don’t say “Here Comes the Sun”.’

‘Touché,’ Suzanne’s whole face broke into a grin and she looked animated for the first time since we’d left the cinema. I mentally pocketed this nugget for future reference. If in doubt, talk about the Beatles.

She fixed the Post-it note to her wall, close to the sheet music for Penny Lane. She was still smiling.

‘I’m flattered I’m going to be on your wall,’ I said, looking at the jumble of her life spread across the room, which now, however inexplicably, included me.

Before Suzanne could respond, there was the sound of the front door opening and closing and then footsteps across the hall.

‘Suzie?’

‘We’re in here,’ Suzanne called.

Sarah’s face appeared around the door. Her hair was wet and she looked anxious. ‘How are you?’ She came into the room and leaned her head slightly to shake droplets from her hair.

‘You heard?’ Suzanne asked, avoiding the question. There was something in her voice I couldn’t translate.

‘Your dad called your mother, and she called me.’ Sarah glanced at me, and even though she smiled I could see the tension in her face. ‘Hello, Caddy.’

‘I should probably go home,’ I said, realizing that Sarah probably wanted to talk to Suzanne without me in the way.

‘I’ll drive you,’ Sarah offered.

‘Oh, that’s OK,’ I said automatically. ‘It’s not far.’

‘But it’s pouring,’ Sarah protested, pointing at her own wet hair. ‘I can’t have you walking home in the rain.’

‘Why don’t you stay for dinner?’ Suzanne suggested. ‘Maybe it’ll have stopped raining later.’

‘I’m sure Caddy needs to be getting home,’ Sarah said pointedly.

Suzanne ignored this and fixed me with a surprisingly hopeful look. ‘Stay for dinner?’

I thought of the way she’d squeezed my hand on the bench, like I was the last tether on a sinking ship. My handwriting on a piece of yellow paper on her wall.

I stayed for dinner.

There were two open evenings that week at Esther’s, so I was too busy to see either Rosie or Suzanne until the following weekend. The open evenings fell on the Wednesday and Thursday evenings, and were the stressful highlight of the Esther’s calendar. Everyone in Year 11 was expected to be there, polished and preened to perfection. Kesh and I were tasked with looking after a group of Year 9s, awkward and bolshie, in the English block.

When I got home that evening, exhausted and dry-mouthed from all the talking, I opened Facebook to see a long conversation underway between Suzanne and Rosie. They were making plans for the weekend. Rosie wanted to go somewhere; Suzanne wanted to stay put. I read through the messages until I was up-to-date and back down to earth, away from the Esther’s bubble. They’d agreed to go out on Friday – a friend from school’s birthday party, to which I was clearly (thankfully) not invited – and then stay in on Saturday evening. Suzanne suggested baking at her house, because that way Sarah could go out for the evening without worrying. The idea of baking on a Saturday evening was so unexpected it was almost charming.

This was the point when they stopped jabbering at each other and resorted to variants of ‘Caddy? Are you in? CADDY!’ until I typed my agreement, beaming to myself alone in my room.





When I got to Suzanne’s on Saturday Rosie was already there, and the two of them were huddled together at the kitchen table, poring over the cookbook.

‘You’ve got everything you need, Suzie?’ Sarah asked for what can’t have been the first time, judging by the look on Suzanne’s face. It was weird to hear her be called Suzie. It just didn’t fit right.

‘Yes, we have everything we need,’ Suzanne confirmed. She smiled at me and said, in a much brighter voice, ‘Hey! Ready to bake?’

‘That’s a nice jacket,’ Rosie said to me when I sat on the stool next to her. ‘Tarin’s?’

‘Tarin’s.’ I leaned over and tilted the book so I could see it. ‘What are we making?’

‘Macaroons,’ Suzanne said happily. ‘The best things ever.’

‘MacaRONS,’ Sarah corrected distractedly, striding past us and poking her head into what had to be the pantry. ‘Where’s my purse?’

‘Macaroooooooons,’ Suzanne said, unruffled. She was grinning. ‘Your purse is probably still on your bed.’

‘Could you grab it for me?’ Sarah reached into the pantry and pulled out, of all things, her car keys.

Suzanne went without complaint.

‘You girls have fun, and feel free to call me any time if there’s a problem. My number’s on the fridge,’ Sarah said to Rosie and me. She was smiling, but her eyes seemed anxious. She lowered her voice slightly. ‘Make sure you don’t leave Suzanne on her own for too long, particularly in the kitchen.’

She said this last point just as Suzanne walked back into the kitchen, brandishing the purse. For a moment I thought she hadn’t heard, but then she looked at me and Rosie and said, head slightly cocked, completely deadpan, ‘I’m not allowed to be left alone with the oven in case I stick my head in it.’