Lime and Soda ✓

eleven - displaced

Date. This is the word at the forefront of my mind when I wake up on Sunday morning. It sounds foreign to me, unexplained. I don't know what this word means, what it entails. It is something that never happens to me. Add two more words and the sentence becomes date with Jay, which are three words that I would never, ever put within a mile of each other. Not because I don't want to but because, as I have already explained, he is the whole world, the whole galaxy, and I am Pluto.

The sun shines through my window, onto my face, a shaft of slanting, pale early morning light. What date is it today? July the eighth. Summer here is going fast.

My skin is looking better today. Aside from the alcohol I had last night, I've been sticking to my detox like glue, and it seems to be paying off. Maybe I could wear a short sleeved shirt today? No. Better not. I don't want Jay asking any more questions, looking right through me with those ridiculous eyes of his. Better to cover my arms in gaffa tape, stick my sleeves to my hands.

I'm disrupted from my train of thought by the front door slamming downstairs, and the house erupting into noise. This is weird. Bea never slams the front door. It's not Astrid, there's more than one voice. Astrid and Celia? No, I'd recognise their voices. Whoever it is (it sounds like Bea) stops shrieking in delight, and I hear another voice, male, deeper, calmer. He says a few words to Bea, and they all go into the kitchen and shut the door.

I'm paralysed with curiosity. When I can finally force myself to move, I leap out of bed, shower and dress in record time, slap my foundation on to hide the paler but still noticeable circles of pink skin around my eyes, and run downstairs. Three people are clustered around the kitchen table, and I almost trip over bags and suitcases as I stumble into the room. One of the people is Bea; she is holding another's arm, wiping her eyes, looking tearful. This person is a girl, a young woman, twenty maybe, twenty-one. She has the same pale blond hair I share with Bea, the same beautiful grey eyes, though she is tall and willowy, made of silver. I take in all the rings on her fingers and in her ears, one in her nose. She wears jeans, tight, they cling to her slim, tall frame, end in chunky boots, Doc Martens. A subtle tattoo of a tree crawls up her arm. I know who this is. It's my cousin Jules.

'Violet!' she cries as I appear into the kitchen. 'My goodness, I haven't seen you for years! How grown up you are!' She always talks to me like I'm a seven year old, which is something I resent. She also has a very posh London accent. I don't know where it originated, because although she went to university in London to do a silver-smithing course, she was born and bred in this very house in Dorset. It seems as though she's more of a city girl.

After Jules (not Julia, as we're always reminded) has given me a hug, the third person moves forward to say hello. This is my cousin Elliot, Bea's second-eldest. He's twenty-three (I think), and has just finished his masters course in philosophy at Oxford - he's the clever one of the family. He's practically identical to his younger sister: tall, long legged, blond. You can tell we're all related. It's what sets my mum apart from the rest of us, with her dark, wild waves, from her dad's side.

I haven't seen either of my cousins for two years - last summer, they stayed at uni to work. I look towards Bea questioningly. She's still dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

'Oh, I can't believe it! Two of my little ones back home again!' she trills, ruffling Elliot's hair, though he's at least a foot and a half taller than her. 'Why didn't you tell me you were coming?'

'It was a last minute decision,' says Jules breathlessly. 'I had some time off work, and El came to see me, and we decided to come home and see you. I'd forgotten you would be here, actually, Violet.'

Ouch. She doesn't mean it like that, I'm sure, but Jules has always been too blunt. No filter. Says what she's thinking, which is often what you don't want to hear.