“She fussed around him like a mother hen, picking flecks of dust from his jacket, patting down his hair, constantly touching him. He drove like some old duffer who had just passed his test. Twenty-eight miles an hour, weaving across the white line and fiddling with the air conditioning, winding the windows up and down, trying to find the right channel on the radio. Both of them wanted to listen to some play. ‘You don’t mind, do you, dear?’ Mrs Dyce turned and asked her. Roxy didn’t mind. She was... tired, felt her eyes heavy with sleep, but she was trying desperately to stay awake. They could listen to anything they wanted, as long as it wasn’t the news. Because the news just might be about her, and she might have to listen to her mother, tearful, begging her to come home – or would she? Maybe she wouldn’t even bother with any kind of appeal and deep down that was what frightened Roxy more than anything else. She was scared too that if they heard her mother on the radio, they would know she’d lied – that her whole story was lies, and then, what would they do?MoreLessRead More Read Less
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