The New Girl (Downside) Read Online Free Page A

Dangerous.
Sexy
dangerous. Like a gypsy; maybe a pirate.
    But he doesn’t even turn his head in her direction. Feeling like a fool, she hurries towards the parking lot.
    Martin’s waiting by the car, kicking at the back tyre. ‘Where were you?’ he whines. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages.’
    Tara knows this isn’t true. She’s five minutes late, if that. ‘Sorry,’ she says anyway. ‘Hey, how was school?’
    He shrugs.
    ‘What would you like for supper?’ she asks brightly as he straps himself into the back seat. ‘How about chicken?’
    ‘I hate chicken,’ Martin mumbles.
    ‘Okay. Steak and fries, then.’
    ‘Whatever. Oh, and by the way, in
South Africa
we call them
chips
.’
    ‘Not at McDonalds,’ she says, trying to make a joke of it. ‘You order fries there, don’t you?’
    Martin mumbles something that sounds like ‘totally lame’.
    She zoots down the driveway, pausing to let a Land Rover with tinted windows pull out in front of her. The driver sticks her hand out of the window, waves her thanks with a flick of her
cigarette. Tara squeaks into the traffic, which, as soon as they reach the first intersection, slows to a crawl.
    Martin’s phone beeps out a gangsta-rap riff. ‘Ja?’ He sighs and kicks the back of her seat. ‘It’s Dad. Says he’s been trying to get hold of you.’
    She reaches back for the phone, which is slick with Martin’s palm sweat. ‘Hey, honey,’ she says into the handset, automatically checking the mirrors for cops.
    ‘Where’ve you been?’ Stephen says. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all day.’
    ‘Sorry. Problem with the network again. What’s up?’
    Stephen huffs as if the vagaries of her cell provider are her fault. ‘One of Olivia’s clients needs her to go to Cape Town.’
    ‘What? When?’
    ‘Tomorrow.’
    ‘
Tomorrow
? And she’s only just told you?’
    ‘It’s not her fault. They sprung it on her.’
    Bullshit, Tara thinks, smothering a bitter response. She hates it when Stephen defends Olivia, which he seems to do more and more these days, but she can’t let Martin hear her bitching
about his mother. ‘Right. So that means...?’
    ‘We’ve got Martin for another week.’
    Goddammit, Tara thinks. Just what I need. ‘Okay,’ she says, hating herself for giving in so easily. ‘No problem.’
    ‘You okay to man the fort? I’m going to the gym after work, might be back a bit late.’
    ‘I was hoping to get some work done tonight, Stephen.’ At least when Stephen’s around Martin is forced to be civil to her.
    A pause. ‘So? Martin’s hardly a baby. He can look after himself, can’t he?’
    ‘I guess.’
    ‘See you later.’
    ‘Love you.’ But he’s already hung up. In the rear-view mirror she sees Martin miming vomiting. She has to slam on the brakes as the taxi in front of her screeches to a halt,
feels the bite of the seat belt digging into her breasts.
    ‘Don’t you know how to drive?’ Martin says. ‘I could have
died
.’
    Good
, Tara thinks, furiously flicking on the radio and turning it up too loud. She does her best to concentrate on the Katy Perry track filling the car with perky good cheer, but her
palms are aching from gripping the steering wheel.
    Martin pushes past her the second she unlocks the security gate, making a beeline for the kitchen. Tara hesitates in the corridor. All she wants to do is lock herself into her sanctuary, but she
forces herself to follow in Martin’s wake, stepping over the shoes he’s kicked off, the discarded backpack that’s vomited pencil shavings, an apple core and textbooks over the
tiles. Whenever she’s alone with him, her insides feel like stretched rubber, a twanging anxiety that’s grinding her down. Sometimes she fantasises about secretly dosing him with
Ritalin, or even better, tranquilisers. Occasionally these fantasies turn darker – a swift plane or bus crash perhaps (instant and painless; she’s not a monster).
    Martin’s already foraging in the fridge.