Flip by Martyn Bedford Read Free Book Online

Flip’s features—his hands, the shape of his face—were all wrong; he was too dark, too tall, too different to be a Gray. No, Alex and Philip weren’t twins, but there remained the coincidence—too amazing to be a coincidence—that fourteen years and eight months ago, they’d come into existence on the very same day.
    It felt like a revelation. What it revealed, though, Alex had no idea.
    Back at the Garamonds’, there was his first dinner to survive. Spaghetti Bolognese. Flip’s parents were drinking wine. So was Teri. No way would Mum and Dad let him drink alcohol at the tea table even if he was seventeen. They wouldn’t have drunk themselves when there was work the next day. And they’d not all be eating together like this, as a family. At home, except on special occasions, Alex and Sam ate off their laps while they watched TV. Mum and Dad had their dinner later. As for the food, Mum wasn’t a bad cook; it was just … actually, she was bad. Dad was worse. But Alex was used to their cooking; they knew what he’d eat and what he wouldn’t. After the croissants fiasco, he’d been dreading this meal. But Alex loved spag bol. And this was the best he’d ever tasted. The garlic bread, too. Fantastic. Homemade . Even the salad was edible, if you pushed the tomatoes and bits of beetroot to the side of your plate. And the spring onion. And the radish.
    “This is absolutely delicious, Mrs. Garamond,” Alex said.
    The dad looked up from his plate, mouth open in mid-chew. The sister let out a snort. Flip’s mother rescued Alex, unwittingly, by playing along with the “joke.” “Why thank you, young man—you may dine with us again.”
    She laughed and the others did, too, if a little uncertainly. Alex flushed and concentrated on his food, head down. Mrs. Garamond . What had he been thinking ?
    Again, the mother bailed him out, with a change of subject. “There won’t be time in the morning,” she said, addressing Teri, “so I’ve put a packed lunch in the fridge for you. Remind me to remind you to take it out when you leave for school.”
    Flip’s dad ripped off a piece of garlic bread. “What’s this, then, Ter?” he said, dunking the bread in his Bolognese. “You off somewhere?”
    “Malham,” she said. “Geology field trip.”
    “Limestone pavement,” the dad said, eating and talking. “Clints and grikes.”
    “Thanks for that, Dad.” Teri acknowledged him with a wave of her fork. “I don’t need to go on the trip now—you’ve taught me all there is to know.”
    “I’ll bet you didn’t know that limestone—”
    “ Chin , Michael,” Flip’s mum said, pointing. “Sauce.”
    They were posh, the parents. Posher than the daughter. Less Yorkshire —not Yorkshire at all, really. Alex stole a glance at Flip’s dad. About fifty. Going thin on top. Glasses. His stubble was dark, bluey black, and when he wiped his chin, you could hear the rasp of the napkin (a proper cloth one). Alex wondered what he did for a job. The mum, too. He pictured her owning a boutique. As for the dad, something office-y, given the flabby jowls and belly; he was like a gone-to-seed version of Flip.
    “How did you get on at nets?” the dad said suddenly. He didn’t look up from his food as he spoke, so it took Alex a moment to realize that the question was for him. Nets? What are nets? Before he could think of how to answer, Flip’s father, perhaps seeing his confusion, added, “Isn’t it cricket practice after school on a Tuesday?”
    “It is, dear,” Mrs. Garamond said, “but today’s Monday.”
    “Is it?”
    “He had something after school,” Teri said. “He was later home than me . ”
    Alex looked at her across the table. Did she know about Ms. Sprake’s keeping him back? Teri was in the sixth form, he figured, but maybe she’d heard about his run-in with Johannsen and was set to drop him in it. She didn’t. She was working another angle. Smirking, she said, “Donna, yeah? Biology