As my body slowly adjusts itself to the fact that it has to wake up and deal with a whole new day, I rub my eyes and look around my bedroom. Mum and Dad joke that they didn’t really need to wallpaper my room because pretty much every inch of wall is covered with photos. When I ran out of space recently, I started clipping pictures onto a line and stringing it like bunting over my bed. Most of these photos are of Elliot messing around on the beach, playing dress-up in his vintage clothes. There’s also my favorite photograph of Mum, Dad, and Tom, all sitting around the tree last Christmas morning, with steaming mugs of coffee nestled in their hands. I love capturing these special little moments in time. This picture also reminds me of the moment just after: when Mum spied me hiding with my camera around the corner and called me over to join them on the sofa and we all started singing a really silly version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” This is one of the things I love the most about photos: the way they can help you capture and relive moments of happiness forever.
I take my phone from my bedside table and turn it on. There’s a few seconds’ silence before it starts going crazy with email alerts. I go to my inbox and see that it’s crammed full of notifications from my blog. There have been loads of comments overnight. I pick my laptop up from the floor and open it, my heart pounding. Even though I’ve been running Girl Online for a year now, and even though my followers are really lovely and always post really positive things, I still have this crazy fear that one day it might all go wrong. What if they thought my post last night was too much—too heavy?
But it’s fine—in fact, it’s way better than fine. As I quickly scroll through the comments, I see words like “thank you,” “brave,” “honesty,” and “love” popping up again and again. I take a deep breath and start reading them properly. And what I read brings tears to my eyes.
Thank you for sharing this . . .
It sounds as if you’re suffering from panic attacks. Don’t worry, I get them too . . .
I thought I was the only one . . .
Now I know I’m not alone . . .
You’re bound to be shaken up after the accident . . .
Thank you for your honesty . . .
It will get better . . .
Have you tried relaxation techniques?
You’re so brave for sharing . . .
On and on they go until I feel as if I’m wrapped up in a toasty-warm blanket of love. In a way, it’s nice to know that “panic attacks” are an actual thing and not just my mind going crazy. There are things I can do to help myself feel more in control. I make a mental note to look them up later.
Downstairs, I hear my parents’ bedroom door opening and the soft thud of footsteps across the landing. I smile as I think of my dad on his way to make “Saturday Breakfast.” Elliot and I always give my dad’s “Saturday Breakfast” capital letters and speech marks because it is such a major event. I don’t think there’s a pan in the house that goes unused as he whips up bacon, three kinds of sausages, hash browns, and all kinds of eggs, with grilled herby tomatoes on the side and a stack of the fluffiest pancakes ever. My stomach starts rumbling just at the thought.
I knock on the wall five times—code for Are you awake? Straight away, Elliot knocks back three times—Can I come over? I knock back twice to say that he can. Now my whole body feels as if it’s grinning. Everything’s going to be OK. My panic attacks will go once the shock of the accident wears off. I’ll feel back to normal again soon. And in the meantime it’s “Saturday Breakfast”!
“Poached eggs or scrambled, Elliot?” Dad looks at Elliot expectantly. He’s wearing his usual Saturday-morning chef-ing gear: grey hoodie and sweatpants and a blue-and-white stripy apron.
“How are you scrambling them?” Elliot asks. In any other context this would be a pretty stupid question but not when it comes to my dad—he’s known for being able to scramble eggs in about two hundred different ways.
“Wiv some finely diced onions and a sprinkling of ze chives,” Dad replies in a fake French accent. He talks in a fake French accent a lot when he’s cooking—he thinks it makes him sound more chef-like.
“High five!” Elliot says, holding his hand up. Dad high-fives him with a wooden spoon. “Scrambled please.”
Elliot is wearing his pajamas and dressing gown. His dressing gown is silky and covered in a dark burgundy-and-green paisley pattern. He looks like he’s stepped straight out of an old black-and-white movie. All that’s missing is a pipe. I pour myself a glass of juice just as Tom trudges into the room. Further proof that Dad’s “Saturday Breakfast” is awesome—it actually gets Tom out of bed before 9 a.m. on a weekend day. Whether or not he is actually awake is another matter.
“Morning,” Elliot says just a little too loudly—for Tom’s benefit.
“Hmm,” Tom grunts, slumping into a chair and plonking his head on the table.
“Caffeine for Mister Tom,” Elliot says, pouring him a mug of rich, dark coffee from the cafetière.
Tom lifts his head just enough to take a sip. “Hmm,” he grunts again, his eyes shut tight.
There’s the most gorgeous smell of sizzling bacon coming from the stove. I start buttering myself a slice of bread to take my mind off my hunger. I think I might actually be about to drool.
“Hello! Hello!” Mum cries, wafting into the room.
She’s the only one of us who’s actually dressed, as she’s going off to open the shop as soon as she’s finished eating. As always, she looks stunning. She’s wearing an emerald-green shift dress that goes perfectly with her auburn curls. Whenever I wear green, I have the horrible feeling that I might look just like a walking Christmas decoration, but Mum always manages to style it out. She walks around the table, kissing each of us on top of the head. “And how are we all this fine December morning?”
“We are all just tickety-boo, thank you,” Elliot replies in his poshest voice.
“Splendid!” Mum replies in an even posher voice. She goes over to Dad and kisses him on the back of his neck. “It smells amazing, darling.”
Dad spins around and grabs her in a hug. We all avert our eyes. I guess it’s good that my parents still get on so well—that they don’t sit in bitter silence for hours on end like Elliot’s—but sometimes their PDAs are a little bit cringey.
“Are you still OK to help Andrea out in the shop this afternoon?” Mum asks, coming to sit next to me.
“Of course.” I turn to Elliot. “Do you fancy a trip around the Lanes this morning?”
Tom immediately groans. He hates anything to do with clothes and shopping—which is probably why he’s currently wearing a vile orange football top and red pajama bottoms.
“Of course,” Elliot replies. Elliot is most definitely my soul brother.
“And a trip to the 2p machines on the pier?” I add hopefully.
“Of course not,” Elliot replies with a frown. I flick him with my napkin. As Mum gets up to fetch some maple syrup from the cupboard, Elliot leans in close to me and whispers, “OMG, your blog last night was amazing. Did you see all the comments?”
I nod and grin, feeling stupidly proud.
“I told you it would go down well,” Elliot says smugly.
“What went down well?” Mum asks, coming back to the table.
“Nothing,” I say.
“The Titanic,” Elliot says.