Читать книгу Trapped: The Terrifying True Story of a Secret World of Abuse онлайн | страница 45

With a look of delight, Phoebe scooted off to the sofa, where she sat with her legs clasped to her chest, rocking manically back and forth. Jamie’s shoulders visibly dropped and he picked up his fork, tucking into his lunch with relief. Annoyed that Phoebe had achieved what she’d wanted but determined not to spoil the rest of our meal, I chattered about where we should visit over the next few days, the weather – anything to try and lift the gloom Phoebe had left in her wake.

‘So,’ I said cheerfully, ‘what’s on the menu for this evening, Ems?’ Once a week Emily cooked an evening meal for the family and really went to town, setting the table with candles, embroidered placemats and napkins.

Emily opened her mouth to speak but Jamie butted in. ‘I wouldn’t mind having dinner on my lap again,’ he said drily, raising his eyebrows and staring down at his porridge-splattered trousers.

Emily roared with laughter. I chuckled, burying my head in my hands. It was the first spontaneous laugh the three of us had shared since her arrival. The morose atmosphere lightened in an instant. Thank goodness for a sense of humour, I thought.

Emily offered to wash up while I cleared the table. I was about to make a pile of the plates when I heard Emily gasp. Expecting to find Phoebe nibbling the remote, I spun around, shocked to see her half-inclined on the sofa, legs spread wide, with her jeans hanging at her ankles. With a look of frenzy on her face, she was panting and holding her knickers aside, trying to manoeuvre a pen inside the elastic. She looked like a young actress in a horror movie, the whites of her eyes on full display again. Emily was rooted to the spot, staring at the scene with her mouth gaping.

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