The drive back is long, dark and silent. Aimee’s still in a mood with me for not believing her mum and dad’s story. It’s a forty-minute drive back to Swansea—so Thank God for radios.
Just as we turn off for the city centre, Aimee finally speaks. “You should at least pretend that you’re interested.”
Relieved that she’s finally broke the silence (even though it’s not to apologise), I turn down the radio to speak. “I did try to pretend. I tried my hardest. In fact, I should have got a b****y Oscar. But there’s only so much fake-smiling you can do for one afternoon.”
“Well you should have tried harder. I do for your mother.”
“What are you talking about? Mum doesn’t tell us ridiculous ghost stories.”
“No, but she bores me with stories about you and your cousins. And b****y cooking.”
“Cook
