“Um . . .” I scoop the shell into my palm using a wet cloth. “I mean . . . I guess so. Yeah, kinda. I think it depends on which angle you’re attacking it from, though.”
Harry cocks his head to the side and hums.
“Like, okay, if you’re approaching it from an upside down angle, it doesn’t really matter how clean the dick is, you’re still gonna get two nostrils full of anus.”
And now Harry’s choking on his saliva. I slap him hard between the shoulder blades, which seems to do the trick.
“Good thing I wasn’t drinking right then.”
I have to turn my back to him to cook the eggs and mash the avocado, but when I spare him an over-the-shoulder glance, he’s reading my May edition ofVogue. Billie Ellish is on the cover, simultaneously looking like a grandmother from the sixties and a toddler playing dress-up. Also featured on the cover is a giant red-pump-wearing leg. It’s arty, I guess . . .
For a while, the bubbling of the egg water and the soft crinkling of paper are the only sounds to be heard.
“Is this your stepmum’s magazine?” he asks.
I have to check with a backwards glance that he hadn’t shoved asideVoguein favour of one of Juliette’s horse magazines. “No, that one’s mine.”
I feel his eyes on me, working out whether the magazine does in fact belong to me or if I’m messing around. Today I’m wearing a black Vivienne Westwood kilt and black shirt. Harry must conclude I’m telling the truth. Either that or he just doesn’t comment further on it.
“Do you like her?” he says.
“Juliette?” I place a mug of coffee in front of him. “I only have oat milk. Is that okay?”
Harry nods, pours oat milk into the cup, and stares into the swirling depths with a curious curve to his lips. “Yeah. Do you get on okay with her?”
“Well . . . her favourite drink is a strawberry daiquiri.” I shrug, knowing full well that I didn’t answer Harry’s question, and turn my back to him once again to attend to the eggs. “Juliette only really cares about three things: horses, riding, and her riding trainer. His name is Gabriel.”
“Oh. Does your dad know?” he asks, then sips his coffee. I hear his tongue smacking the roof of his mouth as he gets the full measure of oat milk.
“Honestly, fuck knows. I kind of hope not. She’s figured out this life for her, and yeah . . . good on her, I suppose. She works for my dad’s company. Executive of sustainability or some shit like that. She didn’t have the job before she met him. They actually met at a big art-buying festival type thing, and then he created that job for her. That’s kind of what he does with his wives—well, except for my mum—but when he gets bored, he’ll find some way to oust them from his company and it’s on to the next one. To be honest, I’m waiting for him to create an entirely pointless position for me. He’ll say it’s because he loves me and wants to see me do well, but we all know it’s about . . . not that.”
Control. That’s the word I couldn’t quite get out.
I’m concentrating on swirling the water for the eggs, so I can’t look at Harry to determine if he’s read the subtext in my words. I kind of want to tell him more. I want to tell him all about my dad. About how little I see of the man who created me, how little interest he’s shown in me over the nineteen years of my life.
How, since Mum died, I’ve felt so achingly alone.
But I’ve known Harry for exactly eighteen hours, so I keep my mouth closed.
“Do you wanna hang out today?” Harry asks, and the sheer gratitude I feel at the change of subject brings a welt to my throat.
“Sure, what do you want to do?” I plate up his eggs and drop the dish in front of him.
He drags his knife over the yolk, tearing it and spilling its creamy yellow guts over the china. “These eggs are huge.”
“They’re duck eggs,” I say, plating mine up and sitting opposite him at the breakfast bar. “Do you want to go to the pub for Sunday roast later?”
“The pub we went to last night?” Harry’s speaking with his mouth full, and I’m not even annoyed by it.
“Yeah. Owen Bosley owns it,” I reply.
Harry pulls a face like he found a hair in his food. “Will Mathias Jones be there again?”
“Probably. They’re pretty much an item.”
“No thanks, then,” Harry says matter-of-factly and scoops more egg into his mouth.
“Oh my god, you hate Mathias Jones.” I don’t know why this brings me as much joy as it does. “I need to know everything.”
