Both to discover that it is, and also that it is not, Bea.
She is Schrödinger’s Bea.
She both exists behind me and simultaneously does not.
My mother looks around and waves viciously at poor Aileen. “Who’s in charge? Howdarethe staff speak to us this way. Do you know who we are?”
“You’re nobody,” Bea’s lovely voice says above me. “Absolutely fuckingnobody. Because onlynobodywould speak to another person the way you’re currently speaking to the best man I have ever known in my entire life. And my father set the bar high when it comes to judging men. Very, very,veryhigh.”
I would like my arsehole to stop answering for me now.
And for me to find my courage to look up at the angel currently hovering over my shoulder.
I can see her.
This room is full of mirrors, andI can see her.
Or her mirage.
Possibly she’s a ghost.
“Are you a ghost?” I ask the woman in the mirror angled perfectly to show her lovely face to me.
Dimples pop out of her cheeks as she dashes her hands over her eyes.
All five of them.
Dimples and cheeks and hands.
Bloody hell, I’ve forgotten how to count.
Gentle hands settle on my shoulders. “Who fed you dairy? Did they do that too?”
I point in my parents’ general direction. “I told you they were?—”
My arsehole interrupts me.
“—dreadful,” I finish, and even the wine can’t give the word enough gusto to recover from the utter wanker my arsehole is making of me.
“Butch?” Bea asks.
“Right here.” My security man shoves two supplements into my hand.
I leap on them as though they are a gazelle and I am a lion.
“What thefuckare you doing here?” a new voice says.
“Jake, meet Simon’s parents,” Bea says. “They’re paying the bill.”
My mother gasps.
My father goes the kind of red that makes my red wine look pink.
“Also, for your information, I just posted about your business on socials too,” Bea continues, her face aimed toward Jake. I think. The mirrors and the wine make it so bloody difficult to keep up.
“I don’t need your help,” Jake sneers.
Bea squeezes my shoulder when I attempt to rise.
