But quietly, so would I.
We follow her and step through a second set of bifold doors and into the dining room. A cat brushes against my legs, a plump off-white thing with so much fur, it looks like it’s wearing an oversized Afghan coat. Perhaps sensing I’m not an animal person, Liv shoos it away.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Cat Face doesn’t believe in personal space.’
‘Cat Face?’ I repeat.
‘It’s what happens when you let your kids name the family pet.’
She stops like she’s a guide at an art gallery expecting us to admire a painting.
‘It used to be so bright and floral in here,’ Liv continues. ‘Like Orla Kiely walked into the room and exploded. Not the aesthetic we wanted.’
‘Margot,’ chirps Anna, ‘didn’t you help decorate this place for the last owners?’
I silently curse her.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Liv says. ‘I hope I didn’t offend.’
‘Not at all,’ I reply. ‘I showed them a couple of Pinterest boards, that’s all.’
The main lounge follows, and then we are upstairs, where Liv and Brandon’s room reminds me of an over-styled boutique hotel room, with its panelled walls, low-level lighting, carpets so deepyou can’t see your toes, and floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books. No one could possibly read this number of novels in their lifetime. I’d swap another kidney for some of the outfits in her walk-in wardrobe. I’ll never give her the satisfaction of admitting it aloud, but her sense of style is impeccable.
‘And the best part of this room?’ Grinning, she opens the wardrobe and inside is a minibar. Now we’re talking. She removes a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot from a fridge and, before asking if we want a glass, a cork flies through the air and disappears into the carpet.
‘Sit, sit,’ she encourages, and Anna and I sink into a chaise longue under the window while she plonks herself on a bed that could fit a football team.
I can’t help but wonder why she’s holed up in this room with two relative strangers while her old friends and potential investors are outside making the most of her hospitality.
Tears fill her eyes. This, I was not expecting. Anna and I look to one another.
‘Liv, are you okay?’ Anna asks and moves towards her, putting a hand on hers.
‘I’m sorry,’ Liv says as she takes a handful of tissues from a chrome box on a nightstand. As she stretches, her dress reveals the outline of what looks like a belly bar in her navel. Newsflash, Liv: this isn’t 1996, and you’re not a Spice Girl.
‘I think it’s only just hit me this barbecue is sort of a farewell party,’ she continues. ‘Only, most of the people I’ve spent my adult life being around don’t know it yet. That version of me, she feels like a stranger. I want to start the new year living a normal life amongst normal people.’
Normal?Isn’t that another way of saying boring? So first I’m fat and now I’m dull.
‘I never truly fitted in down there,’ she moans. ‘I was always playing a part. But here, I want to be myself. And only today has it registered that it’s no longer a pipedream. It’s actually happening.’
Quite the oversharer, isn’t she? When tears spill again, I beat Anna to the punch, slide on to Liv’s bed and wrap my arm around her. Christ, she’s skinny. It’s like comforting a chopstick. Her head tilts towards my shoulder, and before I can stop it, a blob of wet mascara drops on to my pink top. The thanks I get for being a nice person.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Let me get a cloth. It should be okay, polyester doesn’t usually stain.’
‘It’s silk,’ I reply.
‘You girls really are too kind,’ she says to us both.
‘You’re one of us now,’ says Anna.
Liv’s face crinkles and her smile returns.
‘If you make her cry mascara tears again, you’re paying for this to be dry-cleaned,’ I warn Anna.
They laugh as if I’m joking.
Chapter 6
