I raised an eyebrow. “Why do you want an early start on a Saturday morning?” My sister was a notorious late riser on the weekends. She flipped houses for a living and spent Monday to Friday on job sites, bossing about construction workers which meant starts earlier than seven am a lot of the time.
“I’m viewing a few houses tomorrow afternoon,” she said, knocking back the margarita and gesturing to the bartender for another two. “Time for a few new projects.”
I finished my own drink and felt slightly less cranky. Ava felt the same way I did when a project was finished. “Why can neither of us accept when we’re between jobs and just relax like normal people?”
“Because we’re not normal people,” Ava said. “We’re Callaghans.”
* * *
Despite having invested in the biggest bed I could find, I woke up each morning tucked onto one side, as if leaving room for an imaginary boyfriend. It had been a long time since anyone had been on that side on a regular basis: my last boyfriend had been booted nearly three years ago, and although I’d had a few casual relationships since then, no one had been under my sheets for more than three separate occasions. I’d been burnt, and not just when I was a teenager, but since. There had been Matt, who was an investment banker: charming, intelligent and charismatic, he’d treated me like a princess and in my head I’d picked out the names of our children and where we’d hold our wedding reception. In his head, he already had a wife and a piece on the side, which happened to be me. I’d found out when I’d met Claire for a meal in an upmarket restaurant and he’d been gazing into his wife’s eyes instead of mine. Somehow, I’d not lost the plot. Instead, I’d taken a photograph and sent it to him and then watched him finish his meal absolutely petrified that I was about to come over and cause a scene.
Then there’d been Gary. He’d healed my heart and promised me the world for two years. For a few months we’d even lived together. He was a teacher and played soccer every Saturday afternoon, taking me out for lunch on a Sunday and tolerating my twin brother, Seph. One evening I’d come home from work to an apartment empty of all his belongings and a note apologising, telling me he’d met someone else and wanted to end it before anything physical happened. And that had been three years ago and there had only been men worthy of up to three nights since.
I stretched out across the mattress, enjoying the coolness of the sheets and the space. We’d left Silvia’s early last night, avoiding any more wankers and I’d strolled home to a hot chocolate with a dash of whisky and my book, the latest in a series set in an interesting club in Seattle. It was making me wonder if such clubs existed in London and how to discover one without alerting my siblings. Lazily, I checked my phone, knowing there would be a couple of messages from Seph at least. My twin was still struggling to find himself since splitting from his very long-term girlfriend and needed frequent mollycoddled. He had managed to move in with Max and his girlfriend, Victoria, but given that they had six bedrooms and countless reception rooms I didn’t feel too sorry for them.
Callum:Is it tonight Max is having this house party?
Claire:Yes. I sent an invite that you should’ve accepted and it should be in your calendar on your phone. I say should because you keep ignoring me.
Callum:Shouldn’t you be giving birth to my niece or nephew round about now?
Claire:Yes, but I’m not. He or she has inherited your DNA for being late, clearly.
Callum:Does the diary entry have something in it about bringing a gift?
Claire:This is a lot of questions for Friday evening. Shouldn’t you be getting laid?
Callum:Who says I’m not?
Seph:You’re messaging us about a house warming party. If you’re anywhere in the process of getting laid you definitely won’t be seeing her again. If it is a her.
There was a break in the timeline while Callum clearly went back to whatever he was, or rather who, he was doing and Claire no doubt continued pacing around the house in the hope it would induce labour. I skimmed down the rest of the messages, enjoying not having to rush out of bed to get to work or a meeting, or god forbid, a gym class.
Callum:What sort of gift am I meant to get for a fucking house warming present? This sort of shit needs to come with instructions.
Claire:For fuck’s sake, Callum. A plant? A bottle of wine or Champagne? You could go with something more personal but not, and if I could underline NOT I would, a pet or any form of animal.
Callum:But what if we all turn up with the same present?
Seph:If we all turn up with whisky Max’ll probably have a freaking orgasm.
Payton:And what about your future sister-in-law? Do you think she’ll appreciate the whisky?
Seph:Get her a bottle of really decent merlot or malbec. Then they’ll both be happy. Did they get engaged too?
Claire:No, but it’s only a matter of time. Like this baby making an appearance. Hopefully. I think it wants me to be pregnant forever.
Seph:None of us want that. Seriously. You were bad tempered before, now you’re just unpleasant. We’ve nominated Killian for a sainthood.
Payton:Claire, what’ve you bought them?
Claire:A set of red wine glasses and a bottle of merlot. Hopefully to be used later for wetting the baby’s head.
Payton:Keep wishing. Ava was nearly three weeks late. Anyone heard from her this morning?
Seph:Weren’t you with her last night?
Payton:Only till about 9. It wasn’t a late one.
