I frowned.
‘I don’t specifically remember mentioning his thighs.’
‘Are they massive though?’
‘They’re average,’ I replied. ‘Completely ordinary thighs. You’re projecting.’
Only she wasn’t. His thighs were incredible.
‘Final offer. Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll give you a cookie,’ Sarah said, leaning across the table to stare right into my eyes.
‘Give me a cookie and I’ll tell you,’ I replied, calling her bluff.
‘On the way out,’ she bartered. ‘Now let’s hear it, Taylor. All of it.’
I felt so stupid. This was Sarah, I could tell her anything and everything and she would never judge me, but I couldn’t properly explain the Joe situation without explaining theButterfliessituation, and it wasn’t that I didn’t trust her but it seemed so unfair to expect another person to keep my secret. That said, I really needed to talk to someone and there was no one on the planet who knew me better, not even William. Big brothers had very clear limits when it came to their little sisters.
‘Right, I will tell you and I don’t want to be overdramatic, but,’ I said, checking over both shoulders to make sure we were alone as she squealed with glee. ‘If I do, you have to swear you’ll keep it to yourself.’
‘Unless you’re about to tell me you’re the princess of Genovia, I guarantee you’re overreacting,’ she replied with mock offence. ‘Who am I going to tell, my kids? If it’s not Minecraft or WWE, they couldn’t give a shit.’
I took a final sip of Mr Atkinson’s coffee to prepare myself. The look on William’s face when he FaceTimed me after reading the first sex scene was something I’dnever forget. He demanded he got twenty percent to represent me as my agent instead of the usual fifteen, then broke down in tears sobbing ‘but you’re my baby sister’ over and over and over.
‘Have you heard of a book calledButterflies?’ I asked, shifting nervously in my seat.
‘Heard of it?’
Sarah’s expression changed immediately, rabid excitement replacing her curiosity as she patted herself down for her phone. ‘How have we not talked about this? That book is basically my whole personality. See? I’m halfway through the audiobook.’ She swiped into Audible and held it up as evidence. ‘I’ve already got the paperback but one of the mums at school said I had to get the audiobook and I’m glad she did. It’s good to have both your hands free while you’re listening, if you know what I mean.’
‘I really wish you hadn’t said that,’ I groaned. ‘You’regoing to wish you hadn’t said that.’
‘What hasButterfliesgot to do with anything?’ She still kept one loving, protective hand on her phone as she barked out a laugh. ‘Joe isn’t Este Cox, is he?’
‘Nope.’ I covered my face with my hands, breathing in the scent of my fabric softener, peeking at my friend from between my fingers. ‘I am.’
Across the table, she stared at me with her mouth hanging open, speechless. Sarah Nixon, lost for words.
‘Well, you were right as always,’ I said. ‘There really is a first time for everything.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Harford was separated from the real world by an arched sandstone bridge that crossed a pretty stream and elicited polite little paps from car horns as all the happy drivers encouraged one another to go first. There was an old mill and an even older church, as well as lots of adorable limestone houses and gardens full of colourful summer flowers, hollyhocks and delphiniums, which towered over garden walls, almost as tall as me. Even though it had been part of my life ever since I was a little girl visiting grandparents, it still felt unreal to me, the kind of place you might expect to see on an early Sunday evening BBC drama where members of the clergy solved gentle, quirky crimes. And after my conversation with Sarah, I suspected I might be the next victim of said crimes.
She took the news incredibly well and naturally, she was super cool about it. Or at least she was after she’d finished screaming and throwing things at me, demanding to know how I’d dared keep my secret for so long. By the time we got to the end of the whole drama, evenshe had to admit the Joe situation was a little more complicated than she’d first assumed but there hadn’t been enough time to dig in any deeper. The morning rush reached fever pitch just as I was telling her how he hung the sheet across the cottage and Sarah’s skills were needed at the espresso machine.
‘The most obvious answer here is that you never should’ve lied in the first place,’ she said as she wrapped the strings of her apron around her waist. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, it doesn’t matter what other people think.’
‘At least once more,’ I replied, tying them in a big bow behind her back. ‘And that might be the most obvious but it’s also impossible unless you have a time machine. Any other bright ideas?’
‘Not yet but I’m sure I’ll have it all worked out by this evening. You know me, I’m a problem solver.’
‘You’re amazing is what you are,’ I replied, meaning every word.
‘It’s the only way I know how to be.’ She handed me my promised cookie then slapped me on the backside. ‘All right, Este, on your way. Text me if you need me, otherwise I’ll see you tonight.’
As I stepped out onto the high street, the world felt a little bit lighter. Sarah was ecstatic for me, even if it did mean she couldn’t readButterfliesever again (her words, not mine) and she completely understood why it might make things difficult at school if the truth came out. She was also ready to fight my mother to the death, which would’ve worried me more if she hadn’t hero-worshipped my mum ever since she caught us pouring vodka into our orange juice at a New Year’sEve party when we were fifteen and, appalled with our choice of amateur screwdrivers, took us into the kitchen to teach us how to make dirty martinis. My mother was a big believer in learning all the essential life skills early.
In the sunshine, picture perfect Harford looked especially camera-ready. Not only was it steeped in the usual old English charm, but brightly coloured bunting stretched across the street, hundreds of red, yellow, pink and blue triangles of fabric zigging and zagging along, barely even fluttering in the still morning air, and drawing me down to the green where people were setting up for the summer fête. My heart lifted at the sight of pasting tables and folding chairs and skyrocketed when I spotted the candyfloss machine. When I was little, the fête was my favourite part of the summer holidays, running around with five pounds in my pocket and a bellyful of sugar. Just being in close proximity to a game of hook-a-duck made me feel like I could run through a brick wall. I scoured the scene for a fudge stall, suddenly overcome with the desire to put my pancreas to the test, but it was too early to tell what anything would be, no one had their signs up yet. All these tents and booths could be for anything – home-baked biscuits, guess how many sweets in the jar, bric-a-brac, white elephant, which was basically the same as bric-a-brac but the fête organisers had a ‘no two stalls alike’ rule, unless that stall sold cake. You couldn’t have enough cake.
