“I called you. What’d you want me to do?” His shoulder jerks, but I swear I see his mustache twitching. “I’m not getting between a pair of girls and their need to set the world right with a bottle of wine.”
“I see three bottles.”
“There was a lot of setting.”
“Is that so?”
He solemnly nods once. “And I feel like it’s my duty to warn you that your name came up more than anyone else’s.”
My eyes roll to the heavens, and I scrub a hand through my hair. Fucking hell. Spending my evening taking care of my very drunk sister and equally drunk best friend / ex-best friend / childhood love was nowhere close to what I had planned.
Not that I had plans per se, because I’d only just managed to get Max to sleep after the fifteenth storyabout a pirate boy and his pet sea-dragon. Miles is out with his polo buddies, my mother has gone up to London for a dinner party, Lando and Holiday were watching a movie, and after an exhausting morning playing polo followed by an equally exhausting afternoon panicking about handling the Clementine / Torres situation, I would have been more than happy with a beer and an early night.
“How long have they been here?”
“Five hours, give or take.”
“Five?”
“I’d say so. Maybe six.”
I can see Eddie’s going to be no help whatsoever. I don’t know if it’s the publican in him, upholding the trust of his patrons as sincerely as a doctor / patient relationship, or because he saw all of us through our formative years, and feels he has a duty to oversee our rites of passage too—namely passing out drunk in the pub.
I’ve done it, Lando’s done it, Alex has done it, and Miles hasdefinitelydone it.
“Okay, fine.”
My approach is ginger. The table is strewn with tissues and half-drunk glasses of water. Their cheeks are pink from the fire and far too much wine, and they’re laughing at whatever’s on their phone screen. It’s what makes me take my time, slow down, and observe.
Story’s hair is flopped onto her face, and from this angle, I can only see the curve of her nose peeking through from the curtain. Her full lips, open wide as she barks a laugh out at Clementine’s commentary, curve up, creasing her cheekbones and adding the hint of a dimple. Her lashes flutter as she tips her head backin amusement and, as her hair falls away, I’m treated to the rest of her silhouette—the graceful bow of her neck, rounded breasts under her thick woolen jumper, and the delicate arch in her back as she pushes away from the chair.
It gives me an all-too-real idea of how she’d look straddling me.
It’s not the first time I’m slack-jawed around Story, and it won’t be the last.
“Hey . . . it’s mybrother.”
The pair is now staring at me, and I realize the extent of the situation. Blackish-gray streaks line the tops of their cheeks, eyes puffy and bloodshot. It’s debatable, but Ithinkmy sister comes off worse.
“Jesus. You two smell like a distillery.”
“You mean vineyard,” Clementine snaps back. At least I think that’s what she says. It’s more of a slur. She points her finger at me. “And before you think about judging us?—”
“Don’t,” adds Story.
“Andwhen you boil it down”—Clemmie’s arm swings around, and I duck just in time—“this is all your fault anyway.”
“Yeah? How so?”
In front of me, the determination on Clementine’s face morphs and crumbles, her eyes lose their furious sparkle, the glare aimed my way vanishes, and her mouth, set hard only seconds ago, droops. Before I know what’s happening, tears fall down her cheeks.
“Because you’re somean.” She sobs loudly enough that the tables on the other side of the pub turn around. They can hear her over all the other raucous commotion you’dnormally associate with a pub on a Saturday night.
Oh dear God.
“Clem. . .” I pull her out of her seat and into a hug, partly to comfort her, partly to muffle her. “Let’s talk about it when we get home, okay?”
“What about Story? You’re mean to her too.”
