Iris looks at me, pride welling in her eyes. “I like the way this is going.”
“A way to make sure he stays quiet about what happened.”
She slaps her hand down on the table, almost toppling over our glasses.
“That’s my girl!”
I laugh, and I begin to recognise her once again; I have to say that I’ve really missed her, these past few years.
Jordan
Ihelp Iris take the plates through to the kitchen, placing them in the sink. She never wanted a dishwasher: she says it’s a waste of energy and water, and that, now that she’s on her own, she doesn’t have that many plates to wash up.
Her apartment is tiny, with just one bedroom. When I was living here, I slept on the sofa; her living room became my bedroom, my stuff scattered everywhere. There were my books piled up on the coffee table, my clothes hanging from the drying rack.
Iris has always lived in this apartment, which is above her shop,Forget Me Not. It sells knick-knacks of every type: souvenirs, handmade trinkets, and a whole array of other useless items that tourists love to buy and locals love to give as gifts. I don’t know whether they do it because they love the craftsmanship or because they love Iris. They don’t want to see her retire. Everyone here is so affectionate towards her, and, because of this, she has always been affectionate towards me.
I love the way that her home always smells of fresh flowers. I love her little table in front of the window, and I love her tiny kitchen, where she once taught me how to bake biscuits.
And I love her: she’s my entire family.
“I think that sounds like the perfect compromise,” she tells me, handing me a steaming cup of tea.
“You don’t think it seems more like blackmail?”
“That depends on your point of view.”
I smile as she passes me a plate, laden with chocolate biscuits. I take one – I’ll get back to my diet next week, or maybe never – and bite into it with my eyes closed, enjoying the taste.
No one can make biscuits like Iris.
“I don’t think he’ll agree to it.”
“Aren’t you his only hope?”
“That’s what it seems like, but you never know with Kerry.”
“He’s not a bad boy.”
I glare at her.
“Okay, so he likes to have fun, and he’s never wanted to set himself straight – but who would have, in his position? With that handsome face and his charming smile, he could’ve done anything he wanted. If his sport career had never picked up, he could’ve been an actor or something.”
“He wasn’tthatgood-looking.”
“Is he better-looking now?”
“Mmm?”
“Well, you jumped into bed with him…”
I should never have told her.
“He’s exactly the same, just older.”
And more charming. And sexier.
And he made me come, three times.
