She shakes her head, eyes closed. “He says he doesn’t, and I believe him. And you’re evading the issue.”
With a frustrated sigh, I twist toward the window and push the shade up, staring out at the tarmac, the cloudy sky, a worker in a Day-Glo vest pushing an empty baggage cart. My head is noisy and my heart is heavy. After a minute, Priya taps me on the shoulder. I wriggle around in my seat to face her again.
“Hey,” she says. “Can you do me a favor? Tell Julian you’re sorry too?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
She waits. “As in…now.” When I scowl, she adds, “This is me sticking up for myself, remember? You said I should.”
I dig my phone out of my pocket. “Okay, technically you’re sticking up forhim, but whatever. If it’ll make you happy.”
“And because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Yeah, okay. That too.”
I tap my contacts and scroll down to his number. Priya watches me like a teacher supervising detention. She notices that I have him listed as “Foolian” and makes an exasperated growling noise.
“Seriously, Sage?”
“What? It’s funny! He probably has me listed in his phone as something way worse.”
Her jaw shifts. “Change it.Words mean things.”
“Shit, all right, all right.” My thumbs fly over the keyboard. “Done. Happy?”
“Happy enough.”
I type,Hey, Jules. I apologize for losing my shit last night. I pause, considering a few things to add, something supportive or concerned or maybe funny so it can all blow over, but in the end, I just write,Thanks for the candy, then tap the send arrow and shove my phone back into my pocket.
A flight attendant pulls the first-class curtains closed and I remember that douche Alexander Laskaris making his lame quip about people who fly in coach.
It’s the perfect icebreaker to change the subject with Pri.
“Humility,” I say in an exaggerated posh English accent, lifting one hand as if holding a teacup with my pinkie out, “is for peasants.”
Priya cracks up. “Oh God—him.” She makes a face. “I almost forgot he existed. Did you have to remind me?”
I grab the Violet Crumble bar and offer a chunk. “Truce?” I ask.
“Truce.” She takes the candy and delicately bites off a brittle corner. I gnaw at mine too, swiping at my shirt as flakes of honeycomb rain down.
“So, Laskaris is meeting us in Bahrain,” I say around a mouthful. “Wanna help me figure out some stuff to torture him?”
My best friend’s warm brown eyes light up. “You’re on.”
4
LONDON
ALEXANDER
My early upbringing was a battle between my mum and dad, and I’d be lying to claim that didn’t have an impact. Nefeli and Konstantin Laskaris had very different views on parenting. Thus, I—sole progeny of two fantastically wealthy and stubborn people—lived before the age of thirteen in a tug-of-war between two child-rearing styles.
My father was stern and demanding. He installed tutors in our huge Lake District manor, like a Brontë sisters novel. I was practically a young prince in our village, where our palatial home on a hill loomed over the surrounding cottages. There was something feudal about it, which suited my father down to the ground.
Mother came from a fishing village a half hour from Athens. She’d been allowed to run wild and credits that freedom with having made her into the thinker and celebrated writer she became. She wanted me to have a similar childhood and encouraged my wandering and mischief.
So, from my father’s camp: rigid lessons, endless piano practice, and dining so formal as to be a misery. From my mother’s: tearing all over the village unsupervised, feral and scabby-kneed.
