‘And then?’
‘Then what? We haven’t spoken since.’
‘But you see each other at events and conferences and stuff.’ She’s aghast.
‘We ignore each other.’
‘Hmmm.’ She pauses for a few moments. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this story before?’ she asks eventually.
I shrug. ‘To be honest, at the time I was thinking more about Nick than Tyler and then … well, it’s kind of embarrassing. Getting blanked like that.’
‘And so instead you decided to keep it a secret and spend six years nursing that hurt into a ball of hatred?’ She makes it sound ridiculous.
‘Yes, that is exactly what I did.’
After our pancakes, Cesca suggests we go to the nail salon down the road so – and I quote – ‘someone can sort out mytrotters’, which I think is a little rude and my feet aren’t that bad.
‘Really?’
I look down at them. I mean, I will admit they could do with a bit of attention. And I think the white of the Havaianas makes them look even worse, if I’m honest. A slight chill runs up my spine. I’m sure that’s what I was thinking last weekend, why I was relieved the coin had landed on heads for the beige.
Cesca takes my silence for acquiescence and physically drags me to the snappily entitled NAILZ – yes all in caps. And with a Z. We choose varnish colours – bright pink for her and a more muted burgundy for me – and settle back into the oversized chairs.
‘If you really don’t want me to, I won’t look at this STEM thing,’ she says, her words measured. I know she’s manipulating me. I know she’s brought me here so we’re facing the same direction and I can’t look her in the eye. I know she’s waiting for me to tell her that it’s okay, that she has my blessing. And here’s the rub. I can never deny her.
‘Just promise me you’ll stay away from him. He might seem charming but he’s a snake.’
‘Brownie’s honour,’ she replies.
I take a sly look over to her to check she isn’t crossing her fingers.
Tyler Adams is not getting anywhere near my baby sister.
Chapter Four
In time-honoured fashion, Cesca and I end up going for a glass of wine after the nail salon.
A glass turns into a bottle. Turns into another. My sister is a terrible influence.
We have an Aperol spritz because the cute bartender is flabbergasted – God I love that word – that Cesca has never had one.
There are some noodles from the fantastic Szechuan place.
A bright purple cocktail, which I believe was Parma violet flavour but I’m not one hundred per cent sure. It was good though.
Then warm cinnamon pretzels.
I should be hungover when the alarm blasts at six thirty the next morning. Ideserveto be hungover. I should have a banging head and a mouth that tastes like a bear did something foul in it.
But I feel fine when I crack an exploratory eye open. I brace myself for the headache that doesn’t come.
I run my tongue over my teeth. I’m wearing my retainer. Inever wear my retainer if I’ve been drinking; it only magnifies the bear issue.
‘Hey, sis,’ Cesca says as she answers my call. ‘Sorry, in the gym and it’s noisy as hell.’
Music blares in the background. Why is my sister in the gym – something she hasn’t done in at least five years – so early in the morning after we’ve been out?
‘Earth to Bethany?’ she calls.
