My brow furrows. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’
‘Well, you went from living with your mum to living with me for uni. Then, within a few months of leaving, you went and married Marcus.’
My heart plummets at the sound of his name, weighted like a stone in the pit of my stomach. But I’m not going to cry—I refuse.
‘I went travelling after college. I mightn’t have been living on my own, but the whole experience took courage. And I haven’t forgotten you were supposed to come with me, dropping our plans at the last minute. And I still did it—still went on my own.’ That has to count for something. Belligerence, maybe.
‘I see you come still wearing grudges.’
‘Balenciaga, actually.’ I don’t bother telling her bearing is the optimal term. Shrugging her hands from my shoulders I say, ‘I’m sorry. I understand you had to go.’
Ivy had moved to London when she was offered a traineeship at a top salon. It’s an experience that’s led to jobs all over the globe, even working for movie stars on all kinds of blockbusting movie sets. But back then, we’d had plans to go travelling together after my graduation, only I couldn’t let her turn down her dream job. Especially as she’d gotten to breathe the same air as the fine Chris Pine. It was her dream and it certainly seemed like she was doing what she was meant to. But now she’s back here saying she’s done with all that, and it all seems very strange, giving up a job she’d adored.
‘Ivy, why have you come back?’
‘I told you. I was tired of such a vacuous industry.’ Standing, she takes herself back to her chair, brushing invisible lint from her pyjama pants as she sits.
‘So you’ve opened a beauty salon?’ Because that makes sense.
‘Hair and beauty. And I was tired of living out there. What? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Seems a bit odd, is all.’
‘Odd says the girl hiding from the world while sleeping on my sofa. Odd from the girl whose dozen pairs of Gucci boots litter my hall.’
‘Two pairs,’ I mumble. The other pair are actually Choos. ‘And I’m sleeping in your spare room, in case you haven’t noticed. Why don’t you just say it? You want me out.’
‘No, you eejit,’ she says wearily. ‘I want you to start living again.’
‘I am living. In fact, I’m thinking about going travelling again.’ The embryonic thought is out of my mouth before it’s even half-formed.
‘Running away,’ she says, throwing her hands up in a gesture of frustration. ‘Because that worked out so well last time.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You were supposed to go get drunk for a few months and have fun, not come back with a husband ten years older than yourself.’
‘So, by that you mean what? That I’m not capable of making my own decisions? I can’t be trusted alone?’
Her expression and tone hit a raw nerve. I’d always thought she liked Marcus; back then, he was so much more sophisticated than either of us. A little nicer, too. She’d seemed so impressed when she came to visit in Singapore. And Dubai. Skiing with us in Saint Moritz.
‘No, you need to learn to be alone. And you make rash decisions. You always have.’ Ivy’s tone is plaintive. ‘Just look at the waxing course.’
‘But we’re not talking about a course that’ll cost me a few dollars.’
‘Two hundred and fifty pounds!’
‘We’re talking about my marriage. About me.’
‘I said for you not to go—or to at least wait for me.’
‘I wanted to go travelling. Not on holiday!’
‘But what with your mum...’ Her words trail off; she means when Mom decided to sell the house, concluding I was old enough to look after myself. ‘It was bound to be an emotional time. You were adrift.’ She speaks softly, her tone almost a plea... until her expression changes and she’s back to angry again. ‘But no, you wouldn’t listen. Typical. Next, you’re married!’
This is all true. I did meet Marcus while I was travelling; on a private beach in Koh Samui, actually. Me and Ella, a Swedish backpacker I’d met, had slipped into a party he was hosting. We’d gotten a little buzzed and then a lot busted, but as we were being frog-marched to the gate, Marcus stopped the security guard and told him we were part of his group. Us with our dirty braids, Haviana’s and batik sarongs. We looked so out of place, hanging out in his beach house with his Eurotrash pals.
He always did have terrible taste in friends.
