‘Then my aura speaks the truth.’ I pause for a beat. ‘What colour is your aura today?’
‘Pink fairy dust,’ he answers with a straight face. ‘Did your gorgeous brother piss on your cornflakes this morning?’ Hills has a crush on Max, one that I tease him about mercilessly, but I’m not in the mood today.
‘Max has gone to Goa.’
Hillary pulls an expression of emphatic disapproval. ‘It’s all right for some.’
‘Isn’t it just. My mother probably paid for him to go just to get him out from under my influence.’
‘Families,’ he says with a shrug. ‘So are you going to tell me why your face is as long as an undertaker’s tape measure?’
‘I left my travel mug on the roof of my car and drove off.’
But that’s not the only reason. In this morning’s mail, I discovered a brochure I’d recently sent for when I arrived at the hotel. Not shoes or pretty underwear, but a brochure of men. Statistic of men, anyway.
Last week, I’d been invited to Ella’s little boy’s birthday party, which was less than fun. Not because it was filled with children and noise, but rather I was the only woman there without a child of her own. Paisley was there, of course, and technically, she doesn’t have a child. Sorcha is Keir’s daughter, but I feel like Paisley doesn’t count that, given that she isn’t heading rapidly towards her thirtieth birthday.
To cut a long story short, I got home late afternoon and opened a bottle of red almost as soon as I’d stepped through the door. One glass led to two and two led to a third. And a third led to a website for a fertility clinic. Hence, my brochure of sperm donor details.
I thought I’d feel more excited about it. I’m not going to think about it. I mean it. It’s not like I’m thirty yet!
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he huffs. ‘That’s not worth getting your knickers in a knot over. You could’ve stopped at Starbucks.’ Now it’s my turn to pull a face. Starbucks, bleurgh. ‘What am I saying?’ he adds, slapping his forehead. ‘We’re in a hotel!’
Note to self: Never go apply for MI5. Espionage isn’t for you.
‘Ohhh!Hillary said knickers,’ Paisley says, breezing into the room. ‘Careful. Say it ten more times and you’ll turn hetro.’
‘Sickening, isn’t it?’ His gaze flicks to me, then back to Paisley as he makes a show of giving her a thorough inspection, up then down.
‘What?’ Paisley trills, her own gaze following his as though expecting to find something wrong with her outfit.
‘You hadsexthis weekend. Lots and lots of sex.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ She straightens, all smiles and bright eyes. ‘And what’s wrong with you two?’
‘Because we haven’t.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ I reply.
‘Right!’ he scoffs, crossing one leg over. ‘Is that not a face of extreme sexual frustration?’ Hills points a finger in my direction but directs his words at my friend.
‘I’m keeping out of this,’ she says, laughing as she slips out of her coat and hangs it in the open closet. ‘I have something for you.’ As a grumbling Hillary moves from the love seat to begin unpacking our gear in the other room, Paisley slides in next to me. ‘Give me that,’ she says, taking the flaccid banana skin from my hand. ‘When I paid the bill at brunch, that waiter guy asked me to give you this.’ She slides a business card into my hand.
‘Tate Peters,’ I read aloud. ‘I saw him today.’
‘Where?’
‘Looks like he’s my neighbour.’ I shrug, not really wanting to get into this. Since Paisley paired off with Keir, she’s been a little militant about these sorts of things.
‘Maybe that’s how he knew your name!’
‘How do you work that out?’
‘Maybe he’s taken a parcel in for you, or maybe your mail was delivered there by mistake? But at least we now know he’s solvent and not a waiter squatting on millionaire row.’ Looking up, I frown.
‘What has that got anything to do with it?’ It’s nothing to be fabulously impressed over. I live in Chelsea. You can’t buy a spot on a park bench for a million.
‘Because I know you. And a starving artistisn’t your cup of tea.’ The latter she delivers in a terrible rendition of a British accent.
