‘Is the size of a bottle of prosecco and the shape of a bottle of prosecco.’ I narrow my eyes and bring my hand to my chin in a look of consideration before my gaze cuts to Olivia’s again. ‘It’s champagne, right?’
‘Maybe. But only if this night goes off without a hitch.’
‘Relax. It absolutely will. Their publicists say they’re super buzzed about attending.’
Olivia harrumphs. It’s her only response.
‘We’re the hottest new app in the marketplace. They want to be seen with our brand.’ Something else I’ve found myself repeating.
‘My aim is for E-Volve to be champagne. ButLust Islandcontestants seem more... cheap beer.’
‘Harsh. They’re more like prosecco. A decent compromise on the top-shelf stuff.’
‘There are one hundred and five calories in a banana and only eighty in a glass of prosecco,’ Heather chimes in, swinging her chair to face us.
‘The problem is,’ Olivia says, ‘you’re not going to peel one banana and end up eating six. And then decide you’ve just gotten a taste for them before tearing open another bunch.’
‘There is that, I suppose.’ And while I wouldn’t say it aloud, that’s a pretty good analogy of the last season ofLust Island.
Life moves along in its familiar rhythms, and I barely think of that night. Okay, I sometimes think of that night. Mostly, I just think about him. James. He’s like the only lady wank-bank material I’ll ever need.
Lust Islandboys are just that. Boys.
Today, Heather and I are holed up at a window table at the café next door, avoiding the unseasonable wind pushing shoppers along the precinct while we eat lunch. We’re not really talking, but the silence is a comfortable one. Until her displeasure is aired for all to hear.
‘What do you suppose crawled up his arse and died?’
‘What?’ I stop tapping my toes to the song that’s playing on the radio and look up from the email I’m reading on my phone, instinctively glancing behind me. Jorge stands at the counter. I might smile or wave except for the fact that he’s deliberately ignoring us. ‘Maybe he didn’t see us.’ Or maybe he’s just a tit.
‘Oh, he saw us, all right. Honestly, his attitude is getting worse.’
‘Maybe you should consider halting the cookie war.’ Jorge has a tendency to stuff his face with other people’s biscuits while hoarding his own in his desk drawer. A desk drawer that Heather has liberated them from, placing them in the communal cookie jar and discarding the evidentiary packaging.
‘Maybe he should stop being such a greedy grouch,’ she retorts. ‘He’s never been particularly pleasant, as far as I can tell, but he’s had a face like a smacked arse since Olivia got back from the US.’ Slouching in her chair, she folds her arms across her chest. ‘Anyway, I may have one or two plans up my sleeve.’
‘Dare I ask?’
‘Did I tell you I taped a piece of tape over the bottom of his computer mouse last week?’
‘No.’ The word hit the air in a gurgling giggle. ‘Why?’
‘Just to piss him off. It doesn’t stop his mouse from working. Just makes it really unresponsive and slow.’
‘Oh, mind fuckery, you evil not-quite genius.’
‘You know who else isn’t a genius?’ In answer, she nods her head in the direction of the counter. ‘For someone in software development, he’s not very tech-savvy. He just kept shaking the thing and eventually threw it across the room.’
‘Bad-tempered Jorge,’ I answer censoriously.
‘I think I’m going to try a glitter bomb next.’
‘Ah, glitter, the herpes of the arts and crafts world.’
‘And impossible to get rid of.’
‘I’m not sure it’ll make him any nicer to be around. And if your glitter bomb ends up anywhere near my desk, I’m not going to be happy.’ I suppress a shiver, thoughts of the sparkling, shimmery mess giving me the heebie-jeebies.
‘You’re such a neat freak. What’s a little glittery pathogen between cousins?’
