“Sticky toffee pudding,” she announces proudly.She sets the tray down on the table with more force than necessary. “And don’t tell me you’re not hungry. You girls don’t eat enough. Skin and bones, the lot of you.”
“Oona, I’mliterallyplus-sized,” Chantal points out. “Size twenty. Your girl isthick.”
Oona scoffs as if doubting the claim. “Less bitching, more eating. Get to it!”
Monique picks up a fork. “I’ll leave no crumbs on my plate, Oona. Promise.”
“That’s more like it!” the Irish woman huffs, then she turns her blue-eyed gaze onto me. “You. Isn’t it nice seeing you again? Figured Killian would’ve scared you off by now.”
I blink, unsure how to respond. “I’m... harder to scare than I look?”
Oona simply stares as though perplexed by me then gives a curt nod and marches back inside without another word.
“Don’t mind her,” Chantal says, reaching for a piece of pudding. “That’s just how Oona is. Forward. Very forward.Tooforward. But she means well. She and Simone are practically besties these days.”
The conversation drifts to the homecoming party for Ronan and Simone. I try to follow along while nibbling on the sticky toffee pudding, which is admittedly delicious.
Chantal mentions she’s been handling most of the planning, but she needs help with the menu selections.
“Okay, now that I can help with,” Monique says. “It’s better than being on the decorations committee like last time. I got stuck picking out carnations for three hours. As if anybody under seventy gives a damn about carnations.”
Chantal rolls her eyes. “The floral arrangements are one of the most important jobs of any gathering.”
“That’s where you and me differ, cuz. I happen to not give a damn what color a flower is or how the petal looks when in bloom.”
As they bicker good-naturedly, I find myself studying them from the sidelines.
Chantal’s handbag sits on the table beside her plate. I notice the interlocking C logo on the clasp. I’m no fashion expert by any means, but I’m pretty sure that means it’s aChanelbag. The real thing, not a knockoff from a street vendor.
Monique looks no less expensive in her vintage dress and heels. The way the fabric drapes her body, I can tell it’s taken a lot of time and care to curate a perfect fit.
Basically the opposite of the faded T-shirts and distressed jeans I wear day to day.
These women belong to a world I’ve never been part of. A world of designer clothes and terrace lunches and party planning committees. They have inheritances and credit cards with no limits. They’ve never wanted for anything.
And then there’s me—scraping together five bucks in hopes it’ll somehow save my baby sister.
A pang of guilt hits me. It’s not as if I haven’t vowed to do anything to rescue her. I’ve already committed myself to getting her back at any cost.
A figurative price that cost a lot more than a Chanel bag at the end of the day…
“You good, Jhene?” Chantal asks suddenly. “You’ve gone quiet.”
“Oh, um, fine,” I reply, sitting up a little straighter. “Just... not really a party kind of person. Plus, I don’t exactly have anything to wear to this kind of event.”
Chantal gasps, her hands flying up to clasp together in front of her chest. “Girl, you think that’s a problem?! I’ve got you!”
“Uh, what?”
“I haveplentyof stuff for you to wear. We might have to take the waist in a few inches, but that’s no problem.” She’spractically bouncing in her seat, dark brown eyes sparkling with excitement. “I have my own personal tailor! He’ll hook you up.”
I stare at her, momentarily speechless. “You have a personal tailor?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No,” Monique and I say in unison.
Chantal waves a dismissive hand. “Well, girl, he’s amazing. We’ll find you something perfect that’s flirty and really cute. Killian’ll love it on you! It’ll be fun!”
