Page 9
She snatched the shirt’s right sleeve. “Look at the state of my Stella top.” Alex flinched. Olivia’s nails grabbed more than just a fistful of material. “It’s filthy! I’ve had the day from hell and now I have to deal—”
“Olivia.” Tom wrapped his arm around the diminutive blonde’s quaking shoulder. “Meet Alex, Harry’s friend. Remember she’s staying with us for a while?”
The brunette blinked her long eyelashes several times, her fingers releasing the Floridian’s arm. “You’re…Alex?” Her voice softened. “I’m so sorry for this misunderstanding. You know how siblings are.” Olivia shot a frustrated sneer at Tom.
Alex bit the inside of her cheek, unsure if the fireworks were truly over. She eased out of Tom’s embrace and rummaged with jittery hands through her plastic bags. “It’s okay. I fight with my older sister all the time. What family doesn’t have drama?” She tossed her bangs over her right eye. Is the zit still hidden?
Olivia’s eyes travelled along the mud splatter on the top.
Alex shuddered. “I’m so sorry about your shirt. I arrived drenched and without luggage, so Tom loaned me your top. On the way back from the shops, a taxi splashed me. I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning—”
“No need.” Jaw clenched, Olivia snapped up several wet plastic shopping bags off the floor. She delivered one last glare at Tom and clomped down the hall.
Alex set her grocery bags on the floor, then yanked off her running shoes. So much for winning over Harry’s girlfriend.
“Well done! That went well,” Tom whispered, breaking into an apologetic smirk. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. My laziness put her in this foul mood. She’s cross at me. Our friends are arriving in an hour and a half, and this place is a tip.”
Alex’s eyes bulged. “People are coming over tonight?”
Tom peered past Alex, distracted by a clattering racket coming from the bathroom. “Yeah, Friday night…time to let loose after a busy week.” He picked up several magazines and loped towards his bedroom.
The unemployed actor needs to let his hair down.
“Can I have a quick shower first?” asked Alex.
“Sure.” Tom wandered down the hall ahead of her.
The bathroom door remained closed; Olivia must be inside. Alex entered her tiny room to squirrel away her purchases. True to his word, Tom had moved his sister’s hoard of shopping, so the floor gained maybe ten square feet of space.
He stuck his head back around the doorway. “Towels for the pretty lady and a top to put on afterwards. Sorry it’s a football shirt. I haven’t got round to doing my laundry, so clean clothes are scarce.”
The back of the shirt read Terry with a number twenty-six—a Chelsea Football Club shirt. She couldn’t walk around in just her bra. “Thanks. My dad would freak if he saw this. He’s a lifelong Manchester United fan. The Mancs despise Chelsea.”
“Tell me about it. And for the record, the feeling’s mutual.” Tom winked.
Alex hugged the towels and popped open her shampoo. A familiar whiff of citrus filled her nose. Home in a bottle. In a few minutes, the shower’s warm water would wash away all the day’s dirt and, she hoped, all of its drama.
“I’ve made the worst first impression. I wouldn’t blame your sister if she hated me.”
Tom scrunched up his nose, dismissively.
“No, Tom think about it. Some random girl you don’t know invades your home, and wrecks your clothing? I’d hate me, too.”
He patted her back. “Get cleaned up and then we’ll get pissed. Let’s forget today.”
She scooped up her toothpaste and hair care products, and shuffled into the now vacant bathroom, but the claw-foot tub was already occupied—with a jagged mountain of ice cubes. Alex frowned and sank down on the tub’s edge.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you wanted a bath,” said Olivia, strutting into the bathroom with her arms filled with bottles and cans. “Curse of the small fridge. We’re chilling the beer and wine in here, but you can still freshen up. I’ll get you a flannel for a quick wash at the sink. People will be here in just over an hour, so best be quick.”
Five
English muffins popped out of the toaster, their edges scorched. Alex’s hunger didn’t care. She spread a thick layer of butter into their crevices and then cracked open her jar of Nutella. The nutty chocolate flavour would overpower any burnt bits.
She checked her phone. 11:15 a.m. May 23. A Saturday. How did she fall asleep and miss the entire party last night? It must’ve been a rager. Discarded lemon wedges, wine glasses, and bottle caps lay strewn across both counters, and the smell of stale smoke and weed hung in the air. Two trays of half-eaten crackers, rubbery veggies, and goopy dips junked up the top of the stove. Empty bottles of wine and Jack Daniels hid behind the trash can in the corner. A cricket bat rested on the lounge floor beside the shiny bike, both surrounded by toppled beer bottles. Clearly, she was dead to the world last night.
So dead, she also broke her promise to phone her dad. One moment, she was checking Facebook at 6:30 p.m. while testing out her lumpy futon. The next, jolting awake this morning in a strange room. Blame drama and jet lag. She dashed off a text to her father:
‘Dad, fell asleep and didn’t wake up until this morning. Hope you didn’t worry. No luggage yet. Haven’t seen Harry, but am ok and getting settled. Speak soon. Alex xo’
