I smile and tear off some bread too.
Aubrey grins, her face flushed with pleasure. “Our freezer is full. It’s official; I love your mother—as if she didn’t already know.” She playfully bumps my mother’s shoulder and stuffs in another mouthful.
My mum looks up at me. “Lucie, I wanted to remind you about your father’s retirement party at our house. I know you said you would come, but I wanted to check that you haven’t changed your mind. It’s important to your father. It will look so strange if you don’t come. People will ask questions.”
Oh, there it is …
My stomach clenches. I chew slowly and nod, my eyes fixed on a drip of oil I spilt on the kitchen counter. “When is it again?” I know when it is. I’m just stalling and praying an amazing excuse will fall from the sky and hit me like a meteor—even an actual meteor would be welcomed.
“Not next Saturday, but the one after. Lucie, you have to come and show your face.” Her voice is half-pleading, half-instruction.
“Is Lucas going?” It’s not the question I want to ask. I want to ask if Lucas’s side piece is going, but I can’t.
“Yes, of course. I can’t very well uninvite the Maitlands because you two are having a blip. You never know; maybe you and he could talk some, dance, remember what you love about each other,” she says softly, her hand covering mine.
A blip.
I smile weakly, avoiding Aubrey’s hard glare; she hates that I’ve not told my parents what he did. “I’ll be there.” And I’ll be looking so drop-dead gorgeous that Lucas will fall at my feet and beg for forgiveness. If I must go, I’m going in style, and I’ll be looking a ten out of ten just to spite him.
I need a drink. I head to the fridge and pull out a bottle of wine, holding it up in offering. “Who wants one?”
“Me!” Aubrey chimes in, heading to the cupboard where we keep the glasses.
Mamma tsks her tongue. “Luciella, it’s barely three p.m.!”
I nod and wink at her. “It’s Sunday. All bets are off on Sunday. Three p.m. is wine o’clock by my count!”
three
Theo
I groan as my alarm chimes annoyingly loud next to my head. Raising a hand, I blindly slap at my bedside unit, attempting to grab my phone, my brain still in a sleep-filled haze. Finally, my fingers find it; cracking open one eye, I eventually manage to swipe the screen and dismiss the alarm. The clock numbers glare back at me: 7 a.m.
I’m so tired, I can barely lift my head. I’ve had maybe three hours of sleep. I was working in bed, so I don’t know what time I eventually drifted off, but I definitely remember seeing four a.m. and hearing the birds chirp. As I move and roll to the side, pencils and papers crunch under me, and my sketchbook falls to the floor with a thump.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit on the edge, contemplating my life choices. Do I really need my job? I can live off my savings for a while if I only eat supermarket brand noodles and bread …
“Ugh,” I moan, roughly scrubbing a hand over my face in a bid to wake myself up.
It’s Monday—colloquially agreed upon as the worst day of the week. It’s the only day I ever have to set an alarm. The rest of the week, I have a cushy work-from-home job that I usually start around mid-morning, maybe later, depending on what time I roll out of bed. Being my own boss is how I win at life.
Forcing myself up, I stomp to the kitchen and flick on the kettle, yawning widely. Spooning coffee granules and sugar into my cup, I can barely keep my eyes open, so I add another half-spoon of coffee. I’ll need the caffeine today for sure.
Today, I’m meeting with my publisher. I’m a freelance book illustrator, but I work for the same firm around ninety percent of the time. Once a fortnight, I have to get dressed up in adult clothes and make the trek to London on the train to meet with them and show them what I’ve been working on for the last two weeks. I show off my mock-up design ideas for the book, they approve them or request changes, and then I spend the next two weeks turning them into reality while mocking up the next two weeks’ worth of ideas. It’s monotonous, especially because, right now, I’m working on a series about an anxious monkey turned detective. No, I’m not joking; it’s an actual monkey detective with anxiety issues. At least it’s better than the cat series I did a year or so ago. That book turned into a massive bestseller, so the author and publisher decided to turn it into a series. After illustrating its twelve books, I never want to draw another cat again. I couldn’t argue with the money though.
After a too-long shower, I’m almost out of time. It’s always like this. I think I’m fundamentally programmed to be late for things. My twin, Jared, got all the punctuality, leaving me always running to catch up.
Shoving on my brother’s suit I wore to his stag do on Saturday night, I pick up a T-shirt from the chair in the corner of my room and give it a sniff. Clean enough. An extra squirt of aftershave will hide any traces that I wore it recently.
My coffee is now cold, but I chug it anyway and head out of my flat, stuffing all my papers and notebooks into my battered briefcase as I go.
As usual, I have to run for the train. I can see Amy on the platform, grinning and rolling her eyes as I jump on the first carriage and blow out a big breath. My stomach grumbles angrily at me, so instead of choosing a seat, I head straight for the refreshments carriage, buying more coffee and two small packets of biscuits. Everything always tastes terrible from the train, but with only two minutes to spare before it left without me, I’m glad I decided to forgo the café and came straight here instead. Sitting on the platform for an hour to wait for the next train does not sound like my idea of fun. Plus, this way, I get to see Amy too.
You see, this is where it all started. Around two years ago, I decided to get an earlier train than I needed, so I could visit the comic book shop in London before my meeting. It was merely a spur-of-the-moment decision. That was the day I saw the cute, petite conductor who worked the 8:09 a.m. Cambridge to London train. She dazzled me, and I remember that journey going past way too quickly. After that, every time I had to go to meet my publisher, I forced myself to get up earlier and board her train just so I could see her. It became my routine. For months, this went on. I’d flirt with her, but I never had the nerve to ask her out.
And then, one day, everything changed. I found out she was dating my brother, and I was instantly thrust into Inappropriate Crush on My Brother’s Girl Land. There was a little drama, but it all worked out in the end. Well, worked out for them anyway. They’re together, and here I am, still single, still fancying the shit out of her, still doing the five-knuckle shuffle on my own, night after night. Depressing.
Armed with my drink and snacks, I carefully head back through the train and flop down on a spare seat with a table, purposefully choosing one away from other people. Don’t get me wrong; I love people, and normally, I use the journey to chat with random strangers, but today, I’m too damn tired. I have just under an hour on the train; I could either sleep or use the time constructively to put some finishing touches to my illustrations before my meeting. I decide that, as appealing as the first option sounds, I need to get more work done.