“That’s terrible, Callie,” I scold in the way a dutiful big sister should. “Getting suspended from school isn’t going to get you a very good job, is it?”
She looks at me deadpan. “If you can get a job, anyone can, even though it did take you a million attempts.”
“Piss off, shithead,” I bite back. I’m a little sensitive about the number of interviews I had to endure.
“I can live off Tristan’s allowance anyway,” she rolls her eyes like I’m stupid.
“Tristan is giving you an allowance?” I stare at her, disgusted. “That’s how you can afford to go shopping in central London”.
“Enough bickering, for God’s sake,” Mum barks, putting down her cup of tea. “I have had enough of this bad tea. Let’s see your bedroom.”
“Fine” I put down my tea and lead them to the bedroom, which thankfully has the bed semi-made and underwear tidied away.
“Could do with a bit of shake and vac.” She sniffs the air while Callie goes through my make-up.
“And this carpet. When was the last time it was hovered? Is it supposed to be this colour?” She bends down for a closer inspection. “Weeks of dirt on this!”.
“What’s this?” She picks up a Smint that had rolled under the bed and had hairs, and other gooey bits from the carpet stuck to it
“You’ve been doing drugs!”
I gawk at her flabbergasted. “It’s a Smint.”
“A Smint!” She shouts, narrowing her eyes at me. “Don’t use your drug jargon on me, young lady.
Is it one of those dancing pills?”
Callie guffaws behind her and gets a slap around the head.
“It’s a mint,” I repeat slowly.
“A mint, heh? So would you let me lick it then?”
I look at the Smint with the multi-coloured arrangements of hairs, probably some of mine, some of Ben’s, and maybe even whoever lived in the flat before.
“I wouldn’t advise it,” I stare at it pointedly.
“I bet you wouldn’t” She gives the Smint a lick, waiting for me to stop her before she needs her stomach pumped. Her face changes from anger to surprise to disgust as realisation dawns. She starts picking hairs out of her mouth. “Oh, It is a mint.”
“See?” I roll my eyes. “Now, can we please get this sightseeing over and done with?”
An hour later, we are on the sightseeing bus touring Trafalgar Square. I thought it was the best way to keep them quiet for a while.
By 4 o’clock, I am exhausted and ready to go into witness protection so I can hide from my family. Big Ben wasn’t big enough, St Paul’s wasn’t holy enough, and Shakespeare’s Globe was a fake.
I’m so not ready to go to this dinner party of Tristan’s. Why am I deliberately entering a scenario of being in the same room as my mother, my sister who spills all my secrets, my boss who wants to be rid of me, and a guy I jerked off in the toilets, who coincidentally happens to be the same guy?
***
I’m too tired and cranky to face Tristan’s party tonight after traipsing around London.
Six hours of Mum complaining is too much. I don’t know how I survived being with her so long in
the womb.
I’ve gone for a casual look, jeans, sneakers, and a sweater that hangs off one shoulder. It is an outfit that often causes me to get ID’d, so I must look younger in it.
Tristan has sent a car to collect us and take us to his house, which means I don’t have to brave manoeuvring Mum through more public transport.
“My three favorite ladies.” Tristan opens the door of his townhouse in Holland Park, beaming at us.
It’s a Grade II listed building with three floors, big bay windows, and an entire glass wall of floor-to-ceiling doors opening onto a landscaped garden.
Every Londoner’s wet dream.
Julie and I stalked it on YourMove, and it went on sale for three million, although I would never ask him how much he bought it for.
We don’t talk about money in the Finnegan house.
Every time I visit, he’s had something new done, a new jacuzzi bath, heated floors, surround sound. Last time he had converted one of the bedrooms into a cinema room. “Come through, ladies,” he says, taking our coats. “It’s a full house.” The deep Scottish voice assaults my ears from the kitchen.
We walk through to join the party. In the kitchen, Jack, Tristan’s law firm partner, Rebecca, and her husband, Giles, are sitting on barstools around the marble island.
Danny is propped against the fridge, and Karl is attempting to make cocktails at Tristan’s home bar. His kitchen is the same size as my, Julie, Cat, and Suze’s bedrooms combined.
My throat dries up as I take him in.
He’s in jeans and a blue cashmere sweater that fits his body in all the right places. I want to run into his arms and wrap them around me.
His eyes find mine, then drop brazenly down to my midriff. His hands tighten around the counter. It’s subtle, but I see the movement. He likes what he sees.
His face is warmer this evening; maybe being around close friends in a home environment makes him less hostile.
They laugh easily with each other, like schoolboys, yet even through their jostling and teasing, there’s an air of undeniable dominance that exudes them.
They are all late thirties, early forties, with Danny being the oldest. They make being successful look so easy while the rest of us are just trying to make it through the work-week.
Rebecca is wearing a gorgeous tailored trouser jacket suit and open-toe heels. I feel childish now in my ripped jeans and sneakers.
How can Tristan not see how the dynamics change by mixing family with friends? These two worlds don’t belong together.
Everyone welcomes us as Tristan prepares drinks. Besides Mass, Tristan’s events are Mum’s social life. She’s in our element as the boys tell her how young she looks, and Rebecca compliments her hair, rollered curls holding tight against her head.
“Sherry for Mum, small wine for Callie, old fashioned for Charlie.” Tristan dishes us out our drinks, and I look on impressed. His cleaner/house help Natalie usually did everything for him. He must have given her the night off.
“What did you get up to today?” Rebecca politely asks us.
“We started off with a look at Charlie’s flat,” Mum responds, happy to be the centre of attention.
“It was more of an inspection than a tour,” I grumble, jumping up on a barstool. “Who looks under someone else’s bed, for Christ’s sake?”
“Can you send your cleaners round to Charlie’s, Tristan?” Mum pipes up.
“Mum!” I snap indignantly, flushing.