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  ‘Absolutely,’ Olivia drawls. ‘It’s the size and shape of a bottle of prosecco.’

  ‘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. But Lust Island contestants 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 of Lust 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 Island boys 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?’

  ‘I’m serious, evil not-so genius. Maybe we should be a bit nicer to him. He’s obviously upset that Olivia got married.’

  ‘Oh, come on! In what universe would he have ever had a chance with her? Not only is she pretty and pretty awesome, but she’s also his boss.’

  ‘It happens,’ I answer with a light shrug. ‘People get off with their bosses.’

  ‘Stupid people.’

  ‘You can’t help who you fall in love with.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she answers indifferently.

  ‘Your time will come.’ Did that make me sound ancient? It sounds like the sort of things old ladies tell you whether you want them to or not when you’re on the bus.

  Your time will come.

  Youth is wasted on the young.

  Find a nice young man.

  Bad boys grow up to be bad men.

  Don’t sit on cold walls or you’ll get haemorrhoids.

  I’m so pleased I drive these days.

  ‘I’m in no hurry,’ she says with a snort. ‘After what love did to you, love can jog on!’ To demonstrate, she hooks her thumb over her shoulder.

  I smile tightly. You can’t explain love and loss to someone who’s never experienced it. Not that I’m saying I’m still grieving because I’m not. I’m just saying love bloody hurts, and I’m beginning to think it’s not worth it at all. I mean, look at my parents. Twenty-eight years of marriage and now they’re circling like dogs ready to tear out the other’s throat.

  I flip away from the social media app I’ve been scrolling and open up my emails. Then close them again as I notice Cameron’s latest missive which, judging by the subject line, is

  URGENT!!!

  Not.

  I delete without opening, and for once, I don’t feel that familiar twinge of panic, especially following his last missive when he had the nerve to complain about Heather’s charity shop prank. Apparently, he’d called Oxfam’s head office. Like I give a flying flip. Anyway, I’d blocked his number so there are no more threatening calls or texts to ignore.

  Bliss!

  ‘Where will you be this weekend?’

  I look up at her question, my expression twisting. ‘Home. The agency doesn’t have anything for me.’ And summer is coming to an end, and I’m concerned for the availability of gigs as fewer and fewer people jet off on holiday, which could mean more and more time spent at home for me.

  Urgh!

  ‘Babe, just sell the ring. I love your parental units, I really do. But separately. Like when there’s a mile between them or something.’

  ‘Agreed. They take the fun out of dysfunctional.’

  ‘They used to be so sweet. Together, I mean.’

  ‘Yeah, and not that long ago. But now it’s all about who can hurt the other the most. I think he’s had an affair. My dad, I mean.’ My gaze slides to the window where a singular droplet of rain splats. ‘Not now, but maybe in the past. No one’s saying anything, but something’s tearing Mum apart. Maybe she just found out?’ I turn back to Heather. ‘Whatever, it’s like she won’t let it out.’ Except in virulent bouts of explosive hate directed at my father. ‘I wish they could just sell the house and be done with it. I can’t stay with them for more than a night or two. The atmosphere is just so toxic.’

  ‘You know you can crash at mine. My parentals love to have you there.’

  I nod, trying for a small smile because while Heather’s parents are great, I just don’t have the mental fortitude to play “happy older cousin” to her three younger siblings right now.

  ‘Just sell it. Be done with it. Move on. Screw him and his unfaithful penis. Actually, scratch that last part.’

  ‘I wouldn’t touch his unfaithful penis with rubber gloves and a hazmat suit.’

  ‘Are there any hot neighbour dudes in Notting Hill?’ she asks, swirling the last of her coffee i
n her cup.

  ‘If there are, I haven’t seen any.’ I’d have to be looking to see. And I haven’t. Purposely.

  ‘I suppose you’ll just have to look forward to meeting the Lust Island cast up close and personal.’

  ‘Former cast,’ I correct. ‘And what’s this “me” business? You’re working that night, too. Aren’t you looking forward to meeting them?’

  ‘Nah.’ Her eyes return to her plate where she presses her forefinger to the edge, collecting breadcrumbs only to sprinkle them on the other side of the plate.

  ‘But you love that show.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve got uni coming up soon. Lot’s to concentrate on. I haven’t got time to be thinking about boys or men. Not in that sense.’

  ‘Is everything okay, Heth?’ She’s not normally so reticent.

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ One of her shoulders lifts, then falls, and she moves her attention to tracing the grain of the wooden tabletop. But she still won’t hold my gaze.

  ‘That guy you went to see in Acton that night.’ Hot neighbour dude night. The night she doesn’t know about. ‘Have you not seen him again?’ I try not to wince; I’m not sure what the booty call rule book would call these kinds of meetings. Hookups?

  She huffs. ‘I didn’t stay.’

  ‘You didn’t stay where?’

  ‘That night. I didn’t stay.’

  ‘Heth, did something happen?’ My heartrate suddenly elevates. ‘It’s been weeks—why haven’t we had this conversation?’ Because I’m a bad human. A bad cousin. Because I’ve been full of my own tales of woe. I find myself repeating, only my voice is much higher than hers as my heartrate elevates. ‘I swear, if something happened, I’ll need those rubber gloves and the hazmat suit. Along with a pair of bolt cutters.

  ‘No. I just changed my mind, that’s all.’

  ‘And you never thought to say?’ I knew I shouldn’t have let her go. I should’ve said something to stop her and ignored her protests that she’s old enough to make her own decisions. I don’t think age has the monopoly on being hurt. ‘Heth, he didn’t . . .’ I find I can’t bring myself to finish the question. I shouldn’t have hung up on her so quickly—I should’ve checked in on her the next day. I just got so caught up packing before the cleaner arrived, and then the weekend came, and it was awful, and then work and then—

  ‘Nothing happened,’ she says quietly. ‘I just couldn’t go through with it.’

  ‘But he didn’t . . . He didn’t give you a hard time or anything, did he?’

  A range of emotions flitter across her face. ‘No. Well, once it became clear he wasn’t going to be able to give me any kind of hard, he gave up. Stopped.’

  ‘Stopped what?’

  ‘Stopped trying. Stopped caring. Went back to killing shit on his PlayStation.’

  ‘God, you should’ve called me,’ I say, reaching out and covering her hand with mine.

  ‘Why? You’d had just as much to drink as I had. You were just much more sensible. Besides, you were probably tucked up in bed, fast asleep. Or passed out on top of it.’ She shoots me a teasing smile.

  ‘I hadn’t had that much to drink.’ I was drunk on other things. ‘But yeah, I went to bed pretty soon after I got the cat back.’ I press my lips together because I’m not going to tell her I didn’t get into bed alone. But whether due to bad timing or the prospect of being a bad influence, I’m not sure.

  ‘I can’t believe you crawled in through a dog door.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ I got stuck. ‘Need to. I just grabbed him.’ Grabbed him. Rolled on top of him. Rode him. Oh, the fun that was had . . .

  Obviously, not with the cat. Though I did have to chase one of the haughty voyeurs out of the bedroom at one point. It was a bit off-putting to be watched, especially by something that was so uninterested, it broke off watching halfway to clean its own bum hole.

  I put a hand to my heating cheek as Heather carries on.

  ‘Well, you were definitely more sensible than me because I ended up spending almost my whole week’s wage on a taxi back home. And I had to give Danny twenty quid not to tell Mum I was home the next day.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘The little rat caught me creeping out to creep back in. I was supposed to be going home with you, so I had to sneak in to sleep in my own bed, then sneak out in order to make my official entrance. You know what they’re like. They would’ve had a million questions, and I’d have had to throw you under the bus and said we’d had an argument or something. And then they would’ve called you, and they would’ve been all “hey man, let’s all be groovy friends” thing.’ She affects an accent and makes the air quotes.

  ‘They’re not that bad,’ I say with a giggle.

  ‘You don’t have to live with them. They’re too young to be hippies, but it doesn’t stop them with that whole free love thing. It wouldn’t be too bad if they just confined their loving to their bedroom.’

  ‘Free? Oh my God, Heather. Your parents are not swingers, are they?’

  ‘No. Ew, no! They screw like bunnies, though. And they don’t hide it. It’s no wonder they have seven kids.’

  ‘I think it’s lovely that they’re still in love.’

  ‘Yes, agreed. If only they’d just stop expressing it so freely in the communal parts of the home. Anyway, I’m still broke because of that useless little scrotal component. He’s blackmailing me.’

  ‘Is he? Still?’

  ‘It’s not funny. He’s a little wanker.’

  ‘That’s no way to speak about your little brother.’ Sometimes, I forget she’s only nineteen. ‘You could’ve told them the truth.’

  ‘I would rather take a vow of silence than discuss my sex life with either of them,’ she answers gravely. ‘And you know I do love to talk. Besides, they’d ask questions they wouldn’t like the answers to. So I snuck out to sneak back in. If only I could’ve remembered the address of the place where you’re staying.’

  Her turning up that night would’ve been awkward—for all three of us.

  ‘I’m pleased Louisa had left home before I was sneaking around to hang out with boys.’ My older sister, Louisa, lives in the permanently sunny city of Sydney on the other side of the world. It’s funny, but Heather has three older brothers too. None of them lives at home, but I can’t imagine they’d have been happy to stay silent for the sake of a few pounds. Big brothers are supposed to be very protective, so I understand.

  She snorts unhappily. ‘It doesn’t matter. You and Louisa get on far too well to extort money out of each other. Besides, you’re too sensible to go traipsing to the other side of London full of cocktails.’

  If only she knew. Scratch that, I’m glad she doesn’t. I know she was all for it, making hot neighbour dude my rebound, but she’s too young to understand. Although she seems to have a handle on regret. Not that I regret that night. I regret how it ended, but that isn’t on me. It was good while it lasted, even if it has reawakened that need in me for human contact. Christ, how can it be I miss that skank Tamara more than I miss Cameron? The weirdest thing is, she’d understand how I feel. She’d probably throw her arm around me and say fuck him—fuck the dude for skipping out on me while I was asleep and fuck Cameron for being a lying prick.

  But then again, she took care of the last one for me.

  I realise Heather is still complaining about her little brother. ‘He’s such a little shit.’

  ‘To be fair, he’s only thirteen. Let’s hope he grows out of it.’

  ‘And some little dicks just grow to be bigger dicks. Bigger dicks who think about nothing but their dicks.’

  ‘Are we talking about that night?’ I ask carefully.

  ‘Nope. There’s nothing to talk about. I went. I changed my mind. I left. End of story. And if he wants to talk shit about me, he can.’

  ‘But you’re okay?’

  ‘Except I’m skint now until payday. Twenty pounds a week he’s charging me. Thanks for paying for lunch, by the way.’

 
‘That’s okay.’ I pull my purse onto my lap and pull my emergency twenty-pound note from the inside pocket. ‘You can give it back to me when you get paid.’

  ‘Thanks, Mir. You’re a lifesaver.’ She pockets the cash quickly, almost as though I might change my mind. ‘Can give me a lift home after work?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. I suppose I better have a little chat with Danny. Make him see the error of his ways. And threaten to tell on him.’

  ‘Ha. Good luck. ‘I’m going to get a bottle of water,’ she says, pushing her chair back. ‘Want anything?’ I shake my head, pulling the local newspaper abandoned on the table next to ours. I flip it open, going straight to the entertainment and lifestyle sections. It doesn’t harm to keep an eye on what’s happening in London, and it was reading the local rag that gave me the idea to contact the one or two publicists for the Lust Island crew. It might’ve been nice if I could’ve gotten a couple of the girls to come along too, but they all seemed to have conflicts in their schedule.

  Yeah, right.

  ‘You ready?’ I lift my gaze from the newspaper, my fingers already preparing to close it when something catches my attention.

  Tall, blond, and handsome, pap’d coming out of a charity gala last night.

  And is that . . . Giselle Hampton?

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘I’ll follow you.’ I don’t look up from the paper, spreading it out against the table to read the tiny caption and accompanying column under a double-page spread of celebrity shenanigans. Two Twits reads the byline under photographs of a pair of female columnists who seem more like two party girls than serious journalists.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Heather unscrews the cap on her water as she turns away.

  So I read.

  Giselle Hampton looks radiant in pink florals as she leaves the RFW Charity ball with an unnamed date.

  Giselle looked every inch the soon-to-be millionaire as she left the event at the prestigious Fortnum Club looking pretty in pink Gucci.

  The thirty-seven-year-old former model-turned-actress, who recently split from her billionaire textiles magnate husband, Johnno Hampton, is expected to receive a record settlement when the pair head to court later this year.