‘He’s British, but his mum is American,’ Clara breathes happily. ‘Yet another thing we have in common.’
I frown. ‘Our mum isn’t American,’ I point out and she tuts.
‘No, duh! But Dad was! So we’re both half English, half American – we’ve got that dual-nationality, never-truly-belonging thing in common.’
‘I’ve never felt at all American,’ I tell her firmly. ‘We were born here and Mum raised us. Dad’s a knob.’
Clara looks like she will argue. She was always much more defensive of our dickhead dad. Even after he disappeared, never to be heard of again, she still found a way to defend him. Her mouth opens, shuts, then opens again. ‘Whatever,’ she begins breezily. ‘Anyway, I looked Milo up, he lives here in London.’
‘Handy,’ I say. ‘And it’s certainly a nice name,’ I add, trying to be supportive. Clara whips round.
‘It’s aperfectname! He is absolutely perfect.’ She pauses.‘Last night I made a list of what I want in my future husband – have you guys all heard ofThe Secret? I put out into the universe what I wanted and he’s it. Milo has every single thing on my list.’ She starts ticking items off on her fingers. ‘He’s exactly my type, looks wise, he lives in the area, he’s funny, super cool, a bit wild, a bad boyandhe likes cats.’
‘How do you even know that?’ Harry screws up his face.
‘I googled the absoluteshitout of him,’ Clara says brazenly. ‘He’s only done a handful of interviews promoting the show so far, and mostly they didn’t seem to go very well.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘It sounds like he has a bit of a temper!’ When I frown, she adds quickly, ‘Which is sexy! I like a man who runs hot.’ She waves a hand. ‘Anyway, I know he lives in North West London, I know he has family he’s really close to. He has two cats and he’s single.’ She pauses. ‘That woman he’s been seen out with a few times is definitely just a friend, I can feel it.’ She grins around the room, adding quickly when Salma makes a face, ‘And he’s straight! Definitely straight.’
‘That came up in the interview?’ Salma looks cynical. She’s done her fair share of celebrity interviews through her job on the radio. She’s told me about the endless restrictions put on what she can ask.
‘Yes,’ Clara retorts defensively, then shrugs. ‘Well, not exactly. But Ifeelit. He’s too perfect for me to be gay. The universe wouldn’t do that to me.’
‘Because the whole world revolves around you,’ I say more harshly than I meant before I can stop myself.
‘Exactly,’ Clara laughs and I feel my face get hot. She’salways been this way. She’s the main event and we’re all just in the background, dancing in her peripheral vision. And it’s becoming increasingly clear that – along with alcohol, stress and anxiety – my sister is another of my rosacea triggers.
Things have been better between us in the last few days. I’m trying to laugh more at her uselessness, and remind myself that she’s doing her best to be an adult. She even used the washing machine before her interview yesterday – all by herself! I mean, it was a sixty degree wash with one random red sock in with the whites, transforming everything into tiny pink doll clothes, but that’s better than nothing. Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not. She also asked me if she should wash the plates after dinner the other night. I was initially enraged because I’m not in charge. I don’t want to be the house mother who has people asking my permission or approval to do things. She should just get on with the chores without checking in with me! But then I realized it was progress for her even to realize plates didn’t magically clean themselves.
We’re talking more as well. I’ve been trying to open up; telling her about my days, mostly spent interviewing and researching Aarav’s life; battling with dickhead Mack on the library front desk; and now, bonding over this weird note business.
But I wish she’d open up a bit more to me.
I get the feeling something happened in America. Something that caused her to come home. She shuts down whenever anyone mentions it. A few months ago I would’ve defiantly refused to care if she’d been through somethingover there, but I… care? I really do. I want to care and I want her to be OK. She might be selfish and useless and a massive narcissist but I really think she mostly means well. She doesn’t intend to be a child.
I think part of the problem is that Mum has always done everything for her, and it’s obvious that kids who never learn to do anything for themselves turn into adults who are constantly looking to other adults to do everything for them. They look for people who will mother them or control them.
So who was doing everything for her in America?
I sigh deeply. ‘Right. So far we havehey. Does anyone have any other dazzling words of wisdom to offer?’ I wave at my notebook before me and glance around quizzically. Everyone looks a little blank. ‘This isn’t really getting us anywhere,’ I point out after a moment, and stand up.
‘Where are you going?’ Clara sounds panicked. ‘You’re not chickening out of this, are you?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m going to the loo. I need a few minutes of quiet.’
In the bathroom, I slam the door behind me and lean on the sink, breathing deeply and examining my face in the mirror for redness. I’ve tried all kinds of creams and remedies for the rosacea over the years but nothing’s particularly effective. I went to the GP last year, but he shrugged me off with an antibiotic gel that did nothing. Now I just try to manage it as best I can by avoiding triggers. But I can’t avoid life, and life seems to be full of endless stresses lately.
I pull the notebook back out of my bag. I can do thiswithout that lot. I wrote the first lot of messages without them, didn’t I? I’m just going to follow my instincts and be myself.
But I might as well stick with thehey.
Hey, TGTBT co-fan,
How are things? So sorry for the delay replying to you this time. I actually got a little… well, scared! It suddenly hit me how strange this whole thing is, and how bizarre it is to be writing to a stranger. But I’m really enjoying our chat, and I hope you are, too. I’ve loved our bookish conversation – and our biscuit chat! – but I’d also love to know more about you. About what you think of the world and about books that aren’t just aimed at pre-schoolers. What is your favourite season? Which supermarket do you shop at? Are you a person who leaves long-winded voice notes on WhatsApp? Are you an early bird or a night owl? Have you ever been in an ambulance? Do you cry at adverts? All the important stuff.
I’m looking forward to hearing from you…
Before I can chicken out again, I take the note, folding it twice and shoving it securely into its small white envelope. I tuck it into the plastic cover on the inside page, my heart beating too fast.
It’s my most intimate message yet. I’m wearing my heart on my (book) sleeve and I hope it’s not too much. I don’t want to scare them off and I’m not asking who they are – Idon’t think I want to know that just yet – but I do want to knowmore.
