“New York,” I say.
“By way of Texas,” Lauren says.
“Um, not me. Vermont.”
“Where,” the one named Prue asks, “is Vermont?”
“Nowhere important,” Lauren says at the exact moment I say, “Just below the Canadian border, by Montreal.”
“IloveMontreal,” Prue exclaims. “Have you had poutine? Felix does an excellent poutine at his pub. He makes the cheese curds himself.”
“Ugh,” Pear groans. “Don’t say curd. It’s a sickening word, isn’t it?”
“Where are you all from?” Lauren says, as she has the social graces that seem to have deserted me in my humiliation.
“London,” Prue says. “Though Mum and Dad have decamped off to Hampshire in their dotage. Horribly dull of them.”
“Well, we’ll leave you to your lunch,” I say. “Very nice to meet you, and Felix, I’m sorry again about—”
He shakes his head and gives me an affable smile. “It was my pleasure,” he says. “But avoid the scampi. No one wants to be pelted with prawn heads.”
“You got it,” I say.
Before I can be even more awkward, I turn around and return to my seat.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” I whisper.
“Actually, it was smart,” Lauren whispers back. “Now you’ve broken theice with him and I won’t have to drag you by your armpits to introduce yourself.”
“Yeah, instead he’ll think of me as the socially inept girl who threw food in his hair.”
“Nah,” Lauren whispers. “I think he liked you. Did you see the way he smiled? Maybe I won’t have to break up the family to get you laid after all.”
Felix
It would be an understatement to say I don’t care for musical theater. Inviting me to a show at the West End is the fastest way to get a “no” out of my mouth. So, of course, when Prue grabs my hand after supper and announces we’re on our way to a Broadway revue, I pry my fingers away.
Pear comes at me from the other side with a death grip on my bicep.
“Youarecoming, dear brother,” she says. “You are coming toeverything.”
“Yes,” Prue says. “You are going to havefunon this trip, or we’ll make you walk the plank.”
“You wouldn’t like maritime jail, I’m sure,” I say. “Let me go.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t get caught. There aremanyunexplained deaths at sea. It’s the dark underbelly of the cruise ship world,” says Pear. “I read about it inThe Guardian.”
“How tragic,” Prue singsongs. “Darling Felix drowned at sea, just like that. Who will take over his pubs?”
“We’ll sell them to Pizza Express,” Pear says decisively.
“Even you would not turn my life’s work into a chain restaurant,” I say.
“Oh, I would. Very good ROI.”
My sisters are experts in complicated investment-oriented things I readabout with minimal comprehension in theFinancial Times. They’re famous in the City of London for their genius aptitude for investing, not to mention their matching blond beauty. They are Dad’s pride and joy, while I’m his black sheep who eschewed university in order to “faff about in the pub.”
My two gastropubs are both raved about and profitable, but he’ll never forgive me for not wanting to raise hundreds of millions of dollars to “reinvigorate failing legacy brands,” or whatever it is that he and my sisters are so good at.
