My mouth opens. I make some kind of hiss.
There’s no financial way out of this, even if I could afford the bills, given what the shop takes in. The recalculated taxes are a nightmare. This would have never happened if my father still ran the shop. And if the shop fails, and I disappoint him even though he’s gone, how can I live with that?
It’s even worse than I thought. The shop’s truly fucked now.
After a round of rage sweeping—which is nowhere near as satisfying as it sounds—the damage is fully revealed, adding to my foul mood. A fine cloud of dust hangs in the air. I sneeze.
I stare at the inexplicable hole in the wall that someone’s cut in for who knows what reason. Unable to bear it any longer, and not sure what to do, I call Gemma.
“I need answers,” I blurt when she picks up.
“God, Aubs, don’t you have the decency to text first about a call?” she mumbles, obviously half asleep. “I thought someone died.Nobodyrings me. Not even my mum. You should know better. This is hardly a psychic helpline.”
“No one’s died,” I confirm. “And I don’t need any kind of reading. Or seance. Yet.”
I hear the sound of rustling and mumbling and quite possibly the voice of someone else, but who can say for certain other than Gemma.
“’Kay, I’m up, I’m up,” she says while smothering a yawn.
“It’s nearly noon.”
“I’m not scheduled to work today.” She pauses, the frown in her voice. “I don’t think. I mean, the shop’s not in order yet, is it? I haven’t slept for a week.”
“A divine intervention did not, in fact, occur overnight,” I concur, raking my hand through my hair. Though that does raise an intriguing explanation about what happened with Blake last night, but I’m definitely not bringing that up to Gemma, no matter her passing familiarity with celestial events, both scheduled and unscheduled.
“So what’s happening?”
“The floors,” I say darkly, gesturing at them widely in my despair, even if she can’t see. “They’ve been murdered.”
“Old news, mate.”
The arrival of the fresh crop of devastating bills was just the nail in the coffin that I hardly needed for the shop. I’m not mentioning that to Gemma either. Instead, I pace.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say.
“Obviously, you fix them. Or somebody does.” She tuts. Water runs in the background. Then she half covers the microphone and there’s some half-muffled conversation on her end about tea.
“Of course, but how?”
“Call a builder, silly. Call the film people. Is there a meeting? I don’t know. You worry too much—it’ll be fine.”
“I worry the appropriate amount, thank you very much.”
Gemma laughs, obviously unperturbed because it’s not her ruined shop. “Maybe you need to have some fun and take your mind off things,” she advises.
I open my mouth and shut it. “Fun,” I blurt, reddening, “isnotthe issue.”
“Are you quite sure?” Gemma sighs. “Look, did you want me to come by and try to fix the floors?”
A shudder runs through me. “I hate to underestimate you, but no, I don’t need you to come fix them.”
“That’s good, because I have things to do today,” she says brightly. “But I can come tomorrow. If that helps. Just let me know.”
“I’m going—” I catch myself, hesitating. Tomorrow means going away with Blake. We haven’t exactly figured out where we’re going, mind you.That’s something for us to decide tonight. “I will,” I promise instead.
“Perfect. Talk soon. It’s going to be fine, Aubs. You’ll see.”
“Is it?”
