‘Double espresso,’ she called back. ‘There should be Tim Tams somewhere.’
‘They’re all gone.’
Nella lay back in the lavender water. Its thick perfume consumed her lovingly, the dizzying heat reminding her again how easily it would embrace her completely ...
‘I’m leaving a clean towel and a bathrobe outside.’
Fucking Jett. She couldn’t even drown herself without him interrupting.
A minute (or twenty) later, robe tied and towel wrapped around her hair like royal headgear, Nella glared at her reflection in the steamy mirror as the rumble of the state-of-the-art espresso machine filtered through the still-closed door. ‘Who should I fire for sending you here?’ she called as she started her evening skincare routine. She never skipped a night and certainly wasn’t going to let Jett be the downfall of her collagen. The foam of her mint-scented cleanser soaked disapprovingly into her pores, which had broken out over the past few months from her diet of take-out and wine. Her eye cream did shit all for the dark half-moons under her eyes; her mother used to say they were bruises from God’s thumbs as he marked Italian girls as beautiful. But Nella felt far from beautiful as she took in her crater face, where she’d squeezed and gouged her newfound pimples. Her cheeks were bloated from the booze and salt, and there was a strange cut on her forearm she didn’t remember getting.
‘Jett?’ she called when he still hadn’t replied. His name sounded like an order; she couldn’t help it. She was more pissed off at her reflection than him, but she couldn’t tell him that. Sometimes she was terrified he understood how she worked better than she did. She twisted the lid back on Tom’s moisturiser (why were male-targeted beauty products always better?) and followed the smell of coffee out of the bathroom.
‘I’ll tell you once we’re in the car.’ He didn’t look up from where he stood in the now-spotless kitchen, espresso machine pouring thick brown shots into the cups he held under the spout.
‘Tell me now or I’m not going.’
He sighed, opening the fridge for the milk. That man had never met a coffee he couldn’t ruin. ‘Here.’ He passed her a cup of espresso, which she gulped down. She felt him watching her as he sipped his own.
‘The kitchen smells weird.’
‘It’seau de lack of maggots.’
She ran her tongue over her teeth. Furry. Had she brushed them this morning or just popped a mint? ‘Someone dead?’
‘No.’
‘Forrest Valentine’s finally been arrested for killing Poppy Raven?’
‘No.’
‘Then I don’t care. Whatever it is doesn’t override what I said at the funeral. Go home, Jett.’
I never want to see your disgusting face again.
Those words had rattled through her every night since – a snake sick from its own poison. They were what flicked the extra shots into her drinks, what drove her towards totally unsuitable strangers. She knew she’d said some other unforgiveable things too, but that was the one she couldn’t forget. Remembering was her penance.
She hadn’t meant his scar, but how the hell else was he meant to take it?
‘Tom sent me,’ Jett said, avoiding all eye contact.
‘Oh,Tomsent you. Why didn’t you say so? Let’s go then!’ She threw herself down on the (also now-clean) couch, rearranging the fabric of her robe as it dragged up her thighs – she was still butt-naked underneath. ‘At 3.30 a.m.?’ She wasn’t exactly shocked at the time stamp; Tom didn’t view the human need for sleep as an excuse for slacking off at work.
Jett took the armchair opposite her (it was from the set ofFriends– Tom had bought it at an auction in New York), cradling his milky coffee in both palms. ‘Was only twelve when I left. He needs you back. Something’s happened.’
‘If my darling brother needs me so badly, why couldn’t he be bothered driving here himself? Or is any form of human interaction now so impossible for my family that it’s easier to send the taxi driver to do it?’
Jett sipped his coffee, his little finger tapping the base of the cup. ‘Guess he’s under the delusion that I can convince you to come home.’
‘Admirable effort so far. I think you’ve earnt your thirty silver coins, Judas.’ She looked pointedly at the yellow couch he’d found her and Victor on. ‘Where are my Doritos?’
‘What?’
‘My packet of Doritos – they were down here somewhere.’ She snatched at the air between the couch and the floor.
‘You must be referring to the packet of mould I tossed down your rubbish chute.’
‘Mould has gut health benefits.’
