‘You heard Evie, let’s go. There’s got to be something to drink that’s better than this sugary nightmare.’
I’ll give Brooke’s team their dues– if there’s one thing they know how to do, it’s cohesion. The place is a Pinterest board come to life. I snap far too many pictures, balancing my notebook on every uneven surface I find as I attempt to pen my reactions onto the page. Aiden says nothing– he wouldn’t dare, but I know what he’s thinking. He made that all pretty clear on Friday night. Which is what made this morning’s reaction so confusing. . . I still don’t get who he was trying to fool– Pippa and Gus, or me.
We eventually find the bar– the biggest of the tents, stretching long and wide across one of the edges of the grounds. There are three other bespoke cocktails according to the picture menu, each of which looks as terrifying as the last, boasting an equally unnatural, glittery colour as the Pink Dream rip-off we started with. I can’t stomach another. Not on a Monday, when I still haven’t recovered from Friday night. Luckily, Aiden seems to be on the same vibe and returns from the bar with two bottles of Coke Zero.
‘So, what’s your issue today?’ he asks as we continue to stroll along the grass. ‘You’ve barely spoken two words to me since we got here.’
I swivel my neck the second his gaze turns towards to mine, repelling his stare like a magnet. My eyes land on a new tent with an open front, showcasing tons of glowing women and men sat beaming as aproned professionals jab needles into their veins. Trust Brooke’s party to have an IV-drip station, all in the name of wellness, I suppose. The mere idea sends a chill down my spine but I’d rather look there than at Aiden.
He stops us in our tracks, grabbing my hand and checking for a pulse.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks sternly.
His hand feels warm against my wrist, fingers twisting around it, sparking the blood underneath. I feel it fizzle at the new, foreign feel of his fingertips as they brush over the delicate skin. It’s too much. I shrug my wrist out of his grip, but it doesn’t stop him from staring and waiting for my answer.
‘Why did you do that?’ I ask.
‘Check your pulse? You haven’t spoken much, and after Friday I just—’
‘This morning, when you lied to Gus and Pippa. Why’d you do that?’
His face shifts instantly from concern to a more tightly wound confusion. ‘Oh, that? That was nothing– just seemed like you needed it.’ He shrugs. ‘And they needed humbling. Don’t know how you deal with that every day.’ He smiles back at me. I’m not smiling. In fact, my scowl renders him visibly shocked. ‘Look, I just thought I was helping you out. If it’s that deep, I won’t talk to them again.’
‘It’s not that. It’s just. . .’
I look up at his big brown eyes, deep and apologetic and rooted in concern. It makes me dizzy. I can barely hear myself over the music and chatter and the decorations and him. . . It’s all too much.
I drop my gaze immediately, looking around for something, anything, that could help me out, and spot a wooden arrow labelledPrivate Meditation Tentspointing far south of the garden. Perfect. I start to walk, pacing across the green and trying to ignore the footsteps directly behind me. He isrelentless. What’s his problem, and why must it involve me and making me talk about what’s going on in my head?
‘You can’t leave it there,’ he says, meeting me at my side.
I don’t let it stop me. That tent will be mine.
‘I just don’t see why you’d go through all that trouble to lie when I know that you agree with them,’ I say as I walk.
‘Who said that? Agree with them about what?’
‘You, literally all the time. You think I’m this boring, predictable girl who owns too many notebooks.’
We reach the meditation corner– a series of eight single-sized tents, tucked away from the rest of the party in the lower eighth of Brooke’s garden. The music’s quieter here, the air slightly cooler and the light so much dimmer thanks to the shade of the trees. I press my eyes shut and breathe for a sweet, tranquil moment, before opening them to address the man in front of me. His forehead crinkles in confusion for a moment beforesomething clicks in his brain, piecing my words and his from Friday night together.
‘Seven notebooksistoo many notebooks, Maddy,’ he says, a slight tease in his tone.
‘I got it the first time,’ I sigh.
His lips twist as he studies the dip of my brow and the defeat in my eyes. Eventually he sighs too, shoving his hand in his pocket before casting his eyes back over my face.
‘You remember that trip we took at the end of Year Six? With that old crusty river in the middle of nowhere?’
‘It was a brook. And it was less than ten minutes from our campsite,’ I say.
‘Which explains its crustiness– my point stands. Anyway, remember when we found it? Everyone was so excited because it was mad hot and we were desperate for anything to cool us down.’
His face contorts into a smile at the mere recollection of his silly, rambunctious days as a youth. It’s endearing, sweet, even, or at least it would be if the day in question hadn’t been the epitome of stupid.
‘I remember. Everyone started kicking their shoes off and diving headfirst into that filthy pond water.’
‘And Mrs May was screaming, and I stained my white vest and got a bollocking from my mum, but it was totally worth it,’ he says. ‘Do you remember what you did, while we were all jumping?’
