Chapter 24
Hendricks
Itake one look at Story propped up against my sister, the pair of them howling with laughter, and turn to Eddie.
“What the hell? How did you let them get so drunk?”
“I called you. What’d you want me to do?” His shoulder jerks, but I swear I see his mustache twitching. “I’m not getting between a pair of girls and their need to set the world right with a bottle of wine.”
“I see three bottles.”
“There was a lot of setting.”
“Is that so?”
He solemnly nods once. “And I feel like it’s my duty to warn you that your name came up more than anyone else’s.”
My eyes roll to the heavens, and I scrub a hand through my hair. Fucking hell. Spending my evening taking care of my very drunk sister and equally drunk best friend / ex-best friend / childhood love was nowhere close to what I had planned.
Not that I had plans per se, because I’d only just managed to get Max to sleep after the fifteenth story about a pirate boy and his pet sea-dragon.
Miles is out with his polo buddies, my mother has gone up to London for a dinner party, Lando and Holiday were watching a movie, and after an exhausting morning playing polo followed by an equally exhausting afternoon panicking about handling the Clementine / Torres situation, I would have been more than happy with a beer and an early night.
“How long have they been here?”
“Five hours, give or take.”
“Five?”
“I’d say so. Maybe six.”
I can see Eddie’s going to be no help whatsoever.
I don’t know if it’s the publican in him, upholding the trust of his patrons as sincerely as a doctor / patient relationship, or because he saw all of us through our formative years, and feels he has a duty to oversee our rites of passage too—namely passing out drunk in the pub.
I’ve done it, Lando’s done it, Alex has done it, and Miles has definitely done it.
“Okay, fine.”
My approach is ginger. The table is strewn with tissues and half-drunk glasses of water. Their cheeks are pink from the fire and far too much wine, and they’re laughing at whatever’s on their phone screen. It’s what makes me take my time, slow down, and observe.
Story’s hair is flopped onto her face, and from this angle, I can only see the curve of her nose peeking through from the curtain.
Her full lips, open wide as she barks a laugh out at Clementine’s commentary, curve up, creasing her cheekbones and adding the hint of a dimple.
Her lashes flutter as she tips her head back in amusement and, as her hair falls away, I’m treated to the rest of her silhouette—the graceful bow of her neck, rounded breasts under her thick woolen jumper, and the delicate arch in her back as she pushes away from the chair.
It gives me an all-too-real idea of how she’d look straddling me.
It’s not the first time I’m slack-jawed around Story, and it won’t be the last.
“Hey . . . it’s my brother.”
The pair is now staring at me, and I realize the extent of the situation. Blackish-gray streaks line the tops of their cheeks, eyes puffy and bloodshot. It’s debatable, but I think my sister comes off worse.
“Jesus. You two smell like a distillery.”
“You mean vineyard,” Clementine snaps back. At least I think that’s what she says. It’s more of a slur. She points her finger at me. “And before you think about judging us—”
“Don’t,” adds Story.
“And when you boil it down”—Clemmie’s arm swings around, and I duck just in time—“this is all your fault anyway.”
“Yeah? How so?”
In front of me, the determination on Clementine’s face morphs and crumbles, her eyes lose their furious sparkle, the glare aimed my way vanishes, and her mouth, set hard only seconds ago, droops. Before I know what’s happening, tears fall down her cheeks.
“Because you’re so mean.” She sobs loudly enough that the tables on the other side of the pub turn around. They can hear her over all the other raucous commotion you’d normally associate with a pub on a Saturday night.
Oh dear God.
“Clem. . .” I pull her out of her seat and into a hug, partly to comfort her, partly to muffle her. “Let’s talk about it when we get home, okay?”
“What about Story? You’re mean to her too.”
Releasing half my body from my sister’s grip, I look around and find Story also on the verge of a meltdown, completing this alcohol-soaked double act.
I’m living my worst nightmare.
A guy, who I dearly hope I don’t know, subtly pumps his fist at me. I appreciate the solidarity, but I want nothing more than to get out of here.
“Okay, you two, let’s go.” I pick up two jackets, two bags, and one really old phone. “The car’s outside.”
Without any help from Eddie, who’s watching on in amusement, I grab one girl with each hand, while making sure I don’t drop anything, and guide them gently but quickly out of the pub.
“Eddie, we’ll bring you the list in the morning,” my sister calls behind her before the door closes.
I might be busy trying to ferry two drunken girls, but my ears perk up nonetheless, because as a parent I have a sixth sense for when things sound suspect. “What list?”
“None of your”—Clemmie’s finger spins toward me until she presses it against my nose—“beeswax.”
It takes just as long to wrestle them into the car as it did to get them out of the pub. I no sooner get into the driver’s seat when Clemmie’s head pops through from the back seat.
“Are you mad at me, Hen?”
“No.”
Then Story decides to join in, pulling Clementine back to make room for her head. “Are you mad at me?”
“What? No.”
“You know what?” shoots drunk number one. “I don’t even care if you are. I’ve done nothing wrong. Arsehole.”
“And you know what?”
“What, Stor?”
“Me either.”
“Kill me now,” I mutter to myself as they dissolve into giggles in the back seat and congratulate themselves for who-the-fuck-knows-what.
I hit speed dial for Lando, who has the audacity to send me to voicemail. So I try again.
“I’m kind of busy right now, Hen.”
“I don’t fucking care. I’ll be outside the front doors in five minutes, and I need your help.”
To his credit, he’s waiting next to Holiday. I jump out as quickly as I can because if I’m not mistaken, Clementine’s on the verge of being sick. I’m proven correct when I yank the door open, and she leans out to vomit in spectacular fashion.
“Fucking hell,” grunts Lando, jumping back, as Holiday surges forward to take her from my arms.
“Oh God, Clemmie, what’s happened?”
“They’ve been in the pub all afternoon.”
“They?”
Rushing around, I open the other passenger door, where Story is much more graceful and less pukey in her exit from the car. On closer inspection, she seems marginally less drunk too.
Even though Holiday is guiding Clementine up the steps to the front door, her brows shoot up at the sight of my arm around Story. Lando sports a similar expression as we watch her teeter toward the front door and into the house.
“Does Story need to go home?”
I nod. “But I’m not taking her back to her parents’ place in this state.”
Grabbing on to one of the stone pillars in the hallway, she spins around. “Whoa, Burlington Hall. Long time no see.” Her arms spread around the circumference. “I missed you. Thought I’d never be invited back.”
“Okay, Story, let’s get you to bed.”
She gasps and giggles behind her hand. “Why, Lord Burlington, I thought you’d never ask.”
I shoot a glare at Lando as he snorts loudly behind me, then another one for being absolutely no help whatsoever.
“I’ll be waiting downstairs for a beer. Are you hungry? Shall I see if Pierre can rustle up some pizzas?”
“Yes,” I say, begrudgingly, and guide Story up the stairs. Holiday and Clementine are way ahead of us. I debate putting Story in the spare room in the east wing near me, but it’s near me and so is Max. I don’t want him asking questions about why his teacher is staying over.
Therefore, we turn left at the top of the staircase toward the west wing instead.
“Did the corridor always used to be blue?” Story muses, trailing her fingertips along the wall. There’s a whimsical, dreamy quality about the way she’s moving, slow and preoccupied that any other time I might find cute, but right now, I don’t have the patience for.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Could have sworn it was yellow.”
“Nope, blue. Remember, you always said it could do with having clouds painted on it.”
“Oh yes. I remember now.” She grins. It turns into another giggle, followed by a pirouette. “I used to love having sleepovers. Remember when we used to have sleepovers, Hen?”
I hum in response, but my only recollection of the sleepovers is how they stopped around the time we were thirteen. Right before sleeping in the same bed all night would come with a set of challenges, and sneaking down the corridor to each other’s rooms was too risky.
“Okay, Stor, you can sleep in here.” I open the door to the bedroom farthest away from mine.
Following me in, she stands by the bed and watches me walk around the room, switching on the bedside light, drawing the curtains, and checking the warmth of the radiators.
In the bathroom, I find spare toothbrushes and toothpaste, face cloths and towels, and a little basket with anything a guest could need.
She hasn’t moved by the time I return. “Story, I’m going to fetch you some water and painkillers for the morning. In the meantime, you can brush your teeth and go to sleep.”
“Hendricks, are you going to stay with me?”
I lean in and kiss her cheek, my body tensing in refusal to betray how much I want to stay. “Make sure you call your mum and let her know you’re okay.”
Softly, her fingers link with mine. “Do you promise you’re not mad at me?”
She’s drunk, so she doesn’t get it. “I could never be mad at you, Stor.” Not anymore, anyway. Not ever really. It was me I was mad at.
Her smile is heartbreaking, offset only by her slightly unfocused eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Wait.” She pulls me back. “Tell me you love me again.”