Chapter 19
DREW
Something’s sticking into my back. My eyes flutter open and I take in my surroundings in the dim light, realising it’s not something, it’s someone. Well, part of someone. Their elbow.
I’ve broken my number one golden rule for the second time this month. Stupid.
Melanie was fun, though – a real-life librarian with a naughty-librarian alter ego. Only, now I need to get the hell out of here without waking her.
I carefully shift towards the edge of the bed and slowly turn my head.
I’m in luck – she’s dead to the world. Still, I take my time getting out of bed, then scout for my clothes on the floor.
Nada. Then I remember my striptease ‘amongst the stacks’ – AKA her living room – so I slip out of the bedroom, gently closing the door behind me.
Finding my clothes scattered around the room, I quickly get dressed, then take my shoes with me, stopping in the hallway to put them on.
I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes.
‘What the fuck are you doing, jackass?’
It may have been a fun night, but my head is sore from too much whiskey, my mouth tastes like I’ve licked a toilet bowl, and now I’ll have to make up an excuse for why I don’t want to see Melanie again. Much easier to ghost someone when you don’t stay the night.
Pushing off the wall, I head down the stairs, stepping outside into grey morning mizzle – and me without an umbrella. Not that an umbrella does much when the weather’s like this. And maybe it’s my penance.
I start walking toward the Tube station – hungover, remorseful, and damp. The lesser known of Snow White’s short-statured friends.
I could go straight home – probably should go straight home, take a shower, down a couple of aspirin – but the pull of breakfast at Chris and Gen’s is too strong.
Especially as it’s Sunday and they go all-out on Sundays.
I shoot Chris a text telling him I’m coming over, then head into the Tube station.
‘Uncle Drew, tell them.’
Maisie’s on an adopt-a-cat campaign. She’s talked non-stop about Pickle the tortoiseshell cat since I got here.
‘Pickle was a cute cat,’ I say diplomatically, and Gen kicks me under the table. ‘Ow.’
‘That didn’t hurt, you big wuss. I’m wearing Uggs.’
‘Yeah, but you don’t know your own strength,’ I say, rubbing my shin. Gen rolls her eyes and I chuckle. She’s fun when she acts as immature as me.
‘Maisie,’ she says in her no-nonsense voice, ‘you’re not having a cat.’
‘But—’
‘No. You say you’ll look after it, but that’s what you said about Myrna and Ralph.’
From memory, Myrna was a goldfish who Maisie overfed and died, and Ralph was a hamster – or guinea pig, I’m not sure – who Maisie never remembered to feed, and Chris and Gen had rehomed.
‘But I was a little kid back then. I’m practically nine now. What if Pickle is my birthday present?’ she asks, her eyes alive with hope – like she’s the first kid ever to bargain with her parents.
‘No.’ Gen again.
I glance at Chris to see if he’s going to weigh in but he sits back, tight-lipped.
‘I know!’ Maisie sits bolt upright. ‘What if Pickle is my birthday present and my Christmas present? You could tell Father Christmas that he doesn’t need to bring me anything.’
Oof – butter wouldn’t melt in that mouth.
‘Listen, Mais,’ says Chris, breaking out the understanding-dad voice. He and Gen must be doing the good-cop-bad-cop routine.
Only Maisie is all over it – she knows what’s coming and fixes a scowl on her face, her arms folded across her chest. It’s rare that Maisie ventures into spoilt-brat territory and I’m not loving it.
‘Maisie,’ says Chris and she begrudgingly looks up.
‘Your mom and I will talk about it, and maybe’ – Maisie perks up – ‘we’ll see after Christmas, okay?’
‘Okay,’ she says, grinning at him.
She asks to be excused so she can tell Harlow on HappyChat, and then it’s just the three of us.
‘Playing with fire there,’ I say when I’m sure Maisie’s out of earshot. ‘She’s not gonna forget and you’ll be having this exact same conversation after Christmas.’
‘Dude, how dim are you?’ Chris asks, shaking his head at me.
And then I get it.
‘Oh, Maisie’s getting a cat,’ I say, shaking my head at myself.
Gen slaps me hard on the shoulder as she gets up. ‘Not just a pretty face,’ she says, starting to clear the table.
‘I’ll do that,’ I say, leaping up. ‘You cooked.’
Gen raises her eyebrows and slowly backs out of the kitchen. ‘Not going to argue with that.’
She leaves, shortly followed by the dun-dung of the Netflix logo, then the beginning of Bridgerton. ‘Dearest Gentle Reader…’ coos Julie Andrews.
Chris gets up and closes the door.
‘Okay, why are you lying to your kid?’ I ask.
‘Look, I get that it might seem messed up, but Maisie still believes in Santa. So, if she gets a cat for her birthday, it’s a surprise, but it’s me and Gen who’ve surprised her.’
‘I suppose it must suck that Santa gets credit for all the good presents.’
‘Exactly,’ he replies, bringing more dishes from the table.
As I load them into the dishwasher, something strikes me. ‘Oh my god,’ I say, straightening.
‘What?’
‘This is Mom and Dad and the bikes – straight out of their playbook.’
The summer I turned nine and Chris turned twelve, Mom and Dad surprised us with bikes.
We’d been begging for months and every time, it was ‘we can’t afford it’ and ‘what’s wrong with the bike you have?
’ And on the first day of summer vacation, we go outside to play and there on the driveway were two ten-speed bikes.
You have never seen two kids more excited.
‘What can I say?’ says Chris with a grin. ‘Learned from the best.’
We finish cleaning up the kitchen and the whole time, all I can think is how lucky Maisie is to have such cool parents.
A little while later, I’m on the ride share app about to book a ride home, when a text message from Max comes up onscreen:
Skiing accident. In bad shape.
‘Everything okay?’ Chris asks and I look up.
‘It’s from Max. He’s had a skiing accident.’
‘Okay, so are we talking minor bumps and bruises or…?’
‘Unsure – hang on.’
I send a quick reply:
You okay? What’s going on?
Chris comes to read over my shoulder and we both stare at my phone. Only there’s no reply.
‘Do you think he’s still on the mountain or…?’ Chris asks, trailing off.
‘You literally know as much as I do,’ I retort.
Chris raises his hands in surrender, and I fall onto the nearest chair.
‘He could be getting X-rays or something,’ Chris suggests.
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘And if he’s texted, it can’t be that bad.’
‘That your professional opinion?’ I ask.
‘Hard to diagnose someone from hundreds of miles away with zero information,’ he says, which is fair.
I drop my eyes to the phone, but no matter how intently I stare at it, the screen remains static – not even dancing dots.
‘I’ll think I’ll head home.’
We say our goodbyes and I go back to my apartment and take a shower. Even after I get dressed, there’s no word.
‘Come on, Max,’ I growl.
I turn on the TV and scroll through movies and TV shows, but none of them interest me, so I grab my phone and send another text.
How bad it is? You gonna be okay?
I wait a good five minutes before I give up and start tidying the apartment. Several hours later, I’ve washed and dried my sheets and remade the bed, vacuumed, cleaned the bathroom – the cleanest the grout has ever been or will be again – and organised my sock drawer.
Still no message from Max.
Might as well get out of here – go for a walk or something. I slip on a jacket and am halfway out the door when my phone chimes with a message:
Leg broken in three places. Surgery and traction. Not going anywhere for a while.
‘Well, fuck.’ I fire off a reply:
That sucks. Sorry man. How long is a while?
I don’t want to be insensitive, but we’re supposed to start shooting soon.
They said a month or longer. Maggie will call u
God, his poor assistant must be freaking out as much as I am.
If Max is in traction in a Swiss hospital for a month, there’s no way he’ll be running through airports with his fake wife and kids for the Hargreaves campaign. Which means Sophie’s concept is dead in the water. And so is the one I originally pitched.
No Max puts us back at square one, and Hargreaves is expecting to review scripts tomorrow.
‘Fuck.’
There’s only one person to call.
‘Hi,’ I say when Sophie opens the door.
‘Hey. Come in, come in – it’s freezing out there.’
I hustle inside and she closes the door behind me. ‘What’s all this?’ she asks, eyeing the groceries I’ve brought.
For a moment, I’m struck dumb. She’s in jeans and a vintage Kylie Minogue tour T-shirt, her hair’s in a messy bun, and she’s not wearing any makeup. She’s gorgeous.
‘Er, part apology, part sustenance,’ I reply when I snap out of it. ‘This could take a while.’
‘Kitchen’s down the hallway on the left,’ she says, stepping aside to let me pass. ‘I figured we can work in there.’
I glance at the living room as I walk by.
It’s cosy, with a fireplace and two sofas, a variety of fabrics and textures in different fall colours.
Total opposite to my apartment, which is decorated in what Gen calls ‘bachelor chic’ – lots of chrome, hard surfaces, and the colour palette of a black-and-white photo.
There’s also a Christmas tree. In October.
‘Oh, hey, you’ve put the tree up,’ I say.
‘Yeah. It’s early but Harlow wanted to – and the prevailing wisdom amongst parents is that when your child wants to spend time with you, you say yes. ’Cause it won’t last forever.’
‘Do you mind…?’ I ask, nodding towards the tree.
‘No, go ahead. I’ll take these.’
She relieves me of the groceries, and I wander over to the Christmas tree.
It’s artificial, something that would horrify my mom, but pretty.
I chuckle at the gold-painted macaroni ornament.
I’m pretty sure I made one exactly like that.
There must have been a secret meeting of kindergarten teachers at some point.
A small photo frame, also handmade, catches my eye and I lean closer. It’s a photo of Sophie, Harlow, and a guy who must be Harlow’s dad. He’s holding Harlow and she’s laughing, her head thrown back, and Sophie’s looking up at them, smiling.
A sharp sudden ache pierces my chest.
What happened with Caitlyn hurt like hell, but it must pale in comparison to Sophie losing her husband. That’s some full-on grown-up shit. And poor Harlow has to grow up without her dad.
I puff out my cheeks and expel a long breath, giving the ache a chance to settle, then head towards the kitchen.
As I enter, the aroma of cinnamon smacks me in the face.
‘That smells incredible,’ I say.
‘Thanks,’ Sophie replies. ‘I’ve just popped some cinnamon scrolls in the oven,’ she says.
‘Oh, cool.’
I take off my coat and messenger bag, setting them on a stool, then climb onto the one next to it.
The kitchen is clearly the hub of the home, with shelves along one wall, books and knick-knacks crammed in haphazardly, and a dining table next to a floor-to-ceiling window that looks out over a small yard.
When I turn towards Sophie, she seems self-conscious. I would be too if we were working out of my place, wondering if she was judging me for my lack of throw pillows. Although, she has enough for both of us.
‘Is that weird?’ she asks, capturing her bottom lip with her teeth.
‘Is what weird?’
‘That I tend to bake when everything goes—’
‘To shit?’ I say right as she says, ‘pear-shaped.’
‘Fuck, sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘And I’ve done it again.’
I give myself a mental ass-kicking, but she just laughs.
‘You dag,’ she says with a head shake.
‘I have no idea what that means but you’re probably right.’
‘Trust me, I am.’
She holds my gaze a second longer, small creases framing her brown eyes.
‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here,’ she says, digging into the groceries. ‘Drew, you bought out the whole shop.’
‘Yeah, I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so…’
She takes out three kinds of cheese, olives, sliced salami, marinated artichokes, and two boxes of crackers.
‘I can see it now…’ she says, staring off, ‘empty charcuterie boards all over north London, hostesses wailing at the injustice of those barren shelves.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
She cackles loudly, then digs into the next bag and takes out a packet of Percy Pigs, her eyebrows raised.
‘Those are for Harlow – also an apology – for derailing your evening.’
‘Well, that’s very thoughtful,’ she says, setting them on the counter, ‘but Harlow’s staying over at Coco’s tonight – sorry, Connie’s. You met Connie – Harlow calls her Coco.’
‘Oh yeah, that makes more sense,’ I say, laughing to myself.
‘What does?’
‘Well, I’ve heard her mention Coco, but I didn’t put those two together. I figured Coco was a pet or something.’
‘Hah! I won’t tell Connie you said that. Ooh, guacamole.’
‘Can’t do an all-nighter without guac,’ I say, sounding like a college kid cramming for finals. Idiot.
She gives me a funny look, then blows out a raspberry, her cheerful demeanour falling away.
‘What?’ I ask.
She faces me, her shoulders drooping. ‘How the hell are we going to pull this off?’ she asks with a sigh. ‘We sold Hargreaves an A-lister and now…’
She said ‘we’ and not ‘you’, which I take as a good sign, because the only way we can pull this off is together.
But before I reply, she starts talking again.
‘And can I just ask,’ she says, planting her hands on her hips, ‘why the bloody hell was he skiing in the first place? He’s supposed to be shooting the next Cosmic Sentinels movie – don’t they have rules about that sort of thing to prevent – oh, I don’t know – the star of the movie from breaking his bloody leg in three bloody places and being laid up for a month in another country?
! Not to mention him jeopardising his commitment to us! ’
‘All valid points,’ I reply.
‘Well, yeah…’ she says, losing steam. ‘Sorry – I’m just really, really pissed off at him.’
‘Yeah, I get it.’
‘I mean I’m glad he’ll be okay and a speedy recovery and all that…’ She huffs out a loud breath and jumps up and down, shaking out her limbs.
‘Better?’ I ask, not sure if I’m impressed or terrified. I wouldn’t want to cross Sophie Reid when she’s like this.
‘Better,’ she replies.
She goes around the counter and takes out a large cheese board.
‘I’ll do this – you’re on wine.’
‘Shit – I didn’t br—’
‘All good,’ she says, pointing behind me. ‘Pantry.’
I come back, holding up a red from Spain. ‘This okay?’
‘Yep, that’ll do for starters.’
She hands me two wine glasses and I pour.