Chapter 2
Rosaline considered herself to be opposed to a few things in life. Murder, for one. Clothing stores that only allowed you to return your shirt when it was still sealed in plastic. And, at present, whatever Winnie was trying to wipe all over her face.
“Stay still,” Winnie ordered.
She squeezed her eyes shut. It felt gloopy. Gloopy, and also cold.
“What is this?”
Fingers touched her face. “Magic.”
“It’s eyeshadow,” Ivy provided helpfully, from somewhere in a bathroom stall. “My eyeshadow, to be clear. The shade is Disco Queen.”
Horror filled her. “Is it sparkly?”
Winnie muttered something in Mandarin that sounded distinctly non-complimentary. “Just keep your eyes closed.”
If she were her older sister, Rosaline thought, this would be the part where she launched herself off the bathroom counter and started scrubbing at her face with the thin, scratchy paper towel that you only ever found in office toilets.
But Juliette also drove mind bogglingly fast race cars, and the bravest thing Rosaline had ever done was ask strangers for directions to a restaurant in Clapham after her phone had died.
So there you had it. Crucial differences.
She shifted. “I might not even go this afternoon.”
Silence. She had the sense that Winnie and Ivy were exchanging a look. Or as much of a look as they could exchange, given that Ivy was sprawled on the ground with her head in a toilet.
She drew a breath. “I have patients that I need to see”—
Winnie made an impatient noise. “I work reception. I can literally see your schedule. You don’t have anybody until tomorrow.”
“And there’s that promotion up for grabs”—
“Since when have you cared about a promotion?”
The words stung. There was no point in saying anything, though; Winnie hadn’t meant anything by it.
And anyway, Rosaline thought tiredly, it was true; she’d never been as ambitious as her older siblings.
Then again, it was hard to compete when the twins were motorsport superstars and her eldest brother Ben worked in some sort of financially lucrative industry that had to do with…
key deliverables? Circling back a lot? As a physiotherapist, most corporate jargon went directly over her head, and she intended to keep it that way.
She shrugged. “Maybe I want this promotion.”
“Your eyeliner,” Winnie protested. “Hold still.”
“Good,” Ivy said firmly. “You should go for it. I am.”
Winnie snorted. “I wish you both the best of luck. We all know Parker will get it.”
“He might not,” Rosaline said, although it sounded half-hearted even to her.
Parker Rockwell had got the last three promotions on offer, which had little to do with his skill as a physiotherapist and more to do with the fact that he was on the same five-a-side football team as their boss, Mark. Winnie made a humming sound.
“I’m not saying I have insider information”—
“In other words,” Ivy said dryly, “you have access to our schedules.”
“—but Mark’s playing golf with Parker as we speak. He ordered a bottle of champagne for their lunch.”
Ivy was smirking. She could just hear it. “Sounds romantic.”
“Sounds like a promotion,” Winnie countered. “There.” The tickling sensation stopped. “You can open your eyes.”
Rosaline blinked in the harsh fluorescent lights of the bathroom, turning to face the mirror.
And froze.
Her first thought was that Winnie had taken down her hair when she wasn’t paying attention; the auburn strands fell around her face, wild and immune to hairspray. Her second thought was that Disco Queen had been an understatement. She looked like her face had swallowed a mirrorball.
Winnie was watching her eagerly. “Well?”
She smiled. “You’re a magician.”
“You see?” Winnie stabbed her make-up brush. “I told you I’m a genius. What are you wearing?”
“Um. This?”
She glanced down at her outfit: an oversized hoodie and black exercise shorts.
Her sister liked to joke that she dressed like a university student with a hangover, which was actually pretty accurate.
But it meant that she wasn’t noticed. And when two of your older siblings were famous, that was ideal.
Winnie scrunched up her nose. “Well. I can only do so much.”
“It’s Sunday,” Rosaline said defensively. “And we’re going to a pub.”
Winnie stuffed her makeup brushes away. “I’m not sure how you intend to seduce a man while wearing Crocs. They’re like, the least sexy shoe.”
Exasperation filled her. “I’m not going to”—She paused as Ivy gave a hiccup. That was a “I-just-threw-up-in-my-mouth” hiccup if she’d ever heard one. “It’s a first date. And for the record, I don’t even want to go.”
She rummaged in her bag, producing mints and a water bottle, both of which she passed to Ivy, who gave her a weak smile.
It was amazing, Rosaline thought, that she managed to look elegant even when crumpled on the floor; her glasses were polished and gleaming, and not a single hair had fallen out of her shiny brown topknot. Sorcery. It had to be.
Her phone pinged.
“Is that him?” Ivy demanded.
She raised her head, only to collapse back to the tile floor.
Rosaline glanced at the screen. It was indeed him.
She’d already forgotten his name. Harry?
Barry? He worked in finance. She remembered that because he’d had a photo in a Patagonia vest with a signet ring, and she’d thought, I bet a million pounds that this man works in Canary Wharf.
Barry was doing nothing for stereotypes.
She scanned the message. “He’s just sending the address.”
“Let’s see.” Winnie plucked the phone from her. “Oh, he’s cute.”
Ivy made to sit up. “Let me see!”
Her pulse jumped. “Give it back.”
She made a grab for the phone, but to no avail; Winnie was already holding it out to Ivy. “I mean, come on. That man looks like he models on the weekend. You’d date him, right?”
There was a long pause. When Ivy raised her gaze, it was filled with pity.
“Oh, Roz,” she said softly.
Heat crept into her cheeks. She whirled back to the mirror, fiddling with her lip balm. “They don’t look that much alike.”
“What?” Winnie glanced between them. “What am I missing?”
“Nothing.”
Ivy sighed. “It’s only that he looks just like”—She paled, twisting suddenly toward the toilet, and then paused. “Sorry. False alarm. I was going to say that Roz clearly has a type.”
Winnie stared at the screen. Rosaline could see the moment it clicked because her frown deepened. “Oh.” There was something accusatory in her gaze. “I thought the whole point of dating other men was to get over him.”
It was clear who him was, and Rosaline was beginning to regret ever bringing it up.
Granted, she’d been drunk at an office Christmas party, and Winnie had found her bawling in the bathroom after a news article had flashed up featuring him and a French model canoodling on the beach together.
So it had been a moment of vulnerability. She leaned closer to the mirror.
“It was just…” Ten years of unrequited pining. “A silly childhood crush. I wouldn’t date him now if you paid me a million pounds.” God. When she said it like that, she almost believed it. “Anyway, I’m not avoiding dating. I’ve just been slammed with work.”
That, at least, was true; ever since WeMove had been named one of the top physiotherapy clinics in London, the practice had been rammed with minor celebrity clientele, from League 1 football players to West End stars.
Mark was even dangling that promotion to incentivize them all to bring in bigger clients.
“I want a Premier League footballer,” he’d said during their last meeting.
“Being one of the best clinics just means you’re not the best.” Not that it mattered.
She could have brought in the prime minister and Parker Rockwell would still get the promotion.
Speaking of which.
She glanced at Ivy, who was staring mournfully into the toilet bowl as if it held all the secrets to the universe. “Any luck last night?”
Winnie wrinkled her nose. “What happened to you last night?”
“Tequila,” Ivy said morosely.
Winnie flipped on the tap, scrubbing mascara from her fingers. “This can’t be what happens at Saturday night book club. I refuse to believe it.”
“Book club is feral,” Ivy said. “You wouldn’t survive two hours.” She rested her head against the lid. “But no. I went out after book club to that pub in Fulham. You know the one where all the female footballers hang out? I thought that might bag me a”—
“Date?”
“A client,” Ivy said, shooting Winnie a withering look. “Mind you, the goalkeeper was fit, and she asked if I was single”—Her hand flew to her mouth. A beat passed, and she exhaled. “No. Saved it.”
Rosaline leaned against the counter. “And did it work?”
“I got her number.”
Winnie snorted. “The only reason that woman is thinking about calling you is because she wants a massage. And not the medical sort.”
Ivy groaned. “Winnie.”
“What? It’s true.”
Ivy chucked a toilet roll, and Winnie dodged, laughing as it rebounded off the mirror.
Rosaline hid a smile. This was nice. Perhaps she could just stay here for the afternoon?
Her brain was already generating excuses.
I’ve had a last-minute work emergency. I forgot about a dentist appointment.
My tube carriage has been overrun by bloodthirsty geese and now I’m fighting for my life.
Her phone pinged.
Barry: On my way.
She sighed. Well. There was nothing for it. Her conscience would never allow her to leave somebody waiting at a pub, even if he punctuated his text messages. “I need to go. I’ll be late otherwise.”
“Don’t sound too excited about it,” Ivy said dryly.
“At least it’ll be over soon.”
Winnie gripped her shoulders. “You look beautiful, Roz.” She steered her toward the mirror, giving her a little shake. “Come on. Be excited. Is any part of you looking forward to it?”
Ivy made a noise of distress. They both turned in time to see her retch, emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. Rosaline sighed.
“Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.”