Chapter Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
“Do you need to go over the rules one more time?” I ask as Izzy puts the finishing touches on her Friday-night outfit.
She’s wearing a gauzy pink-and-orange top tonight, ruffles spilling down the front, with a matching pair of shorts. Paired with her blood orange lips, wedge heels and chunky gold bangle, she looks like she should be at an expensive beach bar in St. Tropez, not at a house party in Blackwood.
“Both bedrooms are off-limits, anyone who looks spewy has to vomit outside and no admittance to anyone we haven’t invited,” Izzy reels off as she examines herself in the mirror.
“And no mixing drinks,” I warn her. “We all remember what happened last time.”
“I don’t,” Izzy says brightly, clipping large gold hoops onto her ears.
“Which was precisely the problem,” I remind her.
She smirks but then turns round to me and forces her face into something that almost passes as a serious expression. “It won’t be wild, I promise. There aren’t even ten people coming.”
“You’re sure?”
She starts ticking names off her fingers. “You, me, Noah, Ford and Scarlett, that’s five. Noah said he was bringing two mates, so that’s seven. I invited Bob too, but he had a life-drawing class.”
“Izzy!” I squeal, but she laughs and holds her hands up.
“Joking! Honestly, Fliss, it’ll be fine. Trust m—”
“Don’t,” I warn her, taking my turn in front of the mirror. “Just don’t.”
“Okay, I won’t. Your hair looks nice like that,” she offers, fluffing her own curls. “I’m glad you let me straighten it for you.”
“I look like my mom,” I mumble, though she’s right, it is a nice change, and it’s made the natural blond highlights at the front of my hair more obvious.
I straighten my navy linen trousers as she traipses off to the kitchen.
They skim over my flip-flops and are paired with a striped white-and-navy bandeau that I borrowed from Izzy.
I’m already regretting this decision, because one, I look like a sailor, and two, it feels like it’s going to fall down every three seconds.
As a last thought, I snag a cropped white cardigan from my wardrobe and throw it over the top, satisfied that it will disguise any mishaps.
I join Izzy, and we give the flat a final tidy.
Dad and Kim haven’t been living here long, so thankfully there aren’t many breakable objects, but I gather up a couple of vases and some of the nicer-looking wineglasses and stow them away in Dad’s room.
You can tell he shares the space with a woman now—the room smells of lavender, and the duvet cover is made from soft pink satin.
There’s a stack of gift bags and unwrapped wedding presents in the corner, and Kim’s knee-length white dress hangs on the door of her wardrobe, as if it’s still waiting to be worn.
I touch the edge of the fifties-style skirt.
It’s a lovely dress, and she looked very pretty in it.
I should have told her that, really. I place the items on Kim’s dressing table and close the bedroom door, turning the old-fashioned brass key to lock it.
I do the same to my room, dropping both keys into the little pocket on the front of my cardigan.
Perfect. Now the bedrooms really are off-limits.
“All set?” Izzy asks me as I go back to the kitchen. She’s chopping an alarming amount of fruit with a huge silver-handled knife.
“I think so,” I say, glancing at the clock. Ten to eight. Will people be early? On time? Really, really late? “What are you making? Fruit salad?” She screws the top off a glass bottle and pours it into a big plastic picnic jug, red liquid spilling over the side.
“Sangria,” she says, wrinkling her nose at the strong smell of the wine.
“I’ve never had it before, but I saw a recipe and thought it would provide the summer vibes.
” She reaches for a tea towel to mop up the leakage, then grabs a bottle of Cointreau, which knocks an orange to the floor.
It almost bounces before it rolls in my direction.
“What did I tell you about mixing drinks?”
“Sangria is one drink!” she protests as I bend over to collect the piece of fruit and dislodge both of the bedroom keys instead.
They bounce off each other and hit the kitchen floor with a clang.
I groan and scoop up the keys along with the orange and put everything on the table.
I guess that pocket isn’t actually for holding things.
“What even is Cointreau, anyway?” I ask.
Izzy pours a healthy glug of clear liquid into the jug and studies the label. “Orange liqueur. It smells yummy.” She waves it under my nose.
“It smells strong,” I sigh. “How did you get hold of all that, anyway? I thought the others were bringing drinks.”
“It was in the cupboard.” She points vaguely, and the blood drains from my face.
“It’s Dad’s? Oh, Iz, what were you thinking?”
“They won’t notice, I’ve only used a little bit, and I’ve asked Noah to buy another bottle of red wine so we can replace it.
” She picks up the chopping board and fixes me with a look as she starts to scrape pieces of chopped apple, lemon and orange into the jug, where they land with a splash. “Chill, okay? Just enjoy yourself.”
“Fine.” I sulk, annoyed she didn’t think this might get me in trouble. I’m glad she’s sorted out a replacement, at least.
Izzy stirs everything together with a long-handled spoon, and despite my misgivings, my mouth starts to water. It smells pretty good.
“What are the keys for, anyway?”
“Bedrooms,” I say, looking around the kitchen.
I finally decide on the cupboard over the kettle, opening it and dropping the keys into one of Kim’s mugs.
“I’ll leave them here in the blue mug.” I hold it up for Izzy to see.
She nods. “Bedrooms are still off-limits, but if you need anything, you know where the keys are now.”
“Got it.” She nods again and continues chopping up a bunch of mint. She throws that into the jug, followed by a splash of orange juice and a thimble of lemonade. “Grab me some ice, will you?”
I watch Izzy put the finishing touches on the sangria and allow her to pour me some. It doesn’t taste as strong as I know it is, and I remind myself to keep a note of how many I have. I’m crunching on a crisp apple slice when the doorbell rings.
“Ready?” asks Izzy.
“No,” I admit, glancing down at my outfit one last time. “But I guess we should open the door.”
Half an hour later, I’m staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. The porcelain sink is cool beneath my hands as I check my teeth for rogue bits of orange flesh and take some calming breaths.
The party, if you can even call it that, was going well, by which I mean Izzy has been practically straddling Ford, while Scarlett found my dad’s vinyl collection and put some music on.
I say was because Noah just turned up with Jen, a British Korean girl who might be the prettiest person I’ve ever met.
His other friend hasn’t arrived yet, but if it’s another girl, I might have to climb out the bathroom window at my own party.
I’m not saying this turn of events has sent me into a tailspin, but I have been in here raiding Izzy’s makeup bag for the last five minutes.
I dab some of her glowy blusher onto the apples of my cheeks, smiling into the mirror the way I’ve seen her do, then smooth some more serum onto my hair.
Should I put on lipstick? I don’t usually, because I end up chewing it all off, so I root through Izzy’s stuff until I find a colored gloss that I can smear on instead.
I straighten my top, which is on full display now, because Izzy made me ditch the cardigan, and wish it was cold enough for me to hide away in a hoodie.
I take a deep breath and leave the bathroom.
“Does everyone have a drink?” I ask as I join the others in the living room, trying to sound like I do this all the time. There’s a vague mumble that I take to mean yes, so I hang back and study my guests instead.
Noah is AWOL, but Izzy and Ford have joined Scarlett at the record player and Noah’s model-esque friend is kneeling by the coffee table. Her glossy black hair falls in waves almost to her waist and her movements are self-assured as she fills glasses from a tap protruding from a cardboard box.
A stocky guy in a blue T-shirt comes through the door, followed by Noah. My shoulders relax. His other friend is a boy. He gives the room a greeting nod, and Noah takes a bag from him.
“Heywood!” the new guy calls when he sees Ford. “How are you doing, man?”
Heywood? Like the gallery? I watch the interaction and swear Ford pales.
He starts to twist the ring on his forefinger and tenses a little but quickly shakes it off and lets the new guy give him one of those slap-on-the-back bro hugs.
I had the impression Ford wasn’t from around here, but he must be, to know one of Noah’s local friends.
He can’t be related to the guy who owned The Four, can he?
“Jake just brought our beers.” Noah breaks my concentration. I didn’t notice him come to stand next to me, but now I can smell his aftershave. It’s so good that I have no idea what he just said.
“Sorry, what?”
He holds up the plastic bag and it makes a clinking sound. “Beers. Can I put them in your fridge?”
“Oh, sure. Here, I can do it. I need to get my drink from the kitchen anyway,” I say, reaching to take the bag from him. My fingers brush his and a spike of lightning shoots down my body, so unexpected that I snatch my hand away.
“Electric shock.” He grins at me, and my brain glitches for a second as he searches in the bag. “I’ll come with you. He got that wine Izzy asked for too. She owes me a twenty.”
“Oh, thank you.” I take the bottle he’s produced. It’s the same brand and everything. “She swiped the one she used for the sangria from Dad’s cupboard.”