PRIMROSE
My phone is ringing as I get to my room, and my stomach immediately turns in on itself with guilt. It could be Emmy. I can’t let her know. But as I reach for it, my sister’s name flashes up on screen.
People often jokingly ask if our parents are botanists.
They aren’t. They were just unable to keep their hands off each other.
Sadly, my dad isn’t with us anymore, and we all miss him terribly.
Especially since Mum has devoted her life since to managing her offspring and her grandchildren in his absence. But I digress: the phone call.
As I accept the call, Lavender’s face immediately appears on screen. Yuck, a video call.
“Where are you?” she demands, glancing around my head rather than at me.
“France,” I answer, crossing my fingers. The less I say, the less questions she’ll ask. Hopefully. “I’m not sure if you know, but phone conversations usually start with a greeting.”
She doesn’t even bother to roll her eyes. “Without Emmy?”
“Yeah. Sad but…?” I make a gesture: whatchagonnado.
Her expression softens. “He’s okay though, right? Her dad?”
“Yeah, but still in hospital.” According to her last text. “Em thinks he’ll be discharged before the weekend.”
“Good. I’m glad.” Her attention slides behind me again. “So where exactly are you?”
“In a hotel?” Dammit, I didn’t mean to sound so unsure.
I do not want her hammering me with question after question.
Lavender pretends to be hard-hearted but she’s fiercely protective of all her siblings, and that was before she discovered she was pregnant.
Pregnant Lavender is a whole other level fierce.
I sort of feel sorry for her impending offspring.
“You don’t sound too sure.”
I roll my eyes. “You just caught me on the hop. I was on my way out.”
“More grand adventures planned? Was it a museum, by any chance?”
“How else will I soak up the culture, Lav?”
My sister visibly cringes. She hates that particular shortening of her name. Lav = lavatory, but she can blame the parental units for that, not me.
“That is so cringe, Prim. Get yourself to the San Tropez for beach clubs, nightlife, and vibes.” Sometimes I think she forgets her days of partying are very much behind her. Since she met Raif, her hubby, she’s very much become a homebody and seems much happier for it.
“Well, that sounds like a nightmare. But did you call for anything in particular?” I make my way to the chair by the window, careful to keep the screen mostly on my face. While the room would easily pass for one in a swanky hotel, the tasteful regional touches would likely be clocked by her.
“I can’t call my favorite little sister for no reason?”
“There is usually a reason and I’m your only little sister. Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. You don’t always have to jump to the worst scenario.”
“I don’t.” I’m just a bit more sensitive than her, is all.
“You’re always waiting for the next bad thing to happen so you can swoop in and slap a bandage on it or something.”
“That’s not fair,” I complain, even as her assumption rings somewhat true.
“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad. It’s just the way your mind works. But I’m fine, and the family is fine. Having a whale of a time yachting around the Med, by all accounts.”
“Good. That’s good.” My words come out spiky.
“We’re thinking we might meet up with them so Daisy can have a little cuz time.”
“Sounds like a plan.” One I’m glad I’m not there for. “So?”
“What?”
“Go on. Spit it out.”
“Fine.” She gives a hard roll of her eyes. “I want to run something personal by you, doctor in the family and all.”
So bandage slapping is okay when it suits you?”
Her mouth flattens into a line.
“Fine,” I say. Complain. “What is it?”
The screen of my phone blurs color, and I think that was a flash of nostril as she plonks her phone down with a clunk. A flash of white and I’m suddenly looking at a cotton T-shirt. One she appears to be wearing.
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About these!” Her hand comes into view, palm facing the ceiling as she does this gameshow thing. And tonight’s star prize? Lavender’s booooobs!
“They look like boobs.” Only smaller, I mentally add.
“And?”
Maybe she wants me to read the slogan: “I may be a handful but so are my boobs.” I give a little snort. “Cute.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that only one of those things is true.”
“Rude!” Another blur and her face fills the screen again. “Also, mean!”
“You are a handful,” I reason. “Even for giant-sized hands.”
“Fuck off!” she retorts, her tone aggrieved.
“It was a compliment. My sister, she’s all earth mother at the minute and hotshot businesswoman the next. But always with lady balls the size of—”
“I’ll have you know I’ve gone up a whole cup size during the first trimester alone.”
I open my mouth but think better of my response. This is what she wanted, boob validation? “Congratulations?” I offer carefully and feeling like a tit myself for saying so.
“Thank you.”
“You do know I’m not going into plastic surgery, don’t you?”
“I wasn’t asking you to make them bigger. They already are. Can’t you tell?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not staring at your tits. I can’t believe this is what you’ve called me for,” I add in a mutter.
“If I can’t consult my sister—my doctor sister—about my breasts—then who can I?”
“I dunno, your husband?”
She scoffs.
“Your own doctor?”
“You might as well suggest I ask him to examine my hemorrhoids!” she almost shouts.
“Lavender, he’s an obstetrician. Of course he’ll talk to you about—”
“For God’s sake, I don’t have hemorrhoids. But if I do get them, I won’t be discussing them with Doctor Delicious.”
“Wait, is your obstetrician Mr Travers?” I ask, wide-eyed with wonder.
She nods eagerly. “My blood pressure spikes massively just from sitting in the waiting room. He says it’s white coat syndrome, but it’s not—it’s him. It should be illegal for OBGYNs to be men, let alone the hot men.”
“White coat syndrome!” I scoff. “That’ll be for the benefit of the fathers-to-be, so as not to upset their delicate little egos. They don’t call him Dr. Pussy for no reason.” The man is renowned through the London hospital system for both clinical excellence and for being hotter than hell.
“Ew, don’t tell me he’s a walking HR Violation.”
“The man is deliriously and very happily married.”
“Well, I’m happy for him and for HR, but I cannot ask that gorgeous specimen of a man about my melons.”
Plums, more like.
“So what do you think?”
“About the good doc or your boobs?”
“Primrose,” she growls.
So I assume my doctor’s face. Serious. Competent. Caring. Or in other words, I try to stop my eyebrows from shooting off the top of my face as the screen blurs again.
“Oh, yes. I can totally see now,” I say quickly, worried she might be about to pull off her T-shirt. “Your boobs are much bigger. Huge. Massive, in fact.”
“No need to overdo it,” she mutters mulishly.
“Lavender? It feels really weird talking to your boobs. Any chance we can continue this conversation face-to-face?”
“They’re the same size, aren’t they?” Her unhappy expression comes into focus.
“I don’t flippin’ well know!”
She narrows her gaze. “You’d better come back to London. I’m going to need you to make sure Raif doesn’t really die when I murder him. I bet he had La Perla swap the labels on my new bras.”
That sounds exactly like the kind of thing Lavender’s husband would do if he thought it would make her feel better.
Pretty sure he’d find a way to pull down the moon if she asked for it.
While she’s always had a chip on her shoulder over being a member of the itty-bitty titty committee, it doesn’t seem to bother Raif.
Weirdly, neither does her personality. The man is absolutely besotted.
I mean, he’d have to be to put up with her, an uncharitable little voice pipes up from somewhere.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s my sister, and I think she’s amazing.
She’s always known what she wanted and just gone for it—gone for it and gotten it.
But the mold was broken when she was born, and that’s probably a good thing for the world because, by God, she can be a pain in the arse when she puts her mind to it.
“I didn’t know La Perla did maternity bras.”
“Did you know they did bikinis?”
“I knew that was you!” I exclaim. “What did you do with my one-piece—and my shorts?”
“I donated your swimsuit to the British Museum. They’re going to use it in a Roaring 20s exhibition. And your clothes, well, I tried to donate them to Oxfam, but they wouldn’t have them.”
“Mean! What’s wrong with the way I dress?”
“Nothing at all. If you’re a pensioner. Come on, Prim. Knee length linen shorts?”
“I like them!”
“Thank you, Lavender,” she complains. “Thank you for spending time thinking about me and thank you for sneaking some stylish pieces of clothing into my summer wardrobe.”
I make a noise of displeasure but mutter thanks anyway. Not just because it’s the right thing to do but also because I look better in the clothes than I ever could’ve imagined.
“God, Raif was so miffed that I hadn’t bought the bikini for myself.”
“It’s defo more you than me,” I say, ignoring the tiny pang of something that’s not quite jealousy. I’m happy she’s found her champion, but I can be a tiny bit dejected that my own Prince Charming is still imaginary. Not that lust is terrible. Just terribly inconvenient.
Raif is twelve years older than her.
The thought pops into my mind, though I quickly push it away. So M. LDH is older than me too. Big deal! How much older, I don’t need to know, because our connection has been chasing happy endings, not a happily ever after.
Except, come to think of it, he hasn’t once… Wow. The pleasure really has been all mine.
Maybe that’s his kink. And maybe mine is being with an older, slightly dominant man. The forbidden aspect of it all, the windows and being watched. The heady allure of being seen. Desired. Coveted. Or maybe my kink is being shagged by a man I actively dislike.
“I might get a boob job after I’ve had the baby.”