Chapter 9 #2
After depositing the groceries on the kitchen island, Bernie confessed that the cottage only had three bedrooms. “But one’s got two queens, so it’s no big deal!
Don’t go all Real Housewives on me, scrambling for the best room—I’ve already claimed it.
” She laughed. “And I’ll cut a bitch who tries to drop her suitcase on my bed!
” Bernie disappeared upstairs to the primary suite, leaving the others to put things away.
Imogen was fuming. She never would have agreed to the rental if she’d known there weren’t enough rooms, and she was pissed that Bernie hadn’t even offered to share the best room.
But she decided not to make a thing of it—she had way bigger problems to worry about.
Imogen quickly laid claim to the smaller of the two rooms on the main floor, loudly exclaiming that Mark had been complaining that she snored (not true!
she even used a special facial tape to prevent mouth breathing and wrinkles).
Her room choice meant that Celeste and Marta were stuck together in the larger room on the main floor, the one with two beds.
They probably both figured they’d bunk with her, Imogen realized as she lugged her bag down the narrow hallway.
Tough titties—not my problem. She and Marta used to have sleepovers all the time in high school, and Imogen had fond memories of them whispering to each other as they drifted off in her parents’ basement, but she couldn’t fathom sharing a room with anyone right now. Not with everything going on.
After dumping her bag in her room, Imogen went to the washroom down the hall to freshen up.
As she touched up her eye makeup, Imogen overheard Celeste and Marta talking as they got settled in their own room.
She smiled when she heard Celeste complaining about Bernie’s behaviour—she could always count on Celeste to speak her mind.
“. . . she should have that room? She thinks she’s better than us, doesn’t she.
Can you believe she told Rick to call her Dr. Parvis, not Ms. Parvis?
Oh my god, and is it just me or is she insane for wearing that watch on a girls’ weekend?
” Imogen knew for a fact that Celeste was wildly jealous of Bernie’s jewellery collection. “Do you know how much it costs?”
“No, I don’t.” Imogen heard Marta sigh. “But can we not—”
“More than your car, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Please, Celeste. Sound probably travels here. I just don’t want her to . . . Just keep it down, okay? I don’t want to start any problems this weekend. I really need to relax, and I just can’t handle any drama right now.”
“I’m not starting drama!” Celeste whispered back loudly. “When have you ever known me to start drama? I’m simply observing that Bernie can be a bit of an entitled bitch sometimes, and no one ever seems to say anything about it.”
Imogen almost stabbed herself in the eyeball with her liquid eyeliner.
“Celeste!” Marta sounded scandalized.
As Imogen finished her beauty touch-ups, she stewed about what she was going to do.
There was a traitor among the group, there was no doubt in her mind.
A traitor who was the reason for the dark circles under her eyes and her relentless snacking.
She couldn’t continue like this, but at the same time, did she want to bring it up when they were all trapped with nowhere to go?
No, she decided, that was a bad idea. She needed to be fun, carefree Imogen this weekend.
More than anything, she didn’t want to let this person see how badly they’d gotten to her, because the blackmail would undoubtedly get worse.
She’d figure it out when she got home. Meeting her gaze in the mirror, she realized she was chewing on a lock of her hair, and spat it out of her mouth.
Giving her makeup and outfit a final inspection—the red of her lips matched the red in her sweater—Imogen decided that she was satisfied.
She made an effort to paint a smile on her face, then went to the kitchen to join Celeste and Marta.
Celeste was busy preparing an arrangement of chips, nuts, cheese, and chocolate with a level of care that belied the fact that she herself would never indulge in such high-cal snacks.
Anorexic bitch, Imogen thought, with a nip of jealousy.
Marta had already rinsed four glasses and was drying them with a tea towel that proclaimed in bold blue stitches IT’S TIME.
Its twin, embroidered with FOR WINE, was draped over the oven handle.
Celeste popped a pistachio into her mouth, chewed delicately, then pointed at the towels.
“The wine gods have spoken. Who are we to disagree?”
Imogen uncorked a bottle of red and poured three glasses, then drained half of hers in a few quick pulls while munching on a handful of nuts.
Between bites, Imogen noticed that Celeste ate only a single date, while Marta snacked with abandon, pinching slices of cheese with one hand while ferrying chocolate to her mouth with the other.
Imogen often judged Marta for her lack of restraint but, at the same time, felt frequent pangs of envy at the way she was able to enjoy food openly and with gusto.
The wine did its work. Imogen felt the rope of tension that was coiled around her neck and head release its grip on her.
However, as she ate, she began to feel the band of her sculpting jeans cut into her waist, and she wished she were wearing something more comfortable.
But god help her if she ever dressed down like Marta, who was wearing grey sweatpants and an oversized green T-shirt emblazoned with I’m a Claudia.
Imogen decided she was going to have to take Marta shopping again.
About ten minutes later, Bernie swanned into the kitchen, looking impeccably cottagecore in distressed denim and brandishing the two bottles of Dom Pérignon that she’d brought as a surprise for the group. Imogen couldn’t help mentally tallying the cost of Bernie’s outfit and the Dom.
“Champers on me!” said Bernie. “Finish your wine and let’s pop the good shit.
” She nestled the bottles into an ice bucket and went banging around in the cupboards on an unsuccessful quest for stemware, ultimately settling for a set of mismatched ceramic tumblers.
Imogen felt her resentment of Bernie fizzing away and disappearing into the ether as she sipped the deliciously dry bubbles.
Cozied up around the kitchen island, the group chatted lightly about their latest reality TV obsessions.
Imogen noticed that Celeste seemed distracted—she kept checking her phone like she was waiting for a message.
Imogen wondered what could be so pressing.
Is she dating someone? She dismissed the thought, because Celeste surely would have already told her about a new man (in unsolicited and unnecessary detail).
When Celeste started moving her phone around, searching for a signal, Imogen reached over to poke her shoulder.
“Cee, care to share with the class who the—”
But the poke surprised Celeste into dropping her phone, which hit the floor and skidded over to Bernie’s foot. “Shit!” Celeste exclaimed. She bent down quickly to grab it, but Bernie was faster.
“Got it.” Bernie snatched it up and handed it back to Celeste, the screen still glowing.