Chapter 30
Kitty and Antoinette’s Airbnb, West Hollywood, Los Angeles
‘You did what?’ Antoinette and Agnes are staring at me like I’ve just confessed to drowning baby hamsters and enjoying it.
They crashed through the door about half an hour ago, kissing and grabbing at each other, only stopping when they saw me, sitting on the sofa in the dark, a picture of abject mortification.
Now they’ve made me rose tea and I’m sitting, wrapped up in a blanket while I try to explain the terrible turn my date took after they left.
Antoinette’s eyes are as wide as saucers and Agnes has been pressing her lips together in an attempt not to laugh.
She may be able to cry on demand but her serious-face acting needs some fucking work.
‘I just don’t understand,’ Agnes is saying. ‘He seemed such a sweetheart.’
Antoinette turns to her. ‘He is,’ she says. ‘Kitty has PTSD that she’s refusing to acknowledge. Even when it leads her to hoof some poor man in the baby makers for having the audacity to ask before he kisses her.’
‘PTSD?’ Agnes says. ‘Why?’
Antoinette begins to explain to her what happened with Connor when I was drunk and heartbroken on that Cote d’Azur beach in the summer.
How he forced himself on me when I decided I didn’t want to be alone on a beach with him after all.
When I sobered up enough to realise I’d only gone down there with him to stop the intrusive thoughts about Charlie, who I’d convinced myself was cheating on me.
When I couldn’t fight him off and thought he was going to rape me and then kill me.
She leaves out the part where I throttled him with a string bikini and dragged his body into the Med.
Thankfully.
I like Agnes but I don’t think she could handle the full, unadulterated truth.
Not yet, anyway.
‘Oh God,’ Agnes says, clamping a hand to her mouth. ‘Kitty, I am so sorry. How horrible for you. So it was what, like a flashback or something?’
Antoinette is nodding.
I guess that’s exactly what it was.
‘Have you thought about seeing someone?’ Agnes asks. ‘Like a therapist?’
Antoinette and I lock eyes.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’ve tried out a few. None of them have been quite what I’m looking for.’
Agnes nods empathetically. ‘It can take some time to find the right therapist.’
She’s not fucking wrong.
‘Poor Travis,’ Antoinette says.
‘Poor Travis,’ I echo.
I’ve tried calling him and have sent him about a bazillion texts apologising and trying to explain myself. But, so far, crickets. He could still be lying on the sidewalk, nursing his love stones for all I know.
‘Jesus, what if I’ve damaged him for life?’ I wail. ‘What if he has to have a conversation with a future girlfriend about the possibility of them having kids being ruined by some unhinged British woman who kissed him then dealt him a death-blow to his danglies?’
Agnes is no longer able to hold her laughter in. She erupts in giggles, doubled-over, holding her chest. After a couple of moments she rises again, only to catch Antoinette’s eye. And then the pair of them are at it, cackling away like a couple of junior witches in an unruly coven.
‘It’s not funny,’ I say, but a laugh is already sneaking out of me. ‘I assaulted him. For literally nothing. I’m so embarrassed.’
‘He’ll get over it,’ Antoinette says. Then she adds darkly. ‘Women have to.’
Agnes nods in solidarity.
Then she looks at her Apple Watch. ‘Oh it’s late,’ she says. ‘I’d better get home. I need to spend tomorrow preparing for my meeting with Richard Stone. I don’t even know what I’m going to wear.’
‘I could come over and help you choose?’ Antoinette says and Agnes kisses her on the mouth.
‘That would be great. I’ll text you.’ She looks at me. ‘You’d both better go to bed too,’ she says. ‘Antoinette’s got a surprise for you in the morning.’
My sister bats her lashes angelically.
I narrow my eyes at her.
I hate surprises.
How doesn’t she know this about me?