the boys’ parents’ house in Ohio for Christmas. They were going to come to Cornwall with us, but Angel wanted to meet her new family, and I guess the thought of spending a week listening to me and Luke bitch at each other was hardly as appealing.
I answered the phone, realising belatedly that it was her mobile number.
“Hey, honey! I didn’t know you had triband.”
“What?” Angel sniffed. “What’s that?”
“It’s…er, it’s what makes our phones work in the States. How’s Ohio?”
“I’d imagine it’s fine,” Angel said. “I’m at home. Are you still in Cornwall?”
“No, I…er, we came back early. I’m at my parents’ house.”
“Oh.” Angel sniffed again. “Can I come over?”
I frowned. “Why are you home? Is everything okay?”
“No,” Angel said, her voice rising to a tearful squeak. “It’s not.”
I told her to get right over, I had cookie dough in the fridge and there would surely be some alcohol around somewhere. Angel half-laughed, half-cried that it was ten in the morning, and I told her that meant it was five a.m. in Ohio, and it was perfectly acceptable to drink at five a.m. In fact, if one wasn’t sleeping or having sex, it was the only thing to do at five a.m.
Angel told me bleakly that she wasn’t likely to be doing much of the first two for quite a while.
She arrived fifteen minutes later, looking wrecked. But Angel, like Luke, is one of those annoyingly beautiful people who actually seems to look better when miserable, or hung over, or ill. Me, I look big and blotchy and puffy, like rotten crabmeat or something, when I cry. Angel had adorably dishevelled blonde curls, a pink nose and spiky wet lashes. I think she actually looked prettier than usual for crying.
“What happened?” I asked, feeding her cookie dough straight from the tub. We were sitting on the wooden floor in my parents’ kitchen, with a bottle of shock vodka, fresh from the freezer, at the ready by my feet.
Angel took a shaky breath.
“His family is really nice,” she started, her voice all wobbly. “His mum bakes apple pies and stuff, and his dad showed me all these baby pictures of the boys. They were really cute,” she wailed, and I reached for the ultra absorbent kitchen roll so she could dab her eyes.
“You’re upset because Harvey and Xander used to be cute? Angel, honey, they’re still cute. Very cute.”
She nodded. “I know they are. You know they kept getting up in the morning and putting on the same clothes? I swear they did it on purpose to try and trick me.”
Good grief. Don’t tell me she’d flown all the way home because of twin tricks?
“You didn’t get them mixed up, did you?”
“No! Even without that little scar Xander looks nothing like Harvey. He’s just not as cute.”
While this was all very sweet, it wasn’t exactly helpful.
“Angel,” I said gently, spooning out some cookie dough for her. “Why did you come home?”
Her pretty face crumpled and I shoved some cookie dough in before her mouth closed. She chewed and swallowed, like a good little girl (honestly, if I hadn’t had firsthand reports from Harvey, I’d think she was a mama doll), and then sniffed decisively.
“Yesterday,” she said, her voice trembling like an opera singer’s. “I went in to ask Lynnie—that’s Harvey’s mum—for a recipe—she does the best bran muffins in the world—but I thought I heard her talking to Harvey, so I hung back. And she asked if Rachel was coming up to visit, because wasn’t this a family thing and shouldn’t I be meeting family? So I went in—and it wasn’t Harvey, it was Xander—and I said, ‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’ And Xander said—” her voice was rising alarmingly, “‘We don’t.’ So I said, ‘Who’s Rachel, then?’”
By now she was squeaking so much I feared Norma Jean’s ears would be hurt.
“And Xander said, ‘Harvey’s daughter, didn’t you know?’”
I stared at her, appalled. Firstly at
I answered the phone, realising belatedly that it was her mobile number.
“Hey, honey! I didn’t know you had triband.”
“What?” Angel sniffed. “What’s that?”
“It’s…er, it’s what makes our phones work in the States. How’s Ohio?”
“I’d imagine it’s fine,” Angel said. “I’m at home. Are you still in Cornwall?”
“No, I…er, we came back early. I’m at my parents’ house.”
“Oh.” Angel sniffed again. “Can I come over?”
I frowned. “Why are you home? Is everything okay?”
“No,” Angel said, her voice rising to a tearful squeak. “It’s not.”
I told her to get right over, I had cookie dough in the fridge and there would surely be some alcohol around somewhere. Angel half-laughed, half-cried that it was ten in the morning, and I told her that meant it was five a.m. in Ohio, and it was perfectly acceptable to drink at five a.m. In fact, if one wasn’t sleeping or having sex, it was the only thing to do at five a.m.
Angel told me bleakly that she wasn’t likely to be doing much of the first two for quite a while.
She arrived fifteen minutes later, looking wrecked. But Angel, like Luke, is one of those annoyingly beautiful people who actually seems to look better when miserable, or hung over, or ill. Me, I look big and blotchy and puffy, like rotten crabmeat or something, when I cry. Angel had adorably dishevelled blonde curls, a pink nose and spiky wet lashes. I think she actually looked prettier than usual for crying.
“What happened?” I asked, feeding her cookie dough straight from the tub. We were sitting on the wooden floor in my parents’ kitchen, with a bottle of shock vodka, fresh from the freezer, at the ready by my feet.
Angel took a shaky breath.
“His family is really nice,” she started, her voice all wobbly. “His mum bakes apple pies and stuff, and his dad showed me all these baby pictures of the boys. They were really cute,” she wailed, and I reached for the ultra absorbent kitchen roll so she could dab her eyes.
“You’re upset because Harvey and Xander used to be cute? Angel, honey, they’re still cute. Very cute.”
She nodded. “I know they are. You know they kept getting up in the morning and putting on the same clothes? I swear they did it on purpose to try and trick me.”
Good grief. Don’t tell me she’d flown all the way home because of twin tricks?
“You didn’t get them mixed up, did you?”
“No! Even without that little scar Xander looks nothing like Harvey. He’s just not as cute.”
While this was all very sweet, it wasn’t exactly helpful.
“Angel,” I said gently, spooning out some cookie dough for her. “Why did you come home?”
Her pretty face crumpled and I shoved some cookie dough in before her mouth closed. She chewed and swallowed, like a good little girl (honestly, if I hadn’t had firsthand reports from Harvey, I’d think she was a mama doll), and then sniffed decisively.
“Yesterday,” she said, her voice trembling like an opera singer’s. “I went in to ask Lynnie—that’s Harvey’s mum—for a recipe—she does the best bran muffins in the world—but I thought I heard her talking to Harvey, so I hung back. And she asked if Rachel was coming up to visit, because wasn’t this a family thing and shouldn’t I be meeting family? So I went in—and it wasn’t Harvey, it was Xander—and I said, ‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’ And Xander said—” her voice was rising alarmingly, “‘We don’t.’ So I said, ‘Who’s Rachel, then?’”
By now she was squeaking so much I feared Norma Jean’s ears would be hurt.
“And Xander said, ‘Harvey’s daughter, didn’t you know?’”
I stared at her, appalled. Firstly at
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