19

The rest of my day is spent in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. I ring Stella again but she doesn’t answer.

I go through my phone. Of the hundreds of photos I took last night, only a handful are in focus. Miles and Greg look older than I remember, closer to forty than thirty. I delete every one they’re in.

In order to add authenticity to my fake stomach bug, I miss dinner, sneaking some cake offcuts and a bag of crisps up to my bedroom while no one is looking, trying not to swoon over the jerk chicken smells floating up the stairs.

I take a long bath, staring up at the peeling paint on the ceiling as I lie in the water. I stay in the tub so long the pads of my fingers and undersides of my feet grow all wrinkly and spongy to the touch.

When I come out of the bathroom I walk slap bang into Sam. He’s wearing the tartan pyjama bottoms he wears to breakfast most mornings, and nothing on top apart from a towel draped over his left shoulder. He isn’t wearing his glasses and has pale grey rings under both eyes.

‘I thought you were working today,’ I blurt.

‘I was. I finished at six.’

‘Oh.’

I re-adjust the towel under my arms.

‘How’s the head?’

‘Not great,’ I admit.

‘I suspected as much.’

I look over his shoulder. Grace’s bedroom door is slightly ajar.

I beckon for him to follow me back into the bathroom. He hesitates for a moment before coming with me. Once inside, I lock the door.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Just a bit paranoid Grace might hear us.’

The room is hot and steamy from my bath and feels very small with both of us in it. I perch on the lowered toilet seat. Sam sits on the edge of the bath. The tattoo on his bicep reveals itself to be a tiny flock of birds. His body is pretty good, better than I thought it would be. I bet he grew up doing loads of sports – rugby and rowing and stuff. Posh sports.

‘OK, two things,’ I say. ‘Number one, how did I get undressed last night?’

‘Audrey helped me out,’ Sam says.

Thank God. ‘Number two, I, er, wanted to say thanks. You know, for coming to get me last night. Oh, and for not telling Grace.’

‘About that,’ Sam says. ‘I’m really not comfortable about keeping this from her, Mia.’

‘What? Why not?’ I ask in a panic.

‘She’s my girlfriend. And you’re her little sister. It just wouldn’t be right.’

‘But you can’t tell Grace!’ I cry. ‘She’ll tell Mum and Dad and they’ll go mad. I won’t be able to leave the house all summer.’

Which means no summer parties, no long lazy days at the lido, and definitely no Newquay.

‘She won’t necessarily tell,’ Sam says. ‘What if we explained?’

‘Explained what?’ I ask. ‘That I went to a nightclub and some random old bloke got me totally trashed? That’s hardly going to persuade her to keep the information to herself, is it?’

‘She might understand.’

‘No she won’t. You know what Grace is like, she expects everyone to be as perfect as her.’

He winces slightly.

‘You don’t get it,’ I mutter, frowning at the bruises on my legs. ‘You’re not her sister.’

I can sense him looking at me, really looking at me, like he’s peeling back the layers and peering into my brain. It makes me feel weird, exposed. I go to stand up.

‘Oh shit, your ankle’s bleeding.’

I look. Blood is dribbling down my foot. I must have cut myself shaving. I rip off a few sheets of toilet paper and use them to soak the blood up.

‘You need a plaster,’ Sam says, jumping up and rifling in the medicine cabinet above the sink.

‘It’s fine. It’ll probably stop in a minute.’

‘Trust me,’ he says, grinning over his shoulder. ‘I’m a doctor.’

‘Not yet.’

‘A-ha!’ he says, turning round, a box of Disney plasters in his hand.

‘Oh my God, those are ancient,’ I say.

Grace and I used to argue over the Little Mermaid ones. Or rather I did. Grace was always the martyr who backed down and let me have first choice, always taking care to make sure Mum or Dad were there to witness her selflessness.

Sam kneels on the bath mat and opens up the box. Two plasters flutter out.

‘I can offer you,’ he says, pausing to peer at them, ‘Mulan or Pumba.’

‘Mulan,’ I say.

He nods and peels off the back of the plaster.

‘It’s probably lost its stick,’ I say.

He tests it with his index finger. ‘Feels OK to me.’

He applies the plaster to my ankle, smoothing it into place with his palm. His hands are warm.

‘There,’ he says.

‘There,’ I repeat.

He puts the Pumba plaster back in the box.

‘Please don’t tell her, Sam,’ I say. ‘Please. I’m honestly begging you.’

He sits back on his haunches and rakes both hands through his hair. ‘I really don’t know, Mia.’

‘Please. I’ll do anything you want.’

He thinks for a moment then sighs. ‘If I don’t tell Grace about this, I need you to promise me something, OK?’

‘Anything.’

‘You’ve got to promise me that you’re going to stop getting into such a state. I get that you’re going to want to drink every now and then, and that’s fine, but you couldn’t even stand up by the time I got to you last night. What if Stella hadn’t been there to help you? What if you’d been all alone?’

‘I’d have been OK,’ I say.

My words sound hollow though, to both our ears.

‘I just want you to be safe, Mia.’

‘Why? Why do you even care?’

‘Because I like you,’ he says simply. ‘And you’re my girlfriend’s little sister and I care about what happens to you.’

Tears prick my eyelids. I bite hard on my lip and will them not to fall. I refuse to cry over something so stupid. After all, what do I care if Sam likes me or not? He’s just my sister’s stupid posh boyfriend.

‘Mia, are you crying?’

I shake my head hard. ‘No. I’m just feeling a bit overemotional, that’s all. It’s the hangover.’

‘Right,’ he says. He doesn’t seem convinced, though.

A single tear escapes before I can stop it, rolling determinedly towards my chin. I reach to wipe it away but before my hand can make contact with my cheek, Sam is hugging me.

I resist the natural urge to push him away, and let him hold me, my face pressed against his bare stomach. He smells of the pub – of spilt beer and greasy food. It’s weirdly nice. Comforting.

We’ve been hugging for maybe thirty seconds when there’s a knock at the door. Sam’s grip on me loosens instantly.

‘Who is it?’ I call, my voice all wobbly for some reason.

‘It’s Grace, Mia. Can I come in? I’m bursting for the loo.’

I glance up at Sam but he’s already heading for the door. I wipe away my tears with the corner of my towel and stand up as he opens it.

‘Well, this is weird,’ Grace says as the door swings open and she takes in the scene in front of her. ‘What’s going on?’ Her tone of voice is light-hearted but her eyes are alert with suspicion.

Sam opens his mouth as if about to reply but no sound comes out.

‘What’s going on?’ Grace repeats, her voice less certain this time, her eyes flicking back and forth between us.

‘Nothing,’ I say. My voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to me, though. It sounds weak, paper-thin.

Grace folds her arms. ‘Mia, you’re locked in the bathroom with my boyfriend, I think I deserve some kind of explanation.’

I open my mouth to respond but the words get stuck in my throat.

Sam sighs heavily and I know exactly what’s coming next. I close my eyes and brace myself. So this is it. My summer down the drain.

‘We can’t tell you what we were doing,’ Sam says.

I open my eyes. Huh?

‘What do you mean?’ Grace asks.

‘We can’t tell you,’ he says, ‘because it will ruin the surprise.’

‘Surprise?’

‘Yes. Mia and I are working on a little special something. For you and Bean.’

‘You are?’ she says, her mouth quivering upwards into a smile.

‘We are,’ Sam confirms. ‘Right, Mia?’

‘Right,’ I echo.

There’s a pause before Grace bursts out laughing.

‘Oh my God, why didn’t you just tell me that straightaway? I feel like such a dope, barging in here and demanding to know what’s going on, like I’m in an episode of EastEnders or something. Wow, can I blame it on the hormones?’

Sam puts his arm around her. ‘You don’t have to blame it on anyone or anything. It’s our fault for acting so shifty.’

‘So can I have a clue?’ Grace asks.

‘A clue?’ I repeat dumbly.

‘Yes. About the surprise.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Sam says smoothly.

‘Spoilsports,’ Grace says.

She’s smiling though, probably overjoyed because she thinks I’m finally making an effort with Sam, and showing some interest in the baby.

‘I still don’t see why you felt the need to lock yourselves in the bathroom, though,’ she adds.

Sam hesitates and it’s my turn to paper over the cracks in our story.

‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘Where else are we going to get any privacy? This house is tiny.’

‘Point taken,’ Grace admits.

There’s a pause. No one moves.

‘Um, Mia, would you mind?’ Grace asks. ‘I really do need to pee.’

She needs to pee all the time these days.

‘Oh right, sure,’ I say, backing onto the landing, leaving the two of them together.

‘Night, Mia,’ she says, shutting the door on me.

‘Night,’ I murmur.

 

I’m getting into bed when my phone beeps. It’s a text message from an unfamiliar number.

Friends? Sam x

I hesitate before texting back.

Friends. Mx