The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (read full novel TXT) 📗

at my scalp. The headache that I slept off last night has reappeared with renewed vigour, aided by white lights framing the mirror I’ve been wheeled in front of. Not only do my eyes hurt from the brightness, but I’m now reacquainted with every long-lost pore and blemish on my face. Nice.

‘He’s gone for an edgy, youthful look, y’know? Imagine you’re the kind of person who gets drunk tattoos and shags a member of One Direction whilst listening to Billie Eilish on repeat.’

Right, so that explains the facelift I’ve been given courtesy of Natalie’s brutal work with a metal comb and an entire packet of Kirby grips. ‘I know it’s meant to make me look younger—’

‘Youthful,’ interrupts Natalie with a self-satisfied nod. She shakes a can of hairspray and blasts it in an arc above my head. With no warning, I inhale most of it.

‘Sure,’ I splutter, ‘but … I feel like it’s accentuating the fact that I’m a decade too old for this look.’

‘It’s just because you’re not used to being on camera,’ she says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. ‘It’s all about lighting. This one actress – she was a Dame or something – wouldn’t do television appearances unless her team could screw their own lightbulbs in. They were turned up so high, right, that the studio was humming. Benedict Cumberbatch sweated through his three-piece. You won’t believe the powder I got through doing touch-ups.’

‘Weirdly, that does makes me feel better.’

***

‘Hey!’

I stand on tiptoes and look over the heads of a small crowd gathered at the collection point of a café counter. A harried barista attempts to steam three kinds of milk in tiny jugs, a backlog of KeepCups lined up beside him. A hand waves, a swimmer in an ocean of hipsters. I wriggle through.

Rory’s fiercely red hair is piled on top of her head and held in place with a huge clip, a loose tendril running over her shoulder like a snake. She pulls me into a one-armed hug; a little uncomfortable owing to the bag of coffee beans wedged between us.

‘Are you buying these?’ I ask.

‘No, they’ve given them to me so I don’t lose my place in the queue. I feel like a right pillock.’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘You’re a peach.’

She handles the bag like a cautious parent with a newborn, transferring it into the crook of my elbow. Manoeuvre complete, she clasps my shoulders and turns me from one side to the other like I’m a patient she’s examining. I frown, my hairline taut. I open my eyes wide to relieve the pressure.

‘Wow. That’s … that’s a look,’ says Rory.

‘Oh, don’t,’ I say, massaging my scalp.

‘It’s very slick.’

‘Hmm, that’s the word for it. She combed so much gel through my hair I thought she was about to insert me somewhere.’

‘You say that, but since I was relocated to A&E I’ve seen some things that truly confront my understanding of human anatomy,’ says Rory. ‘Oh, hang on. Yep, that’s me! I’m coming! Ava, bring the coffee beans.’

We scurry to the front, where I cautiously hand over our beany placeholder, swapping it for a lukewarm flat white. Outside, Rory and I sit on an old bench by the window. With the parquet flooring, painted bricks, and school gym equipment, I get an unnerving flashback to PE lessons, most of which involved Rory and me chucking a musty beanbag to each other at the back of the hall.

‘So glad we could do this, even if it is for ten minutes,’ says Rory, her eyes softening as caffeine slips down her throat. ‘Ah, that’s the stuff. Got a hangover. Before you say anything, I will tone it down from now on. It’s getting silly. Thing is, I can’t bear the thought of having dead time in the evenings. Too many opportunities to think about Myles.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s not been that long. Couldn’t you stay with Ginger for a bit? Use it as downtime?’

‘Absolutely not,’ says Rory, flicking down a pair of oversized sunglasses. ‘Mum’s taken my break-up worse than I have. She randomly wails like Mrs Bennet. The melodrama! She’s one step away from smelling salts, I swear to God. I said to her: “Mother. This stops now. He hasn’t cheated on you, has he?” Perhaps if I’d seen just one example of a healthy relationship between her and literally any of the men she went out with when I was a kid, I wouldn’t be so bloody useless at weeding out the arseholes. I said that to her and all,’ she adds, licking coffee foam from her finger.

‘Wow, that’s brave.’

‘Oh, you know what we’re like: lay everything on the table, get out of each other’s hair for a while, and meet up for a consoling tapas session when we’ve both chilled out.’

I nod, quietly envious of Rory and Ginger’s open – if chaotic – relationship. If I bring up the tiniest grievance to Mum, she reacts like I’ve made a personal dig at her and then bustles off to do some work for one of the various committees she’s on. Later, when she gets home and I’m on the sofa watching Queer Eye, she pretends like nothing’s happened. That’s that. We move on.

‘Anyway, I’ve talked about Myles to death. Distract me. How’re you feeling about your first live stream? Exciting, right?’ Rory interlocks her fingers in mine and jiggles my hand, making the pot of sugar cubes dance on the table.

‘Yeah, I mean … I’m excited. I am. I’m just feeling a lot of other things too,’ I say.

‘You’ll be fine! You and Max have got great chemistry, you’ve said so before,’ says Rory.

‘Only when he’s not trying to wind me up.’

‘It’s because he tries to wind you up. You can handle it.’

I bite my lip and bounce a chunky heel on the floor.

‘What’s up? There’s a lot of nervous energy radiating off you,’ says Rory, flicking her glasses down her nose to inspect me properly.

I close my eyes, the warm autumn sunshine cutting