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

I stare at the screen, eyebrow twitching. What the actual fuck? This has got to be a wind-up, some gimmicky idea trotted out by an intern to boost our views.

I snatch the envelope from Max and spread the card on my knee as a confetti canon explodes on either side of us. The air is thick with fluttering pastel discs and whooping from the studio, but I hardly notice. I stare at the page, trying to make sense of the figures listed beneath Moira’s name and mine. It looks too technical to be fake.

If Mum’s relationship with my dad was as fleeting as she’s implied, who’s to say he didn’t father someone else before me? It’s not like he would have looked Mum up to tell her, especially when The Earth Mamas’ cross-country convoy had no fixed address for the best part of a decade.

I pull a spiral of gold ribbon from my head as Max slaps me on the back in congratulations. The clapping subsides like burst microwave popcorn as a rainbow of detritus settles on the floor.

I stand up, my head throbbing from the sudden movement. Lowanna jabs a finger towards the prompter, which scrolls the message ‘KEEP IT LIGHT!’ but I don’t seem to have control over my body, let alone speech at this particular moment. Max barks out a laugh to fill the terse silence. I close my eyes, willing this all to disappear, but when I open them again the studio shunts sideways and I have to grab Max’s shoulder to steady myself.

‘Woah, Ava. It’s a lot to take in, I know.’

What a fucking joke. He knows, does he? Six years we’ve been friends and this is what he does for extra views and few brownie points with Duncan?

‘Let’s sit you down,’ he says, gently tugging on my forearm. I yank it away. There’s too much light and the silhouettes I can see come in and out of focus like I’m looking through a kaleidoscope. ‘Talk us through your feelings,’ says Max.

‘I’m … I’m feeling a bit weird,’ I say, my stomach heaving. An acrid taste pricks the back of my tongue and I hold my mouth slack, horribly uncertain of the warning signs at play.

‘Well, that’s understandable. This is a surprise! Tell us what’s going through your mind,’ says Max, willing me with his eyes to sit down.

‘I don’t feel good,’ I say, draping a forearm across my brow. Max’s eyes dart between the camera, Lowanna, and Duncan. At the back of the room, the viewer count rises, 31,589 … 31,611 … 32,734.

‘Mixed feelings are normal. It’s not every day you realise you’re not an only child, right?’ says Max. He laughs until the sound putters out, the odd piece of confetti drifting down from the lighting rig.

I’m unduly proud of the fact that I haven’t been sick since I was nine, the result of a birthday party fuelled by candy floss, off-brand fizz, and a tightly-sprung trampoline. Such an accolade was never destined to last long.

‘I’m going to … I’m gonna—’

Max nods along, realising too late that my puffed cheeks are not, in fact, an ill-timed impression of a particularly sweaty hamster.

There’s no time to flee. Heat travels up my throat with alarming speed. Objectively, the pace of delivery is outstanding. I clap my hands over my mouth, but this only succeeds in spraying vomit outwards in a fan, leaving me coughing and spluttering for breath like I’ve taken in a mouthful of seawater. The camera lens twists, zooming in as I stand slack-jawed on set, the sound of plops hitting the floor as the viewer count ticks over into six figures. I turn to leave, but the floor is so slick that even my Doc Martens can’t seem to gain traction. I slip, steady myself, and bolt for the doors, Max’s voice ringing in my ears.

Chapter 5

I blink in the half-light that cuts between the curtains, my skin cold and clammy like a plucked chicken. I push the duvet to one side and yawn, but my jaw is stiff, as though I’ve been leaning on something and, yep, there’s my phone on the pillow, an oily smear of make-up on the screen. Never before have I so deeply regretted making a Twitter account that lists my employer in the bio. I flick through my notifications, but there doesn’t seem to be an end to them. Feeling panic rising from the pit of my empty stomach, I jab at my phone, deleting all my social media apps until the notifications slide into one another and disappear. A handful of texts remain, the first from Rory. It must have come through just before we went live.

Break a leg! You look like an X Factor contestant! In a good way!!

Max has got to have some skeletons in his closet with a signet ring like that … still give him my number though, please and thank you xxx

OH GOD this is it! Buckle up, baby!

Speak, my child, speak!

OCH AYE, Scotland! Excellent! This explains a lot about your ability to cope when the temperature goes above twenty-two degrees.

I hope this ‘treat’ is a trip to the Edinburgh Fringe. With spending money. And a plus one. Or Iron Bru? Lots of it.

A SISTER. YOU HAVE A SISTER. OH MY GOD. THIS IS HUGE. I’m on shift now, but call me later???

On my break. Just watched the end. Are you OK?? Where are you? Do you need rehydration tablets? I can steal some!

Seriously, let me know you’re all right. Not meaning to alarm, but you’re all over the internet. As are your stomach contents. Maybe stay offline for a bit. I LOVE YOU.

I groan, pull back the curtain, and blink in the low light. Apart from the post-migraine feeling that the world is covered in cotton wool, I feel OK, despite the faint whiff of vomit that I suspect is coming from my hair. Thank God for the triple-strength