One Small Mistake(6)

‘Elodie’s just been telling me about her book,’ says Uncle Gregory.

‘Going well?’ asks Ada.

I hesitate, trying to work out if her interest is genuine. She holds my gaze and her intrigue doesn’t falter, so I answer as truthfully as I can without telling them it’s been turned down by nine publishers. ‘I have a meeting with my agent in London on Monday.’

‘Swanky London,’ Gregory says again. ‘Bright girl, your sister.’

Ada nods and sips her champagne.

‘And how’s the coffee shop?’ asks Ruby with just a hint of bitch.

Uncle Gregory frowns. ‘Coffee shop?’

‘Yeah, Elodie works at Mugs in town,’ she offers brightly. ‘Didn’t Auntie Meredith tell you?’

‘I thought you worked at some fancy marketing company?’ His tone is accusatory, and my cheeks colour under his scrutiny.

‘I am, I mean, I was. I’m taking a break from it to focus on my writing. Juggling a career and deadlines for my book was too much so …’ I trail off, but they’re all silent, waiting for further explanation. Then I’m pitching myself to them just as I’ve pitched campaign ideas to clients a hundred times before. ‘University was challenging. I didn’t have a gap year like most of my friends – I just launched head-first into a career and did the whole London thing for a few years, which was frantic.’ After the conversation with Mum, it feels good to talk myself up. Uncle Gregory looks impressed, Ruby’s smirk falters but still, Ada’s expression is completely unreadable. ‘Now I just need some time to really focus on my passion project.’ I take a sip of my drink, proud of this last line. Then I give a half-shrug. ‘Working at the coffee shop is temporary.’

Ruby raises her eyebrows in mock-innocence. ‘But haven’t you been working there for over a year now?’

I open my mouth to answer, but Uncle Gregory beats me to it. ‘Don’t worry, Elodie, you’re a smart cookie, you’ll get back on your feet.’ He squeezes my arm in a way that isn’t meant to be patronising.

In my peripheral vision, Ruby grins. Uncle Gregory excuses himself, leaving the three of us alone. We sip our drinks and I try to think of something to say. It would be easier if Ada and I were alone; it’s awkward with Ruby standing there because three’s a crowd and even though Ada is my sister, I feel like the third wheel.

‘The house is gorgeous,’ I say to Ada. She has an eye for creating breathtaking spaces. ‘You should’ve gone into interior design.’ Even though my words are intended as a compliment, her mouth tightens; she’s taken it as a dig.

I draw breath to explain, but Ruby swoops in, ‘Yes, Adaline, you should’ve gone and got a degree so you could work in Mugs with Elodie.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ada biting her lip to stop herself laughing, and I flush with humiliation. Rather than stand here sniping at one another, I turn first to my sister. ‘Anyway, wonderful party, Ada.’ Then to my cousin. ‘Congratulations on the baby and the convertible, Ruby – great news.’ Before either of them can respond, I exit stage right.

Countless glasses of wine later and not enough BBQ food to soak up the alcohol, I am swaying gently next to the chocolate fountain. I check my phone. Jack isn’t here and he still hasn’t messaged back.

I am alone.

I am drunker than is appropriate.

And I am feeling sick. Really sick.

Inside, I make a beeline for the upstairs bathroom, not trusting myself to hold it together in the queue for the downstairs toilet. I grip the rim, my knees cushioned by the thick, grey bathmat. Jesus, it’s actually a really nice bathmat. Plusher than my supermarket-bought duvet covers. It’s so desperately sad that my sister’s bathmat is nicer than my bedding.

My mouth keeps doing that watery thing but, after five minutes, I still haven’t been sick. It’s time to go home; I want to take off my heels and bra and climb into bed.

But when I leave the bathroom, I hear Ada’s voice and stop outside her dressing room. ‘How about this?’

Maybe if I linger, I’ll catch her by herself so I can explain what I meant by my interior design comment. Even though she appears happy, I sometimes look at her and I can tell she isn’t. The thing about Ada is she’s a perfectionist. If she isn’t certain she can succeed right away, she steps back so she can’t fail. But Ada loves interiors and she’s so talented, she’d be amazing. Maybe she just needs encouragement, maybe—

‘Pretty, but purple isn’t my colour.’ It’s Ruby; any hope I had of talking to my sister alone withers. ‘I can’t believe I spilled wine on my dress. Red wine. Thanks for letting me borrow something.’

I lean against the wall, slip my phone from my bag and start typing out a message to Jack to tell him I’m leaving. He was supposed to be my ride home, but I’ll get a taxi.

‘Honestly, it’s not a problem.’

Then I remember how much a taxi costs from here to mine and decide I’ll walk instead; it’s a nice night and maybe it’ll sober me up.

‘Eurgh, I’m so clumsy. I swear, Adaline, it’s just about the only thing I have in common with your self-righteous little sister.’

I stiffen, thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button. Ada giggles, and I’m not sure what hurts more, my cousin slagging me off or my sister laughing about it. There’s the clang of a hanger then, ‘This one?’