Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(3)

Lying bodily on the floor and gulping air like a dying fish, Chloe said brightly, “Fine, thank you.”

“Hmm,” Gigi murmured, slightly dubious, but not overly concerned. “Perhaps I’ll have Jeremy call us back. Jeremy, my dear, could you possibly … ?” Her voice faded as she wandered away.

Chloe rested her hot cheek against the cold tiles and tried not to add more insults to her own imaginary eulogy. If she were in a twee sort of musical—the kind her youngest sister, Eve, adored—this would be her rock-bottom moment. She’d be a few scenes away from an epiphany and an uplifting song about determination and self-belief. Perhaps she should take a leaf from those musicals’ collective book.

“Excuse me, universe,” she whispered to the kitchen floor. “When you almost murdered me today—which was rather brutal, by the way, but I can respect that—were you trying to tell me something?”

The universe, very enigmatically, did not respond.

Someone else, unfortunately, did.

“Chloe!” her mother all but shrieked from the doorway. “What are you doing on the floor?! Are you ill? Garnet, get off the phone and get over here! Your granddaughter is unwell!”

Oh dear. Her moment of communion with the universe rudely interrupted, Chloe hauled herself into a sitting position. Strangely, she was now feeling much better. Perhaps because she had recognized and accepted the universe’s message.

It was time, clearly, to get a life.

“No, no, my darling, don’t move.” Joy Matalon-Brown’s fine-boned face was tight with panic as she issued the nervous order, her tawny skin pale. It was a familiar sight. Chloe’s mother ran a successful law firm with her twin sister, Mary, lived her life with almost as much logic and care as Chloe, and had spent years learning her daughter’s symptoms and coping mechanisms. Yet she was still thrust into full-blown panic by the slightest hint of sickness or discomfort. It was, quite frankly, exhausting.

“Don’t fuss over her, Joy, you know she can’t stand it.”

“So I should ignore the fact that she was lying on the floor like a corpse?!”

Ouch.

As her mother and grandmother bickered over her head, Chloe decided the first universe-mandated change in her life would be her living quarters.

The mammoth family home was suddenly feeling rather snug.





CHAPTER ONE


Two Months Later

Oh, you are a gem, Red.”

Redford Morgan attempted a cheerful grin, which wasn’t easy when he was elbow deep in an octogenarian’s toilet bowl. “Just doing my job, Mrs. Conrad.”

“You’re the best superintendent we’ve ever had,” she cooed from the bathroom doorway, clasping one wrinkled hand to her bony chest. Her shock of white hair fairly quivered with emotion. Bit of a drama queen, she was, bless her.

“Thanks, Mrs. C,” he said easily. “You’re a doll.” Now, if you’d just stop shoving bollocks down your loo, we’d be best mates. This was the third time in a month he’d been called to flat 3E for plumbing issues, and frankly, he was getting tired of Mrs. Conrad’s shit. Or rather, of her grandsons’.

Red’s rubber-gloved hand finally emerged from the toilet’s depths, clutching a soaking-wet clump of paper towel. He unwrapped the little parcel to reveal … “This your vegetable casserole, Mrs. C?”

She blinked owlishly at him, then squinted. “Well, I’m sure I’ve no idea. Where are my spectacles?” She turned as if to hunt them down.

“No, don’t bother,” he sighed. He knew full well it was vegetable casserole, just like it had been last time, and the time before that. As he disposed of the clump and peeled off his gloves, he said gently, “You need to have a word with those lads of yours. They’re flushing their dinner.”

“What?” she gasped, clearly affronted. “Noooo. No, no, no. Not my Felix and Joseph. They never would! They aren’t wasteful boys, and they love my dinners.”

“I bet they do,” he said slowly, “but … well, Mrs. C, every time I come over here, I find a little parcel of broccoli and mushrooms clogging your pipes.”

There was a beat of silence as Mrs. Conrad grappled with that information. “Oh,” she whispered. He’d never heard so much dejection in a single word. She blinked rapidly, her thin lips pursing, and Red’s heart lurched as he realized she was trying not to cry. Holy fucking hell. He couldn’t deal with crying women. If she dropped a single tear, he’d be here all night, eating bowls of vegetable casserole with enthusiasm and sparkling compliments.

Please don’t cry. I get off in ten minutes and I really fucking hate broccoli. Please don’t cry. Please don’t—

She turned away just as the first sob wracked her thin shoulders.

Sigh.

“Come on, Mrs. C, don’t be upset.” Awkwardly, he peeled off his gloves and went to the sink to wash his hands. “They’re just kids. Everyone knows kids have as much sense as the average goat.”

Mrs. Conrad let out a little burble of laughter and turned to face him again, dabbing at her eyes with a hankie. Old people always had hankies. They hid them on their bodies like ninjas with throwing stars. “You’re right, of course. It’s just … Well, I thought that casserole was their favorite.” She sniffled and shook her head. “But it doesn’t matter.”