I’ve seen her in the middle of the night and the middle of the day, with makeup and without, with her hair done up and when it’s been unwashed for days. I’ve seen her in jeans and in silk and in nothing. I would gladly spend the rest of my life just looking at her.
Thankfully, I’m allowed to do more than that. I climb up her body to take off her shirt, and the feel of her skin makes me ten times more awake.
And then I see what she’s wearing underneath. Her chest is cupped in black edged with ivory lace, her arse in cheeky boy-shorts that match.
“Do you like them?” she asks, her voice soft, her eyes closed now.
“Not enough to keep them on you,” I say, reaching to unfasten and tug, but she doesn’t move.
“Mara?”
No answer. Her breath is deep and even. I bounce lightly on the bed just to confirm it, and, yes, she is in fact asleep.
With a heavy, pathetic sigh, I get up to close the curtains so the sunlight doesn’t wake her, and pull the comforter up over her body. I bend down to kiss her cheek and whisper, “You’re a mean girl, Mara Dyer.”
She smiles in her sleep.
10
THE AMUSEMENT OF MANKIND
HER MOBILE RINGS IN THE evening—we’ve both slept away the day, it seems.
“Who?” she moans, her voice hoarse. She makes no move to get it, so I untangle myself from her limbs and search her discarded clothes for it to no avail.
“Nightstand,” she mumbles.
My carefully cultivated look of disdain is completely wasted on her, as she’s thrown her arm over her eyes.
A glance at the screen reveals the caller. “It’s our favourite bisexual Jewish black friend.”
“Which?”
I try handing the phone to her and she waves it away. “Can’t. Exhausted.”
“It’s jet lag, not Ebola.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” she says, awake now. “Just answer it.”
I do, whipped dog that I am, and put it on speaker. “Hello, you’ve reached the winter of man’s discontent.”
“That’s Mara’s line. Did you throw her into the Thames?”
“I’m afraid not. She’s here, sleeping.”
“Well, wake her up! I need her.”
“Then come over and rouse her yourself,” I say just as Mara snatches the phone from me. Speaker still on.
“Hey,” she says. “What’s going on?”
“Hijinks. Gang’s all here.”
“Who?” I ask, as she says, “Where?”
“Me, Daniel, Sophie. Frank.”
Sophie being Daniel’s girlfriend. She made it into Juilliard, thankfully, as he’s so besotted with her he might’ve followed her if she’d gone somewhere else.
“Who the devil is Frank?”
“Restaurant between Fifth and Sixth on Second.”
“We should invite Goose,” I say to Mara. She nods.
“WTF?” Jamie says. “You want to eat goose?”
“You’ll like him,” Mara says. The strap of her bra slips down her shoulder as she gets up, pulls on her clothes from yesterday.
“When’ll you be here?”
Mara glances at me over her shoulder. “Car or train?”
“Either.”
“We’re taking a car,” Mara says. “So maybe nine?”
“We’ll entertain ourselves at the bar while we wait.”
“Mind-fucking the bartenders of New York already?” I ask.
“Why waste a good mind-fuck on drinks?”
“With great power comes great responsibility.”
“Exactly. Now get your asses over here before I tell the staff it’s your birthday and have the restaurant sing when you walk in.” The call ends before I can respond. “Twat,” I say to the phone.
Meanwhile, Mara’s begun rummaging through my luggage, and for the briefest of moments, my stomach drops. The will is somewhere in there, and the letter, and the moment I realise she might see them, and read them, is the moment I realise I don’t want her to. I will tell her. Just . . . not yet.
“I’ll dress myself, thank you,” I say, trying to edge in ever so casually. Which bag did I put the documents in? I can’t even remember.
She shrugs. “Okay. If you wear the blue stripey shirt, I’ll have sex with you later. But it’s up to you.”
“Will you hand me my bollocks when you get a moment? They’re in one of your bags, I think.”
She looks at me with doe’s eyes and a shark’s smile as I dress. On our way out, we catch our reflection in the mirror. Mara rises to tiptoes and nips at the lobe of my ear before whispering, “Good choice.”
We get to the restaurant just before Goose does. He exits a cab, and I glimpse a pair of long, crossed legs dangling inside. A burst of female laughter erupts before the door slams.
I arch my eyebrows, and Goose says, “Those Brazilian arse lifts are in fact a real thing.”
Mara looks from him to me, back to him again. “What am I missing?”
“Nothing. Your arse is perfect,” I say, squeezing it.
A roll of eyes and a swing of hips and she’s inside the restaurant, which is bursting with people. It didn’t sound nearly this loud over the phone—even without my ability, I’d hardly be able to hear anyone over the roar. As it is, my head feels spinny.
“All right, mate?” Goose asks, and I nod quick. Not good that he noticed.
“Sister!” I hear Daniel’s shout above the rest, see his tall frame unfold from behind a long table. Mara hugs her brother gently, then Jamie fiercely.
“I missed you,” she says over the noise. “Both of you.” I’d probably say the same, if I wouldn’t rather die than admit it.
“It’s only been a week,” Daniel says.
“I know. But it felt longer. England’s weird.”
“Is it?” Goose asks her.
Jamie notices Goose for the first time. “Noah,” he says, eyes remaining on my sort-of-childhood friend. “You came bearing gifts.”
“Hey,” Daniel says, reaching up to shake his hand. “I’m Daniel, Mara’s brother.”
A nod and smile. “Goose. Noah’s Westminster plaything.”
A bat of Jamie’s lashes. “So all of my English boarding school fantasies are true.”
“I’m Sophie,” Daniel’s girlfriend says with a bright, open smile, the corners of which reach the tips of her nearly white blond hair.
“What kind of a name is Goose?” Jamie asks, feigning interest in the champagne sweating on the table, which he pours into Goose’s glass before I take it and fill ours.
“The kind of name one earns at English public schools such as ours when one engages in the sort of ill behaviour we have.”
“So a nickname, then?”
“One doesn’t divulge the origins of such a name. Removes all mystery.”
In point of fact, I couldn’t even remember the origins myself. He was just always . . . Goose. Of course, he was Alastair Greaves in truth, but no one has ever called him that in my hearing.
Jamie turns to Daniel. “I can’t really imagine whispering ‘Goose’ in bed, can you?”
A firm shake of Daniel’s head. “Not even dignifying the question with an answer.”
“Now, did you do something to a goose to earn your moniker?”
Goosey pretends to think about it for a moment. “Not so much ‘to’ as ‘with,’ I’d say.”
“The goose verbally consented,” I say.
Daniel turns to Sophie. “I post-and preemptively apologise for literally everyone at this table, for everything they’ve said or are going to say, for the rest of the night.”
“Apology accepted,” she says, kissing Daniel on the cheek.
“I think you have competition for your most-disgusting-couple award,” Jamie says to Mara.
“We’re not disgusting,” Mara says, then pauses thoughtfully. “We’re . . .”
“Smutty?”
“Yes!”
“I do have other friends,” Daniel says to Sophie.
Mara raises her glass. “But only one sister.”
“I will drink to that.” Daniel clinks his glass to hers.
“So what are you all doing in New York?” Sophie looks at each of us.
Jamie lies first. “Early admission to NYU.”
Sophie’s eyebrows scrunch together. “That’s . . . I didn’t know that was a thing,” she says slowly. “So you graduated from Croyden early?”
“Yes,” Jamie says, his voice distinct and resonant now. The Jedi mind-fuck at work. “Mara and Noah too, in point of fact.” It’s the party line we’re towing—Mara’s family swallowed it eagerly. They want to believe; Jamie just helps them along.
Sophie nods, grins broadly, erasing all signs of scepticism. “And you guys”—she looks at us—“Are you going to stay here too?”
Mara’s nose wrinkles with her smile. “Yeah,” she says, turning to me. “I think we are.”
“What are you going to do?”
I look at my girl. “Whatever we want.”