‘Michael was sitting down in the living room, playing a game with everyone, and he started to feel sick, so was looking for something, and he came across this cupboard . . . ’ She takes a deep breath. ‘He’s thrown up in your Mum’s Greek vase.’
Fuck.
Forty
Standing at a crossroads
The compass knows
But I don’t
Which way should I go
‘Crossroads’ fromRoses
I promptly kick everyone out of the party. Faye and I start cleaning up. It’s gone midnight, and I am exhausted.
‘What happened to Kira?’ says Faye, picking up bottles and cans and putting them in a bin bag, as I try and bleach the inside of Mum’s vase.
This is a pretty disgusting job. Michael’s vomit was nearly entirely red wine, and the smell of the wine mixed with sick is nearly making me retch.
‘We had an argument,’ I say. ‘About the Secret Sender. And other things.’
In all honesty, I am starting to feel a bit bad about what I said to Kira. I don’t think she’s self-obsessed, and I know it’s her way of looking out for me. But I don’t think she sees things from my point of view at all.
‘I see,’ says Faye, tying up her second bin bag. ‘I don’t want to get involved. But I would say there’s two sides to everyargument. So just try and think about that.’
‘How are you so even about everything?’ I say.
‘I don’t mind saying difficult things sometimes, but I’ll only do it if, one, it needs to be said, and two, I really believe it. I think both you and Kira say things you believe . . . but you probably hold them back too much, and sometimes Kira says too much.’
I stop scrubbing the vase and look at her. ‘Wise words from Faye.’
Faye shrugs. ‘Maybe I should have studied psychology after all.’
‘Haha, no – the fashion world needs you.’ I point at her dress, which is ethereally moving with her like water. Highly glamorous for the task at hand. ‘How did you even make that?’
‘A lot of time and patience. You know what my cranky teacher says?’
‘The seamstress?’
‘Yeah, she says, “what artists need to learn is you never get it right the first time”. I think we artists can be a bit impatient.’
‘“We artists”?’ I say, smiling. I pick up the vase and look at the inside. It’s a weird brownish colour, but I think that’s because it’s wet. It should be all right once it’s dry.
‘Well, you’re a writer. That’s a type of art.’
Writer. That’s what Ty calls me. All at once my chest hurts.
‘Are you okay?’ says Faye.
‘Fine, a bit tired. It’s not how I imagined spending my eighteenth birthday.’
‘Hey, as the cranky seamstress said to me when I complained about the trek to her workshop: growing up is dealing with the consequences of your actions.’
I exhale slowly, thinking about everything that’s happened tonight. There are going to be a lot of consequences, for sure.
***
