Page 15 of Yearning Difficulties

‘That’s nonsense, Zella.’

‘I can’t,’ I said indignantly, fastening a gold chain around my neck. ‘I can’t start talking about fanfiction or obscure musical theatre. Or how I sometimes want to become a spy so I can take down malevolent psy-ops from the inside. I need her to think I’m, you know, nice and proper. Normal. Like the kids she always picks for her seminars.’

‘I hate those kids. They litter in the street and they try to haggle down my prices, even though their parents give them more money than God.’

‘Ma.’ I quickly kissed her on the cheek. ‘Just let me pretend for a bit. Please. I need Dr Bergery to take me seriously. So no special interests, no fizzing hands and no strangeness.’

‘Well, what about her son?’

‘Which one?’

‘The interesting one.’

I gave her a look of scorn as I slipped on my heels. ‘You mean Killian?’

‘Yeah. He’s not normal and boring.’

‘No, but he’s doing me a solid by letting me come to dinner. I can’t screw it all up and let him down.’

‘All right,’ she said quietly. ‘Have fun, darling. Be yourself as much as you can because I like that girl the most.’

Six

Dinner at the Bergerys

Today’s Track: ‘Queen Bee’ by Johnny Flynn

Staring up at 1 Lakeside Drive, I couldn’t remember ever seeing a house so large and grand, outside of a movie or a photograph. It was like a backdrop in Architectural Digest. I had to give myself a moment to breathe before mounting the small set of stairs that led up to the giant wraparound porch. There was a swing that overlooked the lake and, in the distance, the bright lights of our small town, gleaming.

I rang the bell and jumped as someone answered the door almost instantly.

Killian was also freshly showered, his dark curls damp and his face newly shaven. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, which made me reach out to smack him on the arm. ‘I’m overdressed! You didn’t say it was casual Fridays.’

He grabbed my hand and pulled me inside. Then smiled at my shocked expression, as I took in all of the massive house.

‘Are you a fucking Romanov?’ I hissed under my breath.

‘I hope not. Come into the den.’

‘Your hallway is like a hotel lobby.’

He led me to a small, snug room at the rear end of the ground floor. There were a few leather chesterfields and a large television and entertainment system. Even so, nothing in a house like that could ever seem informal.

I pointed to the ceiling. ‘Dens don’t usually have chandeliers.’

He ran a sheepish hand through his blue-black curls. ‘Want something to drink?’

‘Are you going to pull out a bottle of wine that was on the Titanic?’

‘How would I manage that? They’re at the bottom of the Atlantic, assumedly.’

‘You shouldn’t joke about maritime disasters. Besides, I wouldn’t put it past someone like you to dive down and retrieve them.’

‘I can offer you juice. Sadly, no century-old bottles from the deep.’

‘I’m not thirsty,’ I said, rounding on him. ‘Tell me how to impress your mother.’

He looked surprised. ‘Just be you. The charming communist girl who thinks we’re rich lizards.’