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…was winging its way to Nick’s phone.
Dumping the fruit in the bin, she padded into the living room, figuring she’d beg Sam for time on the computer, but he was nowhere to be found. Only his crumb-filled plate and warm seat remained. Evie logged into her email, dragged her cursor past spam messages for prescription drugs and bogus lotteries, and clicked on Nick’s much-anticipated message.
From: Nico B.
To: Evie Sutherland
Date: Sent today at 10:32
Subject: And you thought Dalston G had drama
Sorry, Dad’s gone full dictator, won’t let us make calls.
Balfour family functions always end in someone losing their shit. This time it was my dad, all shouty and red-faced during dinner. He blew up in front of Gran’s guests including the head dude from Formula One racing and the artistic director of the National Theatre (I’d sooo like to perform there one day). Even worse, Muggins here was Dad’s target.
First, he threw a wobbler because I ignored his calls at the shop and got us back late. Okay, I own that. It was my fault, but did he have to belittle me publicly? He said I was “neither use nor ornament.” You should’ve seen the theatre bloke’s face fall. Pretty humiliating. Then someone mentioned uni and Dad went full-on meltdown, ranting that I’d thrown back everything he’d ever done for me by having the audacity to even THINK I could take a gap year. He shouted so loud, the pastry chef, who’d flown in from Paris, dropped his croquembouche in the kitchen. And just like that, we had no birthday dessert for Gran.
Aren’t you glad you asked?
So, following up on our interrupted convo: how are you—really? And how was your boyfriend yesterday? Not cross with you, I hope.
Nick and his questions! She’d almost talked about her Crohn’s with him behind the shop but now? Not happening. She couldn’t bear it if he felt sorry for her. She didn’t want to be stigmatized or seen as sickly. Ever. And as for that second question, well, it could definitely wait. Evie had too many questions of her own.
She typed quickly.
From: Evie Sutherland
To: Nico B.
Subject: Re: And you thought Dalston G had drama
Nick, I’m GOBSMACKED and SOOO sorry! Neither use nor ornament? I CAN’T BELIEVE he said that in front of those people. I would’ve been in tears if it was me. What did you do? What did your mum and gran do? Why does your dad have it in for you like that?
Also, what’s a croquembouche? :P
Waiting for Nick’s email response, Evie texted Stuart back.
Evie:
I’m good. Tired. You?
Pushing all those number buttons took way too long. Sharing her Crohn’s ‘truth’ would have to wait until they were face to face again.
A few minutes after she hit send on Stuart’s text, Nick’s reply popped up in her inbox.
From: Nico B.
To: Evie Sutherland
Date: Sent today at 11:02
Subject: Re: And you thought Dalston G had drama
I said nothing and stared at my plate, hoping I wouldn’t have a panic attack (I didn’t, thank fuck). Tarquin played with his phone. Rupert ate his weight in filet mignon. Can’t say I blame them. Mum missed the entire thing. She left after canapés to fly back to London. She had an early call time on set this morning.
But Gran looked mortified and told Dad to sit the hell down. He did the opposite, tossed his napkin on the table and stormed out. My uncle followed, trying to talk him down. The guests all made their excuses, wished Gran well, and left straight after the entrée. Only Tarq, Rupes, our cousins, and aunt remained. I got wasted on champers. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but today my head’s banging.
