Page 39 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘Old family friends. Vivienne and James dated for a while when he was younger,’ Priscilla says, her voice far too warm for my liking. ‘She said she’d love to catch up properly. Her gallery is doing so well, she sent photographs of the new⁠—’

‘Mum,’ James says.

‘You two made the cutest couple,’ Priscilla says.

‘We were young.’

‘I know, darling. But we’d always dreamed of our kids marrying, so our best friends would become our family. You two were too young to make it work, but you might be ready now. She’s a beautiful woman.’

I grip the handle of my coffee cup until it hurts. I might not be ready to dive into the confetti with James, but I’m beginning to think I don’t want anyone else to either.

He’s mine.

I batter that thought down the moment it crops up.

Absolutely the fuck not, Eliza. It’s just a few kisses. And one knee-melting orgasm. And a cock that dreams are made of…

James looks at me.

I look at my toast.

Fraser devours a blueberry muffin, clearly unaware of the tense undercurrent of breakfast.

If this Vivienne thinks she can come in here and turn heads, I’ll have to teach her a lesson or two.

* * *

By early afternoon, I’m bored.

I read to Dad until he fell asleep, and then called Maggie for updates on her elopement plans. She wants me to go to a bridesmaid’s dress fitting when I’m back in London. I hadn’t realised she was going to that level of effort, seeing as she’s getting married like she’s a fucking sheep on a hillside. Wool you take this woman…

Giggling to myself, I get off the phone and do what any respectable older sibling would. I go to pester my little brother.

Fraser has taken over a room I haven’t been inside in years: Mum’s workroom. It’s more of a studio than anything else. I skim my fingers across a painting she did of Coffin once. It’s hideous. While she enjoyed painting, her artistic talent lay far more in the deadlier arts. But I still love looking at her utterly disproportionate art. Or I used to, when I’d come in here and natter at her while she worked.

Fraser is at Mum’s old workbench, which looks to have had a working space cleared rather than the disarray Mum had left it in. He has multiple small glass vials and jars on the worktop. There are bundles of dried plants tied with twine. Gardening gloves with fresh dirt still on them. Amongst it all is a leatherbound book, open to a page of tiny looping words. The drawings of the plants are definitely more accurate than those of Coffin, but still undoubtedly belong to my mother.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

‘Experiments.’ As per usual, he doesn’t offer any further explanation.

‘What kind?’

‘All kinds.’

James comes into the room behind me. Did he follow me here? He looks at the jumble of bric-a-brac.

‘Whose book is that?’

‘Mum’s. That’s her greenhouse out the double doors. Been doing its own thing for years. I decided to see what she whiled away her hours doing in here.’

‘She was into poisons,’ I add, touching an old apron of hers that’s still pegged on the wall. It’s yellowed and grown stiff.

Fraser nods and pats a jar.

There’s a teapot nearby, and Fraser nods to it. ‘You can have a cuppa if you like.’

James eyes the jars on the table and my face. I can’t help but laugh.