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Bushka thinks. “Is wrong to say ‘probably,’ da?”
“Da.” Bridget blinks, hands on the hips of her bright orange crystal-embellished Ganni cardigan. She looks pretty cute for moving day. Floral-print elasticated shorts from Sandro, a cropped Alexander McQueen T-shirt, Air Force 1s that I could do without, but it’s not a hill I’ll die on.
“Then no,” Bushka says before she wanders deeper into our apartment.
Our new place is dreamy. Even Bridget likes it, miracle of miracles. I took the master because, well, obviously. Tall ceilings. Marble accents. White walls, dark wooden floors, a billion windows.
And don’t think for a moment that I’m standing at them checking the street to see if he appears on the footpath, looking lost, trying to find my building to surprise me, because I’m not. That would be so sad.
Almost as sad as the infernal racket I can hear in our living room.
I round the corner feeling incredibly intruded upon. It sounds like a—
“Oh.” I stomp my foot as I stare over at Bushka. “Who the fuck gave her a whistle?”
“Me.” Henry beams down at me, proud of himself.
I pull the hood of his Oregon printed cotton-jersey jumper from Rhude over half his face just to annoy him. “For the love of god why?”
He shrugs. “Because now that BJ’s in the bad books she’s going to have to offload that £5B steel fortune to someone.”
“Yes.” I eyeball him. “Me.”
“Doubt it.” He shrugs. “How many whistles have you given her?”
“Just the one I’m going to shove down your throat as penance for this fiasco.”
My best friend laughs, kisses the top of my head and leaves to go to buy everyone coffees.
I’m lying on my bed an hour or so later, drinking said coffee and reading a magazine because moving is the worst — did you know?
Awful.
Don’t do it.
And if you must, just leave everything behind and start afresh.
There’s a knock on my door and I look over.
Jonah lifts his eyebrows, waiting for me to ask him in.
Black Les Tien garment-dyed cotton-jersey hoodie, the black straight-leg logo-embroidered cotton-jersey drawstring shorts from Celine Homme with cream socks and black suede Arizonas. I look away permissively but I don’t speak.
He sits on the edge of my bed. “You ever going to forgive me?”
I glance at him. “I don’t know.”
“He’s my best friend.”
“—So was I,” I shoot back quickly.
He nods once. “Are.”
I look away from him. “That’s a bit of a one-way street.”
He sniffs a laugh, pushes a hand through his dark blonde hair.
“Do I at least get points for coming today? Wasting my Saturday for you?”
