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I frown at them collectively.
Julian extends his hand to my sister.
“You must be Bridget.”
She eyes his hand before she cautiously shakes it. “I am.”
Julian grins down at her, unperturbed. “Heard a lot about you.”
“Have you?” She blinks, un-charmed.
He nods. “Your sister speaks very highly of you. Says you’re the smartest person she knows, the funniest person she knows, and that you’re not going to like me at all.” Harley snorts a laugh at this.
Julian leans in and whispers loud enough for us all to hear, “But I’m hoping we can make her be wrong about one of those things, because I don’t like it much when she’s right.”
Bridget’s eyes pinch. “Well, we have that in common.”
Julian points at her playfully. “You’ll come around on me.”
“I doubt it,” Bridget sings back before glancing at Harley. “Should we go?”
“Hold on, wait—” I point at her feet. “What on god’s great dance floor is happening here?”
Bridget frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean why are you wearing those disgusting no-brand loafers with a £1200 Raey cashmere cardigan?”
“That you know?” She blinks. “Yesterday you asked me how to spell ‘manoeuvre.’”
Julian tilts his head, considering this. “Pretty hard word,” he says and snaps his fingers in Bridget’s direction. “But not for the smartest person Magnolia Parks knows!”
I roll my eyes at his showmanship.
She looks over at him with a reluctant smile.
He’s hard not to like when he’s like this.
“Anyway.” Bridget glances down. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“Oh god,” I sigh. “Where do I begin? Are they pleather?”
She gives me a look.
“100% ‘other materials?’” I frown at them. “Where are they from even?”
“ASOS.”
“What’s that?” I ask and everyone stares at me. And then I crack a smile, breezing my hand through the air. “I’m kidding! I know it’s Net-A-Porter for poor people.”
(“Oh my god.” Bridget blinks wide.)
I shake my head at her. “Listen, I pulled a pair of Oxfords last week for a shoot — your size, black. Ganni. Chunky. Easy to clomp around in as though you never attended finishing school—”
“—She didn’t,” Harley says, rolling his eyes.
“Well,” I put my hands on my hips, “that explains so much.”
“Just give me the fucking shoes,” Bridget growls.
I clap my hands, thrilled, and run off to get them with a squeal.
“You know,” I hear Bridget say as I leave the room, “she can’t spell ‘parallel’ either.”
