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“Not you, you idiot—” He glances over, rolling his eyes. “Daisy.”
“Watch it.” Julian points at him with his eyebrows up. His face is a bit sharper than I’d like.
I push Julian’s finger down as I walk towards the kitchen with a bright shrug. “Imagine if I were the kind of person who said ‘live and let live.’”
“Yeah.” He nods, following me. “Imagine.”
I glance back at him. “I mean, I’m not going to say that.”
“No.” He walks ahead of me, holding open the door as he sighs. “Didn’t think you would.”
“Dai-sy!” I sing.
“What?” She frowns up at me, leering over a Le Creuset pot in the printed silk-twill jacket and matching shorts from Gucci.
“I hear you’re sad.”
“Fuck you.” She points at her brother with a wooden spoon covered in creamy sauce.
She gets a bit on my cardigan.
I laugh uncomfortably.
“Daisy,” Julian growls.
“That — it’s fine—” I shake my head. “It’s just my Juliet cashmere cardigan from Khaite that was about £4000, but it’s fine. Accidents happen.” I give her a cheery smile.
She looks over at me as annoyed and unimpressed as she always seems to be around me, then flicks her terrible little spoon in my direction again, this time on purpose.
Lots of sauce now.
Fantastic.
“Oi!” Julian barks as he stands in front of me. Daisy rolls her eyes. “Tell her you’re sorry.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off.”
I peer around Julian, holding one of his hands with both of mine.
“I’m sorry you and Tiller are fighting… Relationships can be so tricky.”
She looks over at me, eyes slits. “You’d know.”
I ignore her and persevere like the emotional pioneer I am.
“Seen Christian lately?” I ask quickly before ducking behind her brother in case the spoon comes back out.
“No.” She glares at her pot. “You seen BJ lately?” she asks her pot spitefully.
She looks up at me, and my eyes are probably rounder than I’d like them to be. It’s probably more obvious that she’s struck a nerve than you’d want someone who taunts you to see, and Julian doesn’t do anything except reach around me with the hand I’m not holding and he pulls me tight against him.
She stares over at us for a few seconds and then her face softens.
“Give me your sweater.” She wipes her hands on her apron.
“It’s actually a cardigan,” I correct her. I don’t know why. She looks like she wants to kill me again.
“Hurry up and give it to me.” She rolls her eyes for the fiftieth time and holds her hand out, waiting. “I’ll get the sauce out before it leaves an oil stain.”
