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Sixty-Two
Magnolia
“So where’s the step monster?” Julian asks brightly. My father frowns at me.
I laugh uncomfortably. “That’s not — I don’t call her that. That was a — he made that up, not me—”
Julian presses the tip of his tongue into his top lip to keep himself from laughing and Harley rolls his eyes.
“Believe it or not,” my sister pipes up, “she’s not all that excited to meet the gang lord who’s shagging her daughter.”
I grab his wrist and flash him a smile. He’s so handsome.
“Don’t take that personally.” I wave my hand dismissively. “She wasn’t over the moon when I was shagging Tom England either, and that’s Tom England, who couldn’t be less of a gang lord if he tried. Plus you’re much more her cup of tea sexually.”
My sister chokes on her wine a little and Julian frowns, saying nothing.
“How’s that now?” my father asks.
“Well—” I give him an impatient look as I undo the buttons of Julian’s Stone Island Shadow Project black bomber jacket because it looks better that way and tug at the Kiton white T-shirt underneath it so it sits how it should.
“Every time a swarthy man comes on a screen who has this sort of dark, golden-y hair with the deep blue eyes she makes all sorts of noises.”
“Oh. Good.” Harley rolls his eyes.
I give him an uncomfortable smile. “That’s unideal for you as her husband, as a black man with brown hair and brown eyes.”
“Yeah, a bit.”
I nod sympathetically and give him a shrug.
“You’re pretty swarthy though, mate,” Julian offers him and that sends Bridget over laugher’s edge.
We’re having dinner at Julie’s in Notting Hill. My sister’s suggestion, if you can believe it, and she’s not in jeans for once in her bloody life. The Beatles Get Back intarsia cotton sweater from Stella McCartney and the Burberry vintage check tailored trousers — busy but good, actually. She’s warming to Julian, I could tell when we walked in. For one, she’s making an effort. When he kissed her cheek she flushed a little — which is hardly her fault, what with the sparkly eyes and the jawline I could grate cheese on.
Julian and my father catch up, talking about an American rapper they both know and dislike. Bridget leans over the table to me.
“These aren’t terrible.” She pokes my plaid-check print shorts from Philosophy Di Lorenzo Serafini.
“Holy fucking shit.” I stare over at her. “Was that a compliment about my outfit?”
“I compliment you,” she tells me with a frown that I match when I stare down at her feet.
“Why are the buckles on your shoes so large?”
“I don’t know, Magnolia.” She scowls. “I didn’t fucking cobble them myself.”
I keep staring at them. “Shoes are a real problem area for you, aren’t they?”
She rolls her eyes. “I take it back, I hate your shorts.”
“No you don’t. They’re lovely.”
She ignores me. “How was Italy?”
I glance at Julian. “Good.”
“Anything interesting happen?”
