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I shook my head in awe and envy. “I wish I had a brother I could do that with.”
“Not a good idea. We were young and stupid.” She chuckled. “Instead of magic mushrooms, I drew inspiration from Dali when coming up with the design.”
“Who’s that?” I felt dumb, as always, around my worldly relatives.
“The Spanish artist, Salvador Dali.” She scrolled on her phone and pointed to an image of a woman with drawers coming out of her body.
“I love that.” Fascinated, I felt a sudden urge to go out and find his book.
“Very twisted and imaginative at the same time. I love him. I’ll lend you a book.”
It was the nicest we’d ever been with each other, and it felt great.
Whataday.Iwanted to see Drake right then, but he was nowhere. I’d even worried something had happened to him. He wasn’t answering my phone, and we were meant to catch up.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Savanah and how she’d turned pale when the doctor had given her the sad news that her baby’s heart had stopped beating.
Her sobs made me teary. A rare reaction. It took a lot to make me cry. She nearly squeezed the life out of my hand, but I didn’t mind. Whatever the poor girl needed as she drowned in grief.
“Where’s Carson?” she kept asking as we made our way out of the clinic after the doctor had given her a script and rattled off the need for a procedure while Savanah bawled her eyes out. I wouldn’t want his job for anything.
With me clinging onto her, just in case she fainted, Savanah kept saying, “I need Carson.”
I led her to a bench, and her phone buzzed.
With a trembling hand, she took the call, sobs spilling into her words. “Our baby is dead.”
It was the afternoon, and people stared at us like we were weirdos. I even gave one woman the finger for staring that little too long.
“What’s up your arse?” I couldn’t help myself. People gave me the shits some days.
Savanah ended the call and sat there, frozen. I gave her space, unsure of what to say. I mean, I couldn’t keep saying “it will be fine” over and over, which was what I’d said probably twenty times. I hated my lack of experience in tragic situations. As an only child with a mother whose emotional range comprised anger, spite, and suspicion, I didn’t exactly have a role model when it came to soothing people. I did, however, feel very teary. My heart felt heavy, like it was me who had lost the child.
“He’s on his way.” She quietened down after saying that.
We sat in silence, staring at life rushing by. A double-decker bus raced past. People coming and going filled the street—a reminder of how overpopulated London was. I wasn’t about to let her in on that thought.
She exhaled loudly, then got up. “Come on, let’s get drunk.”
My eyebrows flung up. “Oh? Okay.” I wasn’t much of a drinker. I had to watch it. Two champagnes, and I turned into a maniac. Either uncontrollable giggling at all the wrong times or talking shit.
We passed a pub that looked a little rough, mainly men who came from anywhere but the nice part of town.
“That will do,” she said.
“Shouldn’t we cab it back to Piccadilly?” I asked.
She looked like she was in a daze. “Nope. This is better. I don’t want to be around cheery people having a great life. I might scream at them.”
I nearly laughed. That was me. My aunty and I shared that in common. On my bad days, I felt like screaming at people.
“And Carson?” I asked as we stepped into the pub.
“He’s coming. I’ll send him the details.”
“Why don’t you sit somewhere, and I’ll get the drinks?”
She nodded, and as I was about to head for the bar, she grabbed my hand. “Thanks.”
