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Glorious. Now we’re having a self-righteousness-off. I can almost hear my dad mocking us both.
Christopher gestures at one of the paintings. “Have you seen that new show about the creation of this at the National? It’s meant to be fantastic.”
“Not yet. But I’ve read some great reviews.” Probably exactly the same reviews as him.
“Perhaps we could go next week?”
I smile in a noncommittal way. Through force of habit, I glance down at my right hand, but the lien mark is hidden safely under one of my large collection of costume jewellery rings. At home, I tend to take the contact lenses out and the sunglasses off, but the rings always stay on. I can’t bear to look at it. I can’t let it flash red. I can’t be found.
The lien will be binding. I may have chosen not to collect last night. But I reserve the right to do so.
“Have you seen everything you want to see?” Christopher asks, after another half hour of wandering. “I was up for looking at the Flavin exhibition, but the dinner reservation’s for eight. Have you tried Indonesian food before, by the way?”
“The restaurant sounds amazing. But I’m not really feeling it tonight. It’s been a long week.”
Chris looks like a kicked puppy.
“Why don’t we go back to mine?” I suggest. “Order something in? Chill out.”
He smiles at that. This time, I order a taxi. I can’t face the Tube again, and traversing in front of someone on a first date is not a great look.
I lead Chris into my open-plan, grey and teal-toned kitchen/dining room/sitting room, peruse my extensive collection of fancy bottles, and fix us both a Graveney gin and Fever-Tree tonic, with tons of ice.
When I look up, he’s staring at the family drawings.
“Did you do these?”
“They’re my brother’s handiwork.”
“He’s an amazing artist.”
It’s true. With or without the aid of magic.
“That’s him, there,” I say. “Brendan. And the woman with white-blonde hair down to her waist is his fiancée, Leah. The guy in the boxing ring is my other brother, Liam, and that’s his best friend, Shane. He’s practically a third brother to me. The one who looks sort of like me but about ten times hotter is my older sister, Chrissie—”
“I don’t think that,” he interrupts.
“That’s an objective fact, not self-esteem issues,” I reply, handing him his drink. “Anyway, the man who’s about twice her height and four times her weight in muscle is her husband, Ray. They met when she was on holiday in Jamaica. It was love at first sight to the extent he came home with her. The two baby girls are theirs. Ceridwen and Chioma.”
I ought to stop talking, but while he struck me as the sort of person who’d politely feign enthusiasm, he’s staring at the drawings in genuine fascination. There’s something about my family that captures people’s attention, even from a distance of three hundred miles.
I don’t mention that I’ve never met Leah, Ray, or the gorgeous little twins in person. They all came on the scene after my self-imposed exile started.
“What about the photographs?” Chris asks, gesturing towards the opposite wall, which boasts several larger prints.
“Mannith in all its glory. Something to stave off the homesickness.”
According to Chrissie, Ray loves photography about as much as Bren loves drawing, and he imbues his art with the same carefully honed skill and magical touch. It’s an odd hobby for someone who can’t show up in a photograph themselves or capture images of most of his friends and family, but he focuses on haunting landscapes. The Witches’ Church. Summer Hill. The idiosyncratic design of the Sadler family home.
As soon as Christopher finishes his drink, I pounce. I want to do this, but I want it over with. I pin him against the wall and kiss him frantically, releasing him just long enough to wriggle out of my dress and unbutton his shirt.
I relish the look of stunned arousal on his face. I’m far more turned on by my own self-confidence than his admittedly well-honed chest.
“Sadie, I’m not sure this is quite what I was expecting when you invited me back. You’re absolutely gorgeous, and you’re so funny over text, but you seemed a bit distant today…”
I grin, stepping back to give him a better view of my lingerie-clad body. “I’m full of surprises.”
I grab his hand and half drag him to the bedroom, then sprawl out on my hygge-chic cinnamon and slate patchwork quilt. His jeans come off in seconds, then he lays down beside me. Before he has a chance to collect his senses or take control of the situation, I straddle him, lean over, and kiss him with renewed passion.
