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Chapter 1
Zoey
“Youcandothis.You can do this,” I mutter to myself as I walk up to the giant, obnoxious wooden door that has four, yes,four-doorknockers. I mean, it’s so excessive, but that’s my parents for you. They live their lives in excess.
I decide to ignore them all and use my hand to bang on the wood instead because I refuse to conform to what’s expected of me. “Do not turn around and walk away, Zoey; you’ve got this. It’s only dinner. You can survive a dinner,” I say to myself as the giant front door swings open to reveal one of my brother’s smug faces.
“Are you talking to yourself, baby sis?” Max asks, raising an eyebrow at my mental state that’s clearly on the fray today.
Heat fills my cheeks. “How much did you hear?” I ask, wincing.
The sides of his mouth tilt upwards mockingly. “Oh, I saw you pull up in your car. I was waiting here for you, and then I heard your little pep talk.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll be going to jump off a cliff now,” I say and try to turn, but two hands twirl me right back around to face the door.
“Woah there. You’re not escaping this. It’s my birthday, and what I say goes.”
“Just like any other day in the Bancroft household, then?” I retort sharply, unable to keep the derision from my voice.
Max puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into the house. “Come on, you drama queen, step over the threshold.” My reluctant feet stomp as he moves us both towards the open hallway. “You know Mum is gonna hate that outfit,” he whispers in my ear.
I smile triumphantly. “I know.” I look down at my tattered vintage mom jeans and old band t-shirt with holes. She really is going to hate it. If only she knew this whole outfit cost me less than ten quid.
A huge spiralling staircase flaunts itself before me, as does the over-the-top bouquet of peonies on a pointless table in the middle of the room. “Is everyone here?” I ask him as we walk past the first of three living rooms because what screams rich and pretentious than multiple empty rooms?
Max nods and goes to reply, but just as we round the corner, my mother’s sharp voice permeates the air, and I plaster on my fake smile that I’ve mastered over the years.
“Zoey, darling.” She approaches and air kisses me twice.Air kisses are the fucking worst.Her perfectly straightened blonde hair skims her shoulders, her bright blue eyes—the same as mine—looking everywhere but at me. We are so similar, yet so opposite. “You’re late.”
It was intentional.
“Mother, how are you?” I grit my teeth through my fake as fuck sweet smile while inside, I’m grimacing. Her signature Chanel scent chokes me, and I stifle a cough. I swear it gets stronger the older she gets.
She wafts the perfumed air around her as though it’s offensive. “Oh, you know, busy as a bee. Max, be a darling and get your mother a drink.” He wanders off, mumbling something about it being his birthday, and I wrap my lips around my teeth to stop the laugh erupting from me.
I manage to compose myself and glance over to her. “Glad to hear you’re well.” When I realise she still isn’t looking my way, too busy inspecting her perfectly manicured nails, I decide to give up trying to make eye contact because I know she won’t even glance in my direction. I’ve spent so much of my life being a disappointment to both my parents that their lack of eye contact is easier to deal with than their disapproving stares.
Her smile is as fake as mine as I breeze past her, and I wonder briefly if we were actually honest with each other, what would we say? It certainly wouldn’t be all these niceties and meaningless conversations.
When we walk into the kitchen, I’m met with the face of my parents’ housekeeper, Seren. “There she is, my Zozo. Come, give me a cwtch then.” Her accent brings a smile to my lips.
“You get more Welsh every time I see you,” I say as I dive into her soft arms and inhale the warm, comforting smell of washing powder that is Seren.
As she pulls back, she pushes my hair out of my face the way a mother would, and something shudders inside me at the realisation that Seren was always the one to give me hugs growing up. She cleaned my scraped knees while my own mother didn’t spare me a glance. And it appears nothing has changed.
Seren’s brows furrow as she takes me in. “Now, I’m not being funny, but you’re even skinnier than when I saw you last. I’m going to feed you up today. Get some more meat on those tiny bones of yours.” Her hands wrap around my biceps, and she squeezes with a laugh.
“Mmkay, Seren. You do you. As long as there is booze in this house, then you can feed me all you want.”
Looking beyond the worktops to the table in the kitchen, I spot trays and trays of pretentious catered food. Microscopic entrées, amongst other things that I know my brothers will hate. They both have huge appetites, and nothing I can see here will fill them up. My parents would know this if they knew any of us at all.
“Hi, Tink.” I’m hauled upwards from behind and judging by the number of tattoos decorating his arms, I know it’s Owen. His huge, inked arms destroy any hope I have of breathing as he squeezes me. As he releases me, he ruffles my hair like I’m fucking five, and my throat lets out a growl before I even realise it.
“Get lost, Owen,” I swirl around, slapping his chest because, truthfully, I can’t reach any higher.
“I think you’re meant to say Happy Birthday, big brother.” He pops a tiny appetiser into his mouth, and his face immediately scrunches up as he grabs a napkin and spits it out. “The fuck is that shit?” he grimaces.
I laugh. “You mean you don’t like…” I pause and lean over to read the label, “… lobster stuffed vol-au-vents?”
