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Evie was sitting on the new couch when Teela wrestled her suitcase and bag of groceries inside her apartment.
“Was there a bat signal?” she said. That came out sounding irritated, but she couldn’t remember ever being so happy to see Evie.
Until the very last moment, Haydn hadn’t seemed like the love ’em and leave ’em stud he’d made himself out to be. But he’d called her doll and given her a dramatic Hallmark movie-of-the-week-style kiss that wrenched her neck and then neither of them had known what to say.
Over the weekend he’d called her impatient girl and once my darling. The former was funny and the later was coated in the extraordinary sex they’d had and gorgeously appropriate at the time. Doll was the equivalent of lovely to meet you. All the best.
And that, as they say in showbiz, is that.
She kicked off her shoes and slumped on the couch as Evie took the groceries to the kitchen counter and unpacked them.
“Two tubs,” Evie said holding up the Maggie Beer burnt fig, honeycomb and caramel in one hand and chocolate, coffee and biscuit in the other.
“This is a two-tub breakup,” Teela said.
“There’d be something wrong with him if it wasn’t.”
“There is nothing wrong with him.” Despite the doll and the awkward goodbye and maybe owning too many dogs.
Evie gestured with the tubs, raising one high and taking one low like a human scale of calorific compromise. Teela said, “Fig,” and Evie served two generous helpings into glass dessert dishes and brought them to the couch.
Neither of them said anything for a while. It was all about the ice cream.
Evie broke the peace. “I can’t believe you wore those shorts.” Of course, she’d seen the Facebook post. Wait. She’d been in a jumpsuit on the bridge. “What shorts?”
Evie pulled a face and then grabbed her phone. And there they were on the front page of the Tele’s website. Well, Haydn was on the front page. Teela was essentially a backside for his arm to drape around. There was a cut-out of that photo zoomed in on his arm, his wrist brace, and her arse. Oh God. Those shorts weren’t the greatest, but it wasn’t likely anyone was going to know her by the shot.
“I had to wear what you packed for me, remember.”
Evie tapped her long-handled spoon on the edge of her dish. “Oh, that’s right. I was distracted by Hassan and they looked better in the drawer.”
“How were you distracted by Hassan? You only do musicians and roadies.”
“I rock the world of musicians, and music-adjacent hotties.”
“What’s music adjacent mean?”
“Roadies, photographers, stylists, agents, managers, publicists,” Evie ticked them off on her fingers, “and a late addition, chauffeurs.”
“Did you bonk Hassan in my apartment?”
“I wanted to bonk Hassan in your apartment, but I also wanted to eat Vietnamese food. So we ate and he told me he thinks Haydn really likes you and then he ran away because he found me scary.”
“Most men find you scary.” In direct proportion to how little Evie pandered to their egos.
“Most men are idiots.”
It was annoying how often you could agree with that. “It’s not primary school and Hassan has known Haydn one day longer than I have. He knows nothing, Jon Snow.”
“Did you see that arm around you? Did you clock the way that man was looking at you on the bridge?”
Of course she’d seen that picture as well. “Sure, he likes me. And he’s a gentleman. I had an incredible time.”
Evie eye-rolled. “That’s why you’re cranky as buggery.”
“I’m tired. It’s not like I got a lot of sleep. And I have post-conference blues. Which is totally normal.” Post-show blues. Post-Haydn Delany blues. Two tubs weren’t going to be enough.
“The boning was good, huh?”
