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The door opens and the smell of coffee wafts in. I scramble upright, eyes flying open, heart beating like I’ve just been caught with my hand between my legs.
Cammie strolls into the room, carrying two cups of coffee. The curls we spent hours shaping her hair into last night have transformed into a net of tangles, and her eyeshadow is now two bright purple smears across her eyes. The fact she hasn’t cleaned her face tells me she didn’t go back to her room last night.
At least she had a better time than I did.
“Fuck, that was a crazy night,” she groans, handing me a cup of coffee.
I take it gratefully, sitting back against my piled pillows like a hospital patient. “Thank you, baby.”
She puts her coffee on my bedside table and climbs into bed next to me. “I’m never drinking again.”
“You say this every time.”
She groans. “I mean it this time. I ended up playing spin the bottle with Year 12s. Year 12s, Rose!” She buries her face in her hands and squeaks through her fingers. “I made out with, like, three different Year 12 boys!”
“Shit,” I say, trying to hide my laughter behind one hand. “At least they probably won’t remember, right?”
“Um, quite the opposite, actually. I doubt they’ll ever forget getting to make out with one of the hottest girls in Year 13.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Where did you disappear off to, anyway? Last I saw you, you were on your way to Evan. Then nobody saw either of you for the rest of the night. Did you finally make it happen?”
I groan. “No. Evan is a waste of my time, anyway. He’s always been.”
“Oh.” Cammie blinks. “What about your plan, then?”
“I have another plan now.” Sitting straighter, I smirk at her. “Your plan, actually.”
She frowns. “What plan?”
I open my phone and brandish it in her direction. She props herself up and narrows her eyes to peer at the screen. “Is that a picture of your tits?”
“Mm-hm.”
Camille lowers her voice. “Oh my god. Did you send it to Evan?”
I shake my head. “Not even!” I lower my voice too—I don’t know why we’re whispering, since we’re alone in the room. “I sent it to some gardener guy I bumped into last time in the greenhouse.”
“A garde—what?” Camille gives me a look of unutterable stupefaction, as if I just told her I was abducted and impregnated by aliens. “Agardener? How do you even have his number? I don’t understand. You’ve sent a picture of your tits to Mr Morton?”
“No, obviously not—Jesus!” I gesture, flapping my hands. “There was another guy in the greenhouse. He works part-time as a gardener on weekends, apparently. I bumped into him when I was leaving the party. I got his number—can you think how mad my dad would be if he thought I was dating some random guy who does part-time gardening? Anyway, so then I sent him a picture of my tits.”
“I mean… that’s better than Mr Morton.” Camille pulls a face. “But ew, Rose, I mean come on. The help? Really?”
Heat rushes to my face. After all the shit I’ve been talking about Sophie Sutton, I sort of deserve to be judged for sending pictures of my breasts to townies working part-time jobs to make ends meet and fund their mum’s wedding.
But not by Cammie. I glare at her. “You’re the one who said it would really piss my father off if I fucked a gardener.”
She gives me an unimpressed look. “Andyou’re the one who said you’d have to be desperate to fuck the help.”
“Well, my dad cut me off from my trust fund. If that’s not desperation, then what is?”
Cammie nods, her face softening in sympathy. She glances at the phone in my hand, then leans forward, lowering her voice.
“What’s your agenda, then?” She waggles her eyebrows. “You’re going to fuck Mr Morton?”
“I’m not going to fuck Mr Morton, Cammie, ew.” I give her a sneaky look, then admit, “I’m going to his house on Thursday, though.”
“What?” Her voice rises to a piercing scream of shock.
“Don’t overreact,” I snap.
