‘Cheers, guys,’ Cleo thanked them sarcastically, as she waved them in.
The balloons were oversized: huge and a glossy pink. The 3 twirled lazily in the air, refusing to stay straight, meaning the effect was rather more ‘SO’ than ‘30’.
Cleo wasn’t thirty – not quite yet – her actual birthday was on Tuesday (4.21 pm on Tuesday, to be precise) so she was still a twenty-something for almost three full days yet. (She didn’t know why that felt so important, but it did.)
It was still early, and only the usual nearest and dearest were in attendance, but already her average-sized Acton flat was feeling pretty cramped. Daisy and Cole jockeyed for space at the hall mirror; for reasons Cleo hoped would soon become clear Daisy was daubing her considerable cleavage with green face paint, whilst Cole was fixated with straightening his bow tie. Cleo grinned; she was probably a little old for fancy dress parties, but still, she felt a little frisson of excitement.
Trailing the balloons, she followed a chatting Nora through to the kitchen where Nora immediately set about pulling glasses down from the cupboards and calling out for drinks orders. Sarah sidestepped the rogue floating 3 to give Cleo a hug.
‘Happy Birthday,’ she wished her, handing her a perfectly gift-wrapped box. ‘I know it’s boring, but you said you wanted smellies. And here’s the veil,’ she added as an afterthought, passing across another bag.
‘Thank you so much, Sar. You look great!’ And she did: foxy in a figure-hugging black evening dress split almost to the hip (although Bea would no doubt have something cutting to say about Sarah having no identity of her own by way of the fact her costume was merely in compliment to her husband’s…).
‘My knockout wife,’ Cole agreed, throwing an arm heavily over Sarah’s shoulders, making her turn almost as pink as the balloons with pleasure.
‘The name’s Bond, I presume?’ Cleo laughed, looking the be-tuxedoed Cole up and down.
‘James Bond,’ Cole agreed. ‘And this is my lovely date, Hootie McBoobs.’
‘Hootie,’ Cleo nodded at Sarah, ‘it’s a pleasure. What can I get you guys to drink?’ She carefully freed Sarah’s pretty birdcage-style wedding veil from its wrapping and clipped it on, thus completing her own outfit.
‘I can’t be bothered to make you martinis,’ Nora warned them as she continued clattering about over at the breakfast bar. ‘Mostly because I can’t be arsed. But also because your costumes are pretty theme-tenuous.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Cole protested. ‘Have you seen Baz’s piss-poor attempt?’
The man in question, digging around at the back of the fridge for the coldest possible beer, gave them a grin; he was wearing an Arsenal football shirt and jeans. ‘So, who’s coming this evening?’ he asked as he opened his lager using the bottle opener magnet with practiced ease. (This was recognised Barlow-code for ‘will there be any talent’?)
‘Pretty much just the usual crowd,’ Cleo answered. ‘Although a couple of people from work are coming. Mostly guys,’ she clarified, before Barlow could get his hopes up. Poor Baz’s working hours were so antisocial he never got to meet anyone. (Cleo was pretty chuffed that her thirtieth birthday had been deemed important enough to generate one of his very rare Saturday nights off.) Cleo ducked as Nora passed a luridly coloured something-and-mixer over her head for Bea to take to Daisy, who was still glued to the mirror by the front door.
Daisy was already almost totally be-greened, and was just smoothing the creases around her nose and eyes with her fingertips.
‘I know there’s a joke in here somewhere,’ Bea said wistfully, leaning back against the opposite wall and folding her arms across her chest. ‘Something about you being green with jealously that I look so hot, or something. But I feel like such a massive twat tonight, I just can’t bring myself to make it.’
Daisy laughed, reaching to take her drink. ‘Hun, you look great. As you well know.’ With her other hand she swept up her pointy hat (with built in black, straggly wig, naturally) and popped it atop her head. ‘And don’t go moaning to the one with green tits that you feel like a twat.’
‘I assumed this was yours,’ Eli interrupted, holding out a gently fizzing gin and tonic to Bea who accepted it eagerly.
‘Now this, I don’t get,’ Daisy complained, gesturing at Eli. ‘Am I being the dumb American again?’
‘Yes,’ Eli told her, with affection, before turning to Bea expectantly.
‘Don’t look at me!’ she said after a minute. ‘I haven’t the foggiest what you’re meant to be.’
‘Seriously?’ Eli waved the hand he had a packet of Sainsbury’s wafer thin ham liberally sellotaped to. ‘Come on!’
‘Nope.’
He slapped his hands together like he was making a sandwich. ‘You see?’
‘I so don’t see,’ Bea assured him archly. Eli futilely clapped his hands together again. ‘You know, that really isn’t helping any,’ she snapped.
‘Let me put you out of your misery,’ Harry interjected, crowding the small entrance hall even further. He rolled his eyes. ‘He’s Clapham.’
Eli cheerfully clapped his ham again. ‘Geddit?’
‘Yes, but I wish I didn’t,’ was Bea’s blunt feedback.
‘What’s with the hat then?’ Daisy asked, confused; Eli was mystifyingly wearing a Burberry baseball cap.
He grinned. ‘I’m Clapham Common.’
Groaning, Daisy side-stepped past and followed Harry back through to the kitchen to see to the music situation.
‘You are so lame,’ Bea informed Eli, shaking her head fondly.
‘Come on, deep down you think I’m really funny and you know it.’
‘Really deep down.’
Eli stretched a tentative hand out and stroked Bea’s feathers. ‘I like these,’ he told her quietly.
‘Yeah, well, they’re going to be a right pain in the arse once this tiny place starts filling up,’ Bea moaned.
‘They suit you.’
Bea arched an eyebrow. ‘Angel wings suit me?’ Eli nodded, smiling widely. ‘They were meant to be ironic,’ she laughed. Eli opened his mouth to respond, then clamped it shut as the flat buzzer shredded the silence.
‘DOOR, PLEASE,’ Cleo bellowed from the depths of the kitchen and Bea, by merit of being closest, turned to welcome the next party guest. It was Claire, fittingly with what appeared to be half of Claire’s Accessories clipped to her long mane of fair hair (‘I’m Bow Road!’ she informed everyone with delight). Dumping a token bottle of room temperature, corner-shop wine on the breakfast bar, Claire helped herself to a gin and tonic and disappeared off to gossip with Bea and Nora.
‘So, when you say people from work are coming,’ Eli asked Cleo, leaning against the breakfast bar next to her and Daisy. ‘Are you including Mr Fifty Shades?’
Cleo groaned. ‘Seriously, Eli, do not get drunk tonight and call him that. I’m not kidding. I’m embarrassed enough around him as it is at the moment.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tap that,’ Daisy shook her head (this had been her and Nora’s favourite theme for the past several weeks).
‘I don’t even know if I fancy him,’ Cleo lied.
Daisy made a pffft noise. ‘Girl, please. I haven’t even actually met him and I fancy him.’
‘It might just be, you know, that he’s really good-looking. And I like spending time with him.’
‘At the risk of getting bogged down into this swamp of oestrogen, I think you’ve basically just summed up what fancying someone is there, Cleo,’ Eli ventured with a grin.
‘Elliott, darling, I love you, I do – but you should really get your own house in order before you try and give out love advice,’ Cleo scolded, only half-joking, with a pointed look across at Bea. Eli took the hint and he and his beer made a swift exit.
‘Speaking of men who are being tapped, Darren is going to make an appearance later. When he’s done festering in that pub,’ Daisy rolled her eyes, her fingers restless on her phone’s touchscreen. Tonight’s playlist-of-choice was a magnum opus in 90s R&B, although Cleo did feel faintly ridiculous to be standing in her kitchen dressed in a French Maid’s outfit from Ann Summers complete with friend’s wedding accessory (she was ‘Maida Vale’, of course) while Ginuwine’s Pony blasted from the Bluetooth speakers.
‘Why are you so down on this poor guy? You’re either going to have to dump him or start being nice to him, Daise, seriously.’
‘I know, I know. I’m getting round to it, honest. I’ll dump him soon.’
‘The poor guy. Why don’t you just tell him you don’t appreciate him pissing in front of you?’
‘It’s not just that. God, if only. You see, his toenails are weird. They’re really sorta square. And he talks over the TV when I’m trying to watch Special Victims Unit. He wears those weird baggy-style of boxers – seriously, why do they even make them like that? His sister is a Scientologist; super creepy. And his thighs are completely hairless, it’s bizarre.’
‘His thighs? But what about the shins?’ Cleo managed to ask through her giggles. ‘Surely it all hangs on the shin situation?’
‘Perfectly normal. I don’t know what is going on above the knees. He’s smooth until you get to the nuts. Which, if anything, are overly hairy. Very selective hairiness, with that man; it’s creepy.’ Daisy shuddered theatrically.
‘Okay, okay, Daise, you’re hardly bigging him up here, but I’ve gotta tell you – this isn’t the sort of stuff you notice when you really like someone.’
‘It’s true,’ Daisy sighed. ‘Basically, the thing is, Darren is just not the guy I’m going to marry, is he?’
‘They don’t all have to be, you know,’ Cleo pointed out. ‘Some of them are just for fun.’
Daisy raised one green eyebrow. ‘I know that hun. Do you?’ And with that she wandered away, holding her witch’s hat in place with one hand, presumably in search of a conversational companion who would be more gratifyingly affronted by her boyfriend’s bald shins/hirsute nuts combination.
Cleo glanced at her kitchen wall clock for what was definitely the eighth or ninth time in fifteen minutes. Maybe if she’d pinned Gray down to a specific ETA she wouldn’t be feeling so jittery? (Ack, no – someone saying ‘sure, around eight o’clock?’ was a perfectly acceptable party RSVP and she had to stop being vaguely psycho.)
She’d been right, of course (she was always bloody right). Dancing with him during Nora and Harry’s engagement party had caused…issues. The party had been naturally approaching its conclusion, the tube ended for the night, the songs becoming all too slow and soft. Gray’s palms had skimmed over the fabric of her dress while he’d breathed the almonds of his drink into her hair, and even after the gentler songs were done, and the pop tunes returned, he’d stayed too-close, too-slow. She’d shot desperate looks across the room at Nora, who was doggedly facing the other way, like she thought she was giving them privacy at the centre of a crowded function room. She’d been even surer then that Gray was drunker than he’d let on; his eyes were too careless as they’d met hers, his movements just that little bit graceless. She’d pictured him getting lathered with his mate in the pub earlier that evening, and wondered how many beers it had taken before Gray decided he was going to turn up at this party after all, decided that in the absence of any other bedwarmer, his mate from work would do for the night.
And just as Cleo’s head had successfully managed to temper her heart (and genitals) Bea had appeared, bare-foot, jaw set, pint glass of water in hand.
‘Hey, sorry to butt in,’ she’d announced, not sounding very sorry at all. ‘Just need her for some photos real quick. Here, do you want this?’ Before Gray had a chance to answer either way, like a magic trick – presto chango – the pint glass was in his hand and Cleo’s arm was in Bea’s as she’d marched her across the room in the direction of the Ladies.
‘Sorry if I misread you and that was a total cockblock move,’ Bea had murmured as they moved out of Gray’s earshot. ‘But you’ve been making RESCUE ME eyes for at least the last two songs.’
Cleo had been startled into a laugh. ‘Yeah, thanks. I think we were getting to the point where I was either going to have to let him kiss me, or be very rude.’
‘Kiss you?’ Bea had echoed, with a bark of a laugh. ‘He looked more like he wanted to eat you.’
Cleo had felt a little lust shiver down her back, but fought it to silence. ‘He’s really drunk.’
‘No kidding. Look,’ Bea had said, suddenly, in a way that was characteristically frank, with eyes that were uncharacteristically soft. ‘I know a bit about sleeping with people you shouldn’t have, and having to see them afterwards and how when they just get on with their lives it makes you feel like complete crap.’ Cleo had nodded slowly, remembering the stories about Bea’s awkward affairs with colleagues in the past. ‘And it sucks. So, be sure, okay?’ Cleo had just nodded again and Bea had walked away. (Thinking back, that was probably the nicest moment Cleo had ever had with Bea after over a decade of supposed friendship…)
By the time she returned to find Gray (two sickly-sweet shots of Archers with Daisy and Darren later, for courage), he’d been found and adopted by Harry’s brother Archie and the two were locked in an animated conversation about something to do with cars. Cleo had more or less left them to it for what little remained of the evening. Gray had wished her goodbye with a kiss to her cheek so soft she wasn’t even sure if there’d been physical contact there at all. Come Monday morning, he’d been waiting expectantly at the coffee machine as usual – waving his stained mug about as he complained about a bratty child in his first class of the week – and, in that stark moment, the thought that Gray had ever been angling for a shag seemed faintly ridiculous, so Cleo had decided to let it lie (whatever ‘it’ was).
Another month, another party. The birthday girl sighed, and checked the clock again before taking a healthy gulp from her drink: a strong, dark rum with tropical juice; Cleo was off the Disaronno for the moment.
Bea wriggled herself into the small gap between her best friend and the end of the sofa, swinging her body so that her feet were underneath her bum and her knees across Nora’s lap. The – already irritating – angel wings hung neatly over the arm to the floor providing her with, she hoped, a modicum of grace. On Nora’s other side sat Harry, scratching unthinkingly under his bright green wig, knocking it askew; said wig, plus the black shirt and clerical collar combination, served to make him Parsons Green. Trust Cleo to choose a theme as obnoxious as ‘Tube Station fancy dress’, Bea thought, knocking back more of her G&T. The angel-wings grated softly against the carpet, as if chastising her for her bad mood, and she felt herself smile.
Nora abandoned her conversation to turn to her old friend, resting the point of her elbows on Bea’s thighs. ‘Ah, Mel!’ she moaned theatrically, although her eyes were amused. ‘I’m going to regret this.’
‘Regret what?’
‘This, this!’ Nora waved her drink around precariously. ‘I was super good the rest of the week because I knew it would all go to pot tonight, but still. Just this ONE drink is two point five syns!’
‘Is there even such a thing as half a sin?’ Bea mused.
‘I’m not going to get a sticker at the next weigh in,’ Nora continued, drinking away nonetheless.
‘Didn’t we used to take the piss out of women who said things like that?’
‘Yes. But those women were thirty and probably desperate to fit into a size ten wedding dress in a few months’ time. And we were, like, twenty two, and bitches.’
‘Ah. True. Rein it in though, Mel,’ Bea advised, gently. ‘You don’t want to lose your boobs.’
‘That would make the dress hang weirdly,’ Nora agreed with a smile. ‘And, not to mention, give poor Harry a bit of a honeymoon shock.’
‘You’re doing great though,’ Claire interjected from where she’d been perched leaning against the back of the sofa. ‘Your face is looking SO much thinner lately.’
‘Thank you!’ Nora beamed, apparently unbothered at the suggestion her face had been somewhat flabby prior to her starting her pre-wedding diet. ‘I think it’s because I’ve swapped all carbs for quinoa.’
‘Oh, really?’ Claire brightened. ‘I tried the bulgur wheat diet once, but I actually ended up more bloated than I was before I started! And, god, you wouldn’t believe the–’
‘I’m going to get another drink,’ Bea announced hurriedly, levering herself from the sofa, before the conversation turned any more digestive.
The birthday party was in full swing and it was becoming much harder to navigate around the compact living space, for all that Cleo was in to modern, Scandinavian minimalist design (aka, the Ikea catalogue). Bea body-swerved two strangers talking to a long-haired guy she was reasonably sure Nora (or maybe Cleo?) had dated whilst at university and slipped into the kitchen.
‘Yeah, she was at the engagement party,’ Cleo was saying, over by the sink. Her hot colleague Gray had arrived. Apparently he hadn’t quite grasped the concept of a Tube station fancy dress theme – inexplicably, he was dressed as Elvis. He was listening attentively to Cleo as she babbled on, although Bea couldn’t quite read his expression thanks to the false sideburns and oversized aviator sunglasses. She took one look at Cleo’s flushed face and decided to change direction, picking her way through the crowd to where Sarah and Cole were in conversation by the front door.
Bea realised too late she was walking in on something private. Cole’s arms were rigid, like a cage around Sarah as he leaned against the wall behind her. His square jaw was even squarer than usual, her eyes more moist.
‘You know what they say,’ she was hissing. ‘Drink until it’s pink.’ As if to illustrate her point, she took a hearty swallow from her something-and-coke. ‘Besides, why should I be the one to make all the sacrifices? You’re telling me I can’t even have a bloody drink while you’re refusing to basically just have a wank. Yeah, that’s fair.’ Sarah took another too-deep drink.
‘I’m just saying that it wouldn’t hurt to look after yourself a little more,’ Cole snapped back, eyeing his wife’s almost-empty glass like he was minded to snatch it from her. ‘A bottle of wine can’t be good for your, you know, eggs. And things like the amount of salt you eat. And all that butter you put on your roast potatoes on Sunday? Things like that.’
Sarah physically drew herself back, and for a split second Bea was certain Cole was about to get decked. But, in her sudden movement, Sarah had spotted Bea in the shadows of the corridor. All at once she deflated; Cole turned to see himself what had stopped his wife’s rage in its tracks.
‘Bea, hey,’ he managed, after a moment, producing a reasonable impression of normality. ‘What’s up?’
‘Er, nothing.’ Bea groped after the same level of ordinariness. Sarah was finding the array of coats on hooks near the front door extremely fascinating, but her tell-tale fingers trembled against her glass. ‘I was just seeing if anyone needed a top up?’ Bea announced, thankful for the bolt of inspiration.
‘Me,’ Sarah announced, extricating herself from her husband without a second look. She linked arms with Bea and marched them both into the kitchen. Stopping at a just-opened bottle of red, she proceeded to neck what remained of her spirit and mixer and fill up her half-pint tumbler with the dark wine.
* * *
‘Cleo will wring your neck if you spill that,’ Barlow said gently, taking the over-full glass from Sarah’s still shaky hands. ‘Here, let’s pour a bit out into a glass for me,’ he advised, walking her over towards the sink to do just that.
Cleo had half-turned at the sound of her name, hopeful for distraction; she was tits-deep in a conversation she had not anticipated (the fact that it was entirely of her own making notwithstanding).
It wasn’t Gray’s fault. He probably didn’t even realise when he was flirting. Cleo felt sorry for him really – he was just too lovely (and too gorgeous), the barista he ordered his morning coffee from probably thought they were in a relationship; was it any wonder that Cleo had found herself a little muddled? It was a close proximity thing – like looking too directly at the sun. Thank god, thank god, thank god the metaphorical little solar spots of lust hadn’t blinded her too badly – but still, spooling through her head on repeat, an unwanted cinematic experience of how it so easily could have gone down at the engagement party: drunk Cleo, lurching at Gray, lips smacking obscenely, like a cartoon character; Gray – too much of a gentleman to let his disgust show too much – calmly holding her at arm’s length and apologising, explaining that she’d completely misread the situation.
Imagined embarrassment gnawed at Cleo’s stomach. She fed it some alcohol. Still, her insides cringed at the thought that Gray might guess at the run of her thoughts when she looked at him.
Hence: Claire.
Claire was a wonder – petite and cute, with skin as smooth and tanned as a Werther’s Original, set off perfectly by her Disney Princess blondeness. Standing next to Gray’s broadness and darkness just set her off all the better; these were the aesthetics that made sense.
‘History was my, like, third favourite subject at school,’ Claire was saying. ‘I mean, I didn’t take it for GCSE or anything, because I took Geography instead, but still, History’s great. We can learn so much from it, you know?’
‘Er, yeah. I guess I always thought so.’ Gray shot a quick sideways glance at Cleo, as if to double-check she was still present. ‘And I always say that it’s more like the study of the condition of being human. I always tell the kids that it’s the closest we’ll ever get to being able to guess at the future, when we know where we came from. We can’t escape the past,’ Gray continued, really warming to his theme. ‘And nor should we try, because I really hope that the amazing tales and truths of all the great men and women who have gone before us really inspire the kids to take that sort of action in their own lives. And remember: history is one giant story that leads straight to you.’
Gray lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Claire was completely spellbound, gripping her drink like it might fall straight out of her hands, pink-glossed bottom lip hanging slack. Cleo sighed. She’d been right – they did fancy each other (she was always bloody right).
‘Yeah, yeah, enough of that, Mr Somers,’ Cleo teased weakly, before he went the whole hog and had Claire planning their wedding by the end of the night. ‘Save it for weekdays. No impressionable teenaged girls here.’
‘I dunno!’ Claire laughed, ‘I may not be a teenager, but I’m certainly impressed. You make me wish I’d studied more History…’ She looked at Gray meaningfully through her eyelashes. ‘Mr Somers…’
‘Oh, it’s never too late,’ Gray informed her earnestly. ‘There are a ton of evening classes, even free courses online. I could send you some links. Add me on Facebook and I’ll message them over to you.’
‘Er. Sure, okay!’ Claire wiggled her mobile phone loose from the tight pocket of her skinny jeans and tapped the blue F icon. Gray might not have realised that she was just flirting with him, but she’d gotten some contact information all the same, so Cleo guessed it didn’t really matter.
‘I’m just gonna, er, yeah,’ she announced, mostly to herself, gesturing with her almost-empty glass and moved away from the new happy couple, both currently engrossed in admiring Claire’s Facebook profile picture.
Nora was on her in an instant, bonking her on the forehead with her inflatable novelty microphone.
‘What are you doing?’ she hissed. Their drunk friend Rebecca barrelled past them, blowing wetly into the neon pink plastic whistle she had hanging from her neck (‘Tooting Bec’ – one of the more clever costumes of the evening).
‘Getting a drink?’ Cleo answered, trying to make her face as wide-eyed and innocent as possible; Nora was having none of it – Bea even less so.
‘Do you enjoy being alone?’ Bea asked. ‘Is that what it is? Shall we start buying you cats?’
‘You’re a sabotager!’ Nora accused. (‘Saboteur,’ Cleo corrected quietly, and was completely ignored.) ‘A big, huge sabotager! Oooh, this sexy, clever guy who I fancy the pants off is flirting with me. BETTER SET HIM UP WITH MY MAN-EATER FRIEND, QUICK, QUICK!’
Cleo blinked. ‘Was that voice supposed to be me..?’ Nora had lost most of her authoritative oomph due to the fact she was currently dressed as Agnetha from ABBA, in a shiny rayon flare-legged jumpsuit (she’d spent a fair bit of the party so far trying to bully Daisy into playing Waterloo; apparently she had a whole routine worked out).
‘If you didn’t want him, you could have at least of set him up with Daisy,’ Bea pointed out.
‘Bea, Darren is right there,’ Cleo shushed.
Bea shrugged. ‘For now.’
‘This guy could be your lobster,’ Nora wailed (never one to miss making a Friends reference). ‘And you’re packing him off to sleep with Claire! For god’s sakes woman, WHY?’
‘I’m not packing him off anywhere – and who says he’s going to sleep with Claire anyway?’
Nora wordlessly spun Cleo around so she was facing back across the kitchen to where Gray and Claire – replenished drinks in hand – were still deep in conversation, a little patch of intimate quiet in the drunken hurly burly of the party.
Cleo felt her face heat again. ‘Well. Well. Good for Claire. He’s a really nice guy, she’s a really nice girl; why shouldn’t they go out?’
‘So you’re not madly in love with him?’ Bea asked, in a doubtful tone.
‘I don’t even fancy him,’ Cleo lied, for the second time that night.
‘Bollocks you don’t fancy him,’ Bea snorted. ‘He’s fit as. I bloody fancy him – even dressed in that stupid Elvis costume. Why is he dressed like Elvis, by the way..?’
Cleo couldn’t stop a smile from tugging at her lips. ‘Oh, he’s got this whole routine where he pretends to be angry with you when he gets introduced to you… He’s King’s Cross,’ she finally clarified, after a moment’s confused silence.
Nora giggled appreciatively. Bea groaned and rolled her eyes. ‘This theme was a poor choice.’ She gestured behind them across the open-plan living room where Eli was offering guests slices of ham from the packet taped to his left hand, perfectly illustrating her point.
‘I think this is the best theme we’ve ever done!’ Nora cheered, throwing an arm around each of her friends (accidentally thwacking Bea with the inflatable microphone this time).
‘Seriously, guys, don’t make a big deal about the ‘me and Gray’ thing,’ Cleo urged. ‘I think I’ve bigged it up in my head, or something. He’s not a lobster,’ she informed Nora, firmly. ‘He’s not even a prawn. I swear.’
‘Hmmm,’ was Nora’s careful, non-committal response. ‘If you’re sure… Sounds like he’s a bit of a man-whore anyway…’
‘Looks like he’s a bit of a man-whore,’ Bea muttered, eyeing the way Gray’s expert hand was skimming the curve of Claire’s hip as they spoke, as if it had forgotten how it had done just the same to Cleo when they’d danced at the engagement party.
‘Best to steer clear of man-whores,’ Nora told Cleo knowingly. ‘You think you’re going to be the one to change them, but in the end they’re all always just a complete waste of eggs.’
Bea made a strange noise, half-choking on the mouthful of cocktail she’d just taken. Nora helpfully whacked her on the back with the microphone. ‘You okay there, Mel?’
‘Potatoes. Eggs,’ Bea echoed inanely, craning her neck first to Sarah, still standing over by the sink with Barlow, and then to Cole, all the way across the living space with Eli and Daisy. She dropped her voice. ‘You guys, I think Cole and Sarah…’