#don't any of you dare say anything about Christopher being hot istg i'll have a breakdown

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Seven on the button, and the doorbell rings. I hear it from the garden as I empty the contents on the lawn mower into the bin, grass stains on my new shoes, sweat on my brow. Dad comes to the back door. 

“Bell,” he says. 

“Is it someone for me?”

“I assume so. A young woman.” 

“Didn’t you let her in?”

“No. I spotted her from my office window.”

I scoff. He’s so weird. Why wouldn’t he just answer? I wipe the grass from my hands onto the sides of my shorts, kick my dirty shoes off on the patio, and head down the hallway to the sounds of Ivy plonking on the piano. 

It’s Evie, in her usual denim shorts and a thin green cardigan, hair straight and shiny and wearing a shy smile. Despite seeming slightly frazzled, she looks so nice, like she’s put in effort, unlike me, all grass stains, sweat, and hair that is no doubt sticking up at some wild angle. I run my fingers through it. 

“Oh, hi,” I say. “I didn’t think you’d come so early. I… still have to shower.”

“Oh, God, sorry, am I the first one here?”

“Yeah, but come in, anyway. My sister is just practising for her piano lessons. She hasn’t played all summer.” I roll my eyes as the door clicks behind us. “In case you can’t tell. She’s a bit shite.”

Evie doesn’t respond, but looks around her with those big green eyes taking in her surroundings, skating up the panelled walls to the Georgian coving, the ceiling roses around the lights, all restored, faithful to the original house. It occurs to me to wonder, for the first time, what her home looks like, and the differences between our upbringings that didn’t matter an ounce on our little escapist slice of the beach.

“Do you want tea or something?”

She nods, and I take her through to the kitchen. There, she perches on a stool at the island and rests her elbows, trying not to be so obvious to her gawking. This time, she takes in the kitchen, this bespoke, perfect show-house-like kitchen with all of its integrated appliances, the state-of-the-art hob that’s barely used, the skinny cupboard made specifically for all the herbs and spices that still have the plastic wrap on them. It’s nice, sure, it’s like something from a magazine, but I would prefer this was the type of house that had magnets on the fridge door instead. 

“I’m sorry I’m early,” Evie says with a rueful smile. “I thought you said seven.”

I drop a tea bag into a mug for her. “Yeah, I said seven in the text, but I suppose I should have been more specific.”

“More specific about…?”

“That seven doesn’t actually mean seven, you know? That it means, like, sometime after eight.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you expected me to decode your text.”

I laugh. The misunderstanding was my fault, really, and if I’d thought about it for even a minute, I would have known that Evie, a girl who likely doesn’t go to a lot of parties, wouldn’t know the procedure. I don’t mind that she’s here at all. I am happy to see her, but the fact that she is in my house at the same time as my family is awkward. Every time I hear someone moving about in another room, all my muscles tense up. I cannot bear for her to meet them, and be able to make some kind of judgement about who I truly am through the encounter, or worse, expose herself to their judgement and scrutiny. 

As though on cue, my mother’s heels clack through the hallway, increasing in volume until all I can do is mentally prepare myself for her entrance. I curse under my breath while I fill Evie’s cup with boiling water. 

In freshly pressed trousers, she strides into the room. All jangling keys, and an air of busyness about her, so self-absorbed that it takes a moment for her to realise we have a guest. She stops dead, and surveys Evie in dull surprise. She’s like some kind of wild, feline predator, and witnessing her interactions with people who don’t yet know her ways is excruciating. 

“Oh, hello.”

“Mom, this is my friend Evie. Evie, this is my mom,” I say. 

Evie fidgets in her seat. “Hello missus Turner,” she says, and it’s so polite that I squirm.

Mom lets out a short, percussive laugh. “Oh, no, darling. It’s just Colette. Are you one of those girls from the Holy Faith school?”

“No, actually, I’m not. I’m from Tullamore, in Offaly.” 

Mom’s eyes glaze over so immediately and obviously that I cringe. 

Pulling the tea bag out, I clarify, “She’s one of my friends from holiday.”

“Ah, Shane’s sister.”

Evie picks the mug from the counter and cradles it in her hands. “No, um… No, I’m not.”

“Ah.” She’s already rifling through her handbag. “Jude, have you seen my reading glasses? I haven’t been able to find them all afternoon.”

“Did you check the office?”

“Why would they be in there?”

“I’m just asking, did you check?”

She huffs. “Why would you suggest the office? Why on earth would I have left them there?”

“Because this is your house, and you can go into any of the rooms you like. Sorry if that’s an outrageous suggestion.”

“You know I’m never in there.”

“Well, maybe dad mistook them for his and took them in. I don’t know.”

Evie stares into her mug. I am aware of the atmosphere we’re generating here, my mom and I, but it’s hard not to descend into this childish bickering every time we speak to each other lately. Even seeing her ignites this rage in me, as she is a reminder of the injustices thrust upon me, and every time I see her smug face, I think about the position she has put me in. Dad too, obviously, but I mercifully don’t have to see him outside of occasional mealtimes, and whenever someone makes a noise that disturbs him.

Eventually, mom struts out of the room and flings open the door to the living room, curtly calling on Ivy to get ready to leave, and I thank God. I won’t relax until they do. 

“How’s your tea?” I ask Evie, and she responds with a grateful smile. “It’s lovely, thank you.” I know she’s lying. I don’t know how the nuances of creating drinks I don’t enjoy. There are rules about the correct amount of milk, and how long to brew the tea bag. Maybe I shouldn’t have bashed it around in the cup with such vigour, as though transferring some of my contaminated energy into it. I wonder if she can taste it. 

“That’s good,” I say, and we lapse into a long silence.

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