“What is it?” I ask.
“Open it.”
Inside the box, nestled spaciously on pink tissue paper are three macarons—one pale pink, one violet and one green.
“Macarons?”
“These are London’s best macarons,” he says. “I saw them and thought of you.” He pulls my thighs apart and stands between them. “Try one?”
“What? Now?”
“I did intend to give it to you last night, but we got distracted.” He leans in to bite my bottom lip. He smells different today and I wonder if it’s me he smells of. “Have one,” he says.
I look up at him. “Ben, it’s eight in the morning.”
“So?” He kisses me.
If this were all happening on-screen, I’d ask if the macarons were poisoned. Ben stares at me and I can’t decide if his eyes have darkened or if I’m seeing things.
“Okay then.” I really don’t want one but it doesn’t feel like enough of a big deal.
Ben begins stroking my thighs and says, “The pink one.”
I move my fingers away from the violet and lift the pink macaron from its place. I take a bite. The shell is crisp and crunches noisily between my teeth. Its sweetness stings.
Ben taps my thighs, and I look at him. He smiles, then watches me chew.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I’m hearing a tone that isn’t there. Ben’s voice is, as always, gentle and conversational.
I nod and swallow. I only briefly consider placing the other half of the macaron back into the box before Ben’s thigh tapping begins again. My chest feels weak and I want to cry. What is wrong with you? I eat the other half. This half is dry and I have difficulty swallowing it. His tapping doesn’t stop until I look at him again. I almost whisper, “Sorry.”
“Decadent breakfast,” I say.
He kisses my shoulder through his shirt, and I quickly close the box.
Chapter Seventeen
Nia
I’m baaaaccckkkkk
Maddie
YAAAY! When can I see you?
Nia
Any time next week
Maddie
After I see my dad?
Nia
Sounds good. Let him know I said happy birthday
I’m thinking tonight might be the night for a bath when in the kitchen Jo says, “I’m meeting some friends at a bar at eight and I’m dragging you both with me.”
I’ve noticed Jo’s constant need to include us in things, to not be alone. At first, I thought her endless invitations were just friendly, but now I wonder if she always needs to feel a part of big groups.
“No way,” Cam says. “We’ve got our flight to Florence tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’m baking a cake for my dad’s birthday tonight, remember,” I say, pointing to the ingredients I’ve already left out on the counter. I haven’t seen Dad since I moved out so, even though I’m no baker, I thought I’d make him a cake, then go home in the morning and spend the day with him there.
“Come on, you two,” and Jo’s shoulders slump. “You know I could use a night out. This Sam thing is getting to me.”
Yesterday, Jo told us that she and Sam had an argument and he no longer wanted to see her. I’d googled what to do when your flatmate is dumped by someone they’re casually seeing, but Google seemed very confused with at least two parts of that sentence.
“I thought you said you were fine this morning?” Cam says. “Since you’re still seeing Conrad.”
“He’s nice and everything, but being with Sam was different. We have history, and maybe I…” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to think about that. I want to think about nothing.”
I almost ask if such a thing is possible.
Jo catches Cam wavering and adds, “I can’t believe I’m having to convince two women in their twenties to have a good time. Cam, I won’t get drunk, especially if you’re there to stop me, and Maddie, bake the cake now and decorate tomorrow. Done!”
I’d rather not, but then Jo convinces Cam and I don’t want to miss out on even more; they’re already going to have a two-day head start in Florence without me. Jo’s right; I can bake the cakes now and they’ll be perfectly cooled by tomorrow morning.
* * *
For my first official “Night Out,” I pull a mid-length, ribbed black dress out of my wardrobe. I turn this way and that. It’s flattering, so I leave it on. I add studs to my ears and a small bag that can barely fit my phone and keys. I sit on the floor in front of the mirror and re-create the soft look I went for on my first date with Ben, and put my hair in its now-regulatory low bun.
I’m relieved to find my efforts rank midway between the two girls. Jo has gone all out; she’s curled her dark-blond hair, smoothed on silver glitter eye shadow, and her lips and cheeks are the same shade of pink. Although her silver dress isn’t as tight as mine, it’s shorter and her heels higher. She gasps when she sees me. “You look so good!”
Even though she looks great, I don’t know how to respond with the same level of enthusiasm without sounding insincere and purely reciprocal. I’m thinking of saying it back and then adding something about her dangly earrings to make the compliment more tailored, when Jo groans. Cam comes out in a shirt, dark skinny jeans and—
“Doc Martens?” Jo asks. “Really?”
“You said dress up,” Cam says. “This is me dressed up. My socks even match.”
“You haven’t got any makeup on.”
Cam points to her eyes. “Mascara.” She folds her arms. “Take me or leave me.”
* * *
I think the word “bar” was misleading. The space Jo opens the door to is two stories tall with very high ceilings. There’s a colorful print of a woman dancing on one wall and on the landing of the second floor is a neon sign that says ON AIR. The floor is dark on either side but right in the middle it’s patterned with zigzags.
“Hi!” Jo waves to the other side of the room and takes us to meet four people sitting in a blue velvet booth around a paint-splattered table. Jo introduces Cam and me and I miss two names because the music’s loud. One Black girl （Jennifer）， maybe my age, has blond box braids and a septum piercing, whilst the white girl sat beside her （Cariad） has a sharp black bob, dark eyeliner, and an Irish accent. The two boys, whose names I missed （one might be Daniel）， are brown-haired and -eyed and are sat on either side of the girls. They make space for us when Jo demands it and I end up between Jo and Maybe-Daniel.
I watch Jo drop her bag, then contort her way through the mass of people to get to the bar. She returns with a pitcher of margaritas and three glasses and pours one for Cam and me before taking a seat again. She immediately launches into a conversation with Cariad about a work client they’ve tellingly nicknamed Cruella, and I’m happy to sip my drink and listen in. I’m glad Cam is also new here, so the attention isn’t on me.
“So what do you do, Maddie?” Jennifer asks.
Spoke too soon.
“I recently started working at Orange Tree Publishing.”
They all stare until Jo says, “It’s a publishing company.”
“Oh,” Cariad says. “What do you do there?”