Her phone rang, and she smiled at the name shown on the caller display. “Hi, Tristan.”
“Hi, big sister.”
She groaned. “You always have to remind me I’m the oldest, don’t you?”
“Of course! I’m the baby of the family and always will be.”
“Whatever.” She sat on the bed. “So, to what do I owe the honour of another call from you in less than a week?”
“Can’t I just call and see how you are?”
“Yes, you can, but…”
He sighed audibly. “Okay, okay. Yes, I was worried, and yes, I am checking up on you.”
“Oh.” Now she felt awful. “I’m okay. Honestly.”
“Are you at home? I mean, it’s past eight, so—”
“I am! And no, I’m not working either.”
“Very good. Do you even know what to do with yourself?”
“You’re hilarious.” She glanced again at the open wardrobe. “Actually, maybe you can help. I’m trying to pick out an outfit for tomorrow.” She swung her legs round and stood. “I’ve got two client meetings tomorrow, so I need to be dressy for that, but then in the evening I’m meeting someone in a trendy new gin bar in Shoreditch.”
“Hmm, that definitely sound like two different outfits.”
“I know, but that’s the trouble—I can’t for the life of me decide what to wear in the evening.”
“What’s the name of this bar?”
“Sloe Down.”
“As in s-l-o-w?”
She smiled. “No, s-l-o-e.”
“Oh. Oh! I see. Clever.” Tapping drifted through the phone. “Okay, very trendy judging from the opening night photos on Google. Hmm.”
She waited. Tristan had always had a good eye for what suited her—he’d often been the person she took shopping in her late teens. Although he didn’t know everything her wardrobe contained, he’d have a general idea that would be so much better than anything she’d come up with so far.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’m thinking some capri pants, but smart ones, if you have any, and some kind of off-the-shoulder top in a big, bold colour. You have amazing shoulders; you should show them off more often.”
“Stop, you’re making me blush.” She stepped nearer the wardrobe. “Okay, I do have a dark blue pair of capris, and I usually wear them with a matching wedge-heeled sandal thingy.”
“Sounds good so far.”
She flicked through her tops. “Right, and as for the top, there is this, I suppose. Let me send you a picture.” She flipped to the camera’s phone, held up the top, a bright orange silky number with a wide neck that draped over her shoulders, in one hand and snapped the photo with the other.
A few seconds after she’d sent it, a long hum of approval came from her brother. “Definitely. That’ll knock his socks off.”
“It’s not a he,” Carmen said absently as she hung the top on a door handle and went in search of the sandals in the bottom of the wardrobe.
“Oh, sorry, I assumed when you said you were meeting someone, it was a date.”
“No!” Carmen leaped up. Her head cracked on the shelf above the shoe rack, and she yelped. “Shit!”
“What did you do?” Tristan sounded alarmed.
Clutching her head, Carmen stumbled back to the bed. “Ouch. That’s sore.” She groaned. “I just forgot where my head was in relation to the shelf in the wardrobe.”
“Poor you.” Genuine sympathy imbued his tone.
“Thanks.”
“So who are you meeting tomorrow, and why did you react so violently when I said I thought it was a date?”
Trust Tristan to have read exactly what had happened.
“I did nothing of the sort!” Did it sound as feeble to his ears as it did to her own? “I’m just meeting a friend. A new friend. Her name’s Ash. She’s a tattooist. And a lesbian.”
Oh for the love of God, would her mouth please stop running away with itself?
There was a pause. “She’s a…she’s a tattooist?”
Although wondering why her brother had let her off easy, Carmen grabbed at her chance with both hands. “Yes! Remember Felicity decided to get one done to celebrate her divorce? Oh, and did I tell you she told me Michael cheated on her?”
“No! Oh God, poor Felicity.”
“I know!”
And they were off, chatting about Felicity, the tattoo, and her cheating spouse. Everything else, especially Carmen’s need to blurt out that she was going for a drink with a lesbian called Ash tomorrow evening, was all forgotten—or at least Carmen hoped so.
When they said their goodbyes, Carmen threw the phone onto the bed and began sorting out the rest of her clothes for the morning.
She’d just finished when her phone pinged with a text message.
And I obviously haven’t forgotten about the lesbian you’re seeing tomorrow night, but you’ll tell me in your own good time, I know xxx
She groaned and flopped back down on the bed. What was her subconscious playing at? Why had her brain felt the need to inform her brother about Ash’s sexual orientation? It wasn’t remotely important to what tomorrow evening was about. Or even to what this new friendship meant. Not at all.
It would probably be better for herself, and Ash, if she actually believed that.
When the door to the studio opened at a little after eleven on Tuesday, Ash looked up from her copy of Lonely Planet magazine. Her mouth dropped open as she took in who stood in her doorway, a large, tatty backpack held in front of him.
“No way.” She grinned and tossed the magazine to one side.
“Yep, way.” Damian grinned back just as widely, his always unruly, dark blonde hair even wilder than usual. He dumped the bag on the floor, opened his arms wide, and she practically ran into his hug.
“When did you get back?” she asked into his chest as he squeezed her and rocked her from side to side.
He released her and held her
