think if we answered yes?” she shoots back in her most confrontational manner.
Topher raises one dark eyebrow. “You want the truth?”
“Of course I want the truth.” Nell squares up to him, her chin set. She’s looking as bolshy as I’ve ever seen her, and I feel slight dismay. Are they going to have an argument already?
“Does it really matter?” I chime in brightly. “So anyway…who saw that news story about the Shetland pony?”
Both Nell and Topher ignore me. In fact, everyone ignores me.
“Of course I want the truth,” Nell repeats, and a glimmer of amusement passes over Topher’s face.
“OK.” He shrugs. “The truth is, whatever you answered, I’d think, ‘That’s another rung up this pointless ladder of conversation. What shall I ask next?’ I’m not sociable,” he adds, taking a glass of champagne from Matt. “No offense.”
An expression of appreciation is slowly growing on Nell’s face. I can tell that wasn’t what she was expecting.
“I’m not sociable either,” she replies with the tiniest of grins. “No offense.”
“Hmm.” Topher looks skeptical. “When I say ‘not sociable,’ I mean I’ll happily go a week without seeing anyone except these guys.” He gestures at Matt and Nihal.
“I sometimes go a month without setting foot outside the house,” Nell responds, and Topher surveys her with renewed interest.
“You hate people?”
“I do hate a number of people, as it happens.” Nell nods. “People are shit.”
“Yes. Agreed.” Topher lifts his glass to her.
“Also, I have lupus,” she adds in an offhand manner.
“Oh.” As Topher digests this, his face is impassive, but I can see his deep-set eyes scanning Nell’s face intently. “Bummer.”
“Yeah.”
I’m agog, and I can tell the others are too. Nell never tells people she has lupus when she first meets them. What’s going on?
“I don’t know anything about lupus,” Topher says at length. “But I should imagine it’s fairly unpleasant.”
“Has its moments,” Nell replies with a nod.
“Nihal, why the fuck haven’t you cured lupus yet?” Topher whips round to address Nihal in suddenly accusing tones.
“I’m not in medical research, among other reasons,” Nihal says patiently.
“That’s no excuse.” Topher swings back to Nell. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my flatmate’s fault. He’s a lazy bastard.” He pauses, then adds, “So, here’s a pertinent question. Are you allowed to drown your sorrows in tequila?”
Twenty
Everyone gets drunk really fast. It’s not just the tequila; it’s the slightly weird boys-and-girls vibe—my friends and Matt’s friends, getting the measure of one another. It almost feels as though we’re all back at the school disco.
Within forty minutes, Maud has got up on a chair and started her usual drunken speech about refusing to become an invisible woman. Topher and Nell are in the middle of some sort of heated discussion, and Nihal is showing off his robot to Sarika; meanwhile, Matt and I are trying to retrieve Matt’s new scarf from Harold’s jaws.
“You’re so, so wrong,” I can hear Nell saying vehemently to Topher. “That’s the worst theory.”
“Out of how many theories?” demands Topher.
“Out of all the theories!” she shoots back. “All. The. Theories.”
“What on earth are they talking about now?” Matt mutters to me.
“No idea,” I mutter back. “Global warming? Economics? Making Swiss rolls?”
“Harold, you total bastard,” Matt exclaims in exasperation as Harold dodges away triumphantly, the scarf still in his jaws. “OK, that’s it. He’s going on the Bastard Chart.”
“What?” I stare at him, half wanting to laugh, half dismayed. “No!”
“He’s going on,” repeats Matt adamantly. He marches up to the chart and adds Harold to the list, then draws a fat strike next to it.
“That’s so unfair!” I try to grab the pen out of his hand. “Harold’s not a bastard.”
“He’s the biggest bastard!” Topher joins in. “Admit it, Ava. All he does is scheme and plot against us. He’s the Bond villain of dogs.”
“And he’s never sorry,” volunteers Nihal.
“Correct,” says Topher, as though he’s making a case in court. “He exhibits zero remorse, he’s far too clever for his own good….” As Harold reappears without the scarf, looking all bright and bouncy and innocent, Topher’s eyes narrow at him. “What’s your diabolical plan for world domination, doggo? And don’t pretend you haven’t got one.”
“OK, everyone!” Sarika exclaims suddenly, looking up from her phone. “Sam’s here.”
“Sam!” exclaims Maud, waving her arms in excitement, as though Sam is a boy band and she’s fourteen. “Sam’s here! Yay!”
“Oh God,” says Sarika, looking at her as though for the first time. “Maud, how much have you drunk?”
“Not much,” says Maud at once. “Less than…him.” She points at