“Come on, Annalisa. You know I’ve no comment on my personal life,” Nick said, his expression hardening subtly from Perfectly Pleasant into Aggressively Pleasant.
Freddie must have noticed this, too, because then he chimed in: “One minute it’s girlfriends, the next you’ll be wanting our inseams, eh?” he chirped. “Although personally, I’m always delighted when you lot do us the favor of believing that my brother has any game at all. I mean, look at him. You’d have to be—”
“And that will do it,” Barnes interjected. “Thank you, everyone. Enjoy the slopes.”
Nick, Freddie, and Richard shooshed swiftly away, giving off the convincing air of resuming a jovial family adventure, even though Nick had actually spent the morning popping Nurofen between sips of the darkest coffee he could make. (Our chalet—still minus Gemma, who never left Africa, to Clive’s dismay—had only even woken up forty-five minutes ago after a long night of compensating for the lack of nightclubs by inventing drinking games, like the instant classic, Take Three Sips If Anyone Does Anything. That any of us has a working liver left is a miracle of body chemistry.) But as Gaz, Cilla, Clive, and I huddled around our ski maps to figure out where to meet later—and in my case, what runs I could take without breaking my face—my mind wandered to what mood Nick would be in when he reappeared. Because the Daily Express was onto something, somehow. I knew our sneaking around was on borrowed time, but I hated that it might’ve run out when I was stuck in an enclosed space with his less-than-welcoming relatives.
“He’s with which one?” I heard Agatha hiss as she and Awful Julian tumbled inside after kicking off their skis.
“The one in that terrible sweater,” Nigel rang out.
I suddenly felt several eyes in the cabin turn to me.
“The American?” Agatha breathed, in the same tone of voice as you’d expect from someone saying, The Satanist? “I thought she was just some fancy of Clive’s, or I wouldn’t have been so kind to her at dinner.”
I nearly spat out my coffee. Agatha seemed to approach the world as if people she didn’t care to acknowledge therefore automatically did not have the privilege of hearing her.
“Her sweater looks like vomit, Mummy,” Nigel prodded. “It hurts my eyes.”
“He’s a wonderful argument for birth control,” Gaz muttered.
I looked down at my sweater. “Is it seriously that bad?” I asked. It was a thank-you gift from Joss for being her fit model for her latest fashion school project, and I was trying to be supportive.
“It is a bit…scribbly,” Cilla allowed, gesturing to the neon scrawls knitted into it.
“Nicky! Nicky! You’re not really seeing the American in the terrible sweater?” Agatha wailed.
I looked up to see Nick, Freddie, and Richard shaking snow off their boots inside the cabin. Nick and I made eye contact, but for once, his face was inscrutable to me. I plastered an expression on my face that I hoped looked confident rather than arrogant or smug. Jumping into this wouldn’t help anything, but I also wasn’t going to let them shame me into staring at the floorboards so they could add poor posture to my list of obvious faults.
“I can assure you my son is not seeing anyone seriously,” Richard said, with a pointed look at Nick. “And certainly not the American in the terrible sweater.”
“Told you it was horrible,” Nigel singsonged.
“Bit saucy, American girls, eh?” Awful Julian said, wiggling his eyebrows at Nick.
“Nick can see anyone he wants to,” Freddie insisted. “It’s not like Bex is going to topple the dynasty.”
“You will not engage me on this here,” Richard said.
“Just leave it, Freddie,” Nick hissed.
“Why should I let him be such a prick about it?” Freddie asked. “Why do you always—”
“Just leave it,” Nick said frostily.
I remember once waiting for the Tube and thinking, as its oncoming headlights gleamed brighter in the tunnel, I could just jump. Not because I wanted to die, but because sometimes your mind dangles the worst-case behavior in front of you specifically so that you can be aware that you’re choosing to resist it. They call them intrusive impulses, and mine stacked up high: throw my arms around a clearly reeling Nick; scream at Nick that Freddie was right; smack Richard upside the head and ask him why he was such a raging douchelord; take Agatha and Nigel and crack their skulls together like the Neanderthal they apparently thought I was. Instead, I casually studied my ski map as if