I lift my T-shirt and pick a fresh spot of skin. I generally inject myself around the same little area on my stomach, but never in the exact same spot twice in a row because that can lead to infections. When I was little I was terrified of needles, but now I’m so used to them that the sting barely even registers.
Once I’m done, I get out of my nap clothes and put my green Converse back on, along with a light blue cotton dress. I pull my hair back into a plait and then notice a basket sitting in the far corner of the room. When I go over to inspect it, I find that it’s a foot-care hamper.
People with diabetes have to take particular care of their feet. Sasha knows this and has clearly bought me the hamper so I can keep up my regime while staying here.
Downstairs, she and Robert are sitting at the table having their food.
“Hey, Lana, the plastic container is yours,” says Sasha.
I nod and open it up, finding plain chicken, noodles, and steamed vegetables inside. I put my dinner on a plate and carry it to the table before giving Sasha a small, unexpected hug.
“What was that for?” she asks in surprise around a mouthful of fried rice.
“I saw the hamper,” I tell her with a smile. “Thank you for that.”
She shrugs. “It’s nothing. I know you need it.”
“What hamper?” Robert questions, his dark brow furrowing.
“Mind your own business and eat your dinner,” says Sasha.
Robert shrugs and returns to shovelling food into his mouth.
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” says Sasha. “Some of the guys are coming over tonight for drinks.”
“Cool, I’d like to see everyone again.”
I’ve only ever met Sasha’s London friends once, which was when I visited for the weekend a couple of months ago. Robert had been away in France with Kara at the time. It’s the only reason I agreed to come, because Sasha and Robert share the same group of friends. They remind me a little of the cast of that show Made in Chelsea, without being such caricatures of posh young English people.
Sasha’s friend Alistair is actually going to be my new boss. When Sasha told him I was coming over and needed a part-time job, he offered to take me on at Baccino’s. He’s only twenty-five, yet he started running the place two years ago when his father, who owns several different Italian restaurants around London, handed the business over to him. The funny thing is, I don’t even think his family are from Italy.
As if reading my thoughts, Robert grins and says, “I heard you’re going to be working at Alistair’s restaurant. That’s only around the corner from Dad’s offices in Knightsbridge. I go there for lunch all the time.”
“Fascinating,” I murmur, at the same time worrying that I’m going to be seeing a whole lot more of Robert than I ever planned on. At least it’s only going to be for the summer. I glance up at him to find he’s staring at me. He kind of looks excited at the prospect of seeing me work. Hmm, perhaps he plans on being a difficult customer.
I turn away from him to talk to Sasha. “So what happened with the pop star today? Did she do anything really crazy?”
Sasha shakes her head. “Nah, not so much. She did throw the butt of her cigarette at one of the paps in a fit of rage at one point, though. I had to throw together a quick piece dissecting her motivations for acting out. It was kind of depressing. The girl is eighteen and has just been handed all of this fame and fortune on a silver platter. What do they expect her to do, buy a house in the suburbs and start an investment portfolio?”
Robert points his fork at his sister. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again — you have far too much empathy for that line of work. Gossip columnists need to be ruthless. They can’t care about the celebrities they’re cutting down with their words. While you, sister, do care. It’s in your nature. Perez Hilton you are not.”
Wow. I’m surprised Robert even knows the meaning of the word empathy. Then again, he probably just has a grudge against gossip writers. After all, they are his main opposition when he has to deal with a controversy with one of his clients.
“Not all gossip journalists are black-hearted, hateful human beings, you know,” Sasha argues. “Some of us do write positive stories, too.”
Robert snorts. “Yeah, positive stories about Hollywood actresses who lose weight after having a baby. Those are the kinds of pieces that really make a difference.”
Sasha throws her hands down on the table. “That’s enough, Rob. Do you want me to throw you out of here before you’ve even made it through one night?”
“Fine, fine, I’m shutting up now.” He makes a show of zipping closed his perfectly sculpted lips.
They’ve always been like this, fighting and squabbling. I guess it’s a sibling thing, though I’ve never been so argumentative with my own sister. Perhaps that’s because of the six-year age gap between us. I once read that siblings who are closer in age fight more. I suppose that means twins are the most likely to fight, since they’re exactly the same age.
All through dinner Robert watches me like I’m a bloody wound amid shark-infested waters – him being the shark. I notice he took a shower and changed into one of Sasha’s old T-shirts and a pair of her jeans, since he doesn’t have any of his own things here. Sasha’s a good deal thinner than Robert, who has more muscle, so the jeans are a bit tight. But since her stuff is so boyish, you wouldn’t really be able to tell that the clothes belonged to a girl.
I help with the cleanup when we’re finished eating. Robert makes his best effort to ensure that our bodies brush against one another while we put the clean dishes away as Sasha washes up. Needless to say, his actions confuse me. I’m relieved once it’s all done and I can retreat to my room to call my mum. When I pull my phone out of my bag, I find several missed calls from her. She must have tried ringing while I was taking a nap. When I’m tired I sleep like the dead; there could be a fog horn going off, and I wouldn’t stir an inch.