Page 46 of The Love Hack

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘But what about you? I can’t see you.’

‘That’s because I look like shit. I’m in bed.’

‘In bed?’ I glanced at my watch and rapidly counted backwards in my head. It was two o’clock in the afternoon in New York – Amelie should have been shopping, or at a hot yoga class or finishing off a buddha bowl with a new friend. ‘Are you sick?’

There was a pause, then my sister’s face appeared on my screen. The lighting was dim; I could see shadowy pillows behind her head, and drawn blinds behind that. The soft furnishings looked like they were white or cream, and her skin was pale too, her hair a dark smudge.

‘I’m not great,’ she replied forlornly. ‘I’ve got a stomach bug. Ever since we got back from honeymoon I’ve been puking. I think it’s some sort of rare tropical disease and I’m going to die horribly, miles from home.’

I felt surprisingly encouraged by her words. Amelie had always been the most over-dramatic of hypochondriacs – when she’d caught chicken pox at uni, she’d called our mum in tears and said she was going to scratch her own skin off and be scarred for life.

‘Am, don’t be daft. You won’t die. But you should see a doctor, right?’

‘I guess. I’ll be all right. I need to get up in a bit, anyway, and sort out something for Zack’s and my dinner.’

Now I worried. Amelie never cooked. Ever. Not even when she was feeling one hundred per cent great. I recalled the time, not long after she moved into her first flat share, when my sister had invited me and our mum and dad over for a celebration dinner to mark the occasion. She’d decked the whole place out with flowers and balloons, insisted that Mum take the place of honour on the only comfortable chair, made champagne cocktails with Angostura-soaked sugar cubes in the bottom- and then, when seven thirty came, proudly produced a platter of wraps and sandwiches from Pret left over from a work meeting.

‘What? I thought you said the whole point about living in Manhattan was that no one ever cooked and you’d live on smoked salmon bagels and ramen and cupcakes like in Sex and the City.’

Amelie laughed – a faint, breathy sound, but a laugh nonetheless.

‘Yeah, right. But Zack’s working long hours and I’m not working at all, so it kind of feels like the least I can do.’

‘Who are you and what have you done with my sister?’ I demanded. ‘Have we gone back in time to the nineteen fifties? Are you living in Stepford or Manhattan?’

She giggled again. ‘You do make me feel better, Luce.’

‘Then why haven’t you been answering calls?’ I asked. ‘I’ve messaged, Nush has rang. Last time I spoke to Mum she said she was about to call the police, until I talked her down.’

‘I texted Mum,’ Amelie said. ‘I told her I’m fine. I am fine. I’ve just not been well, and I’m missing home.’

‘You could come home,’ I suggested. ‘Fly back for a weekend. We could all go out for cocktails. You could see Astro.’

I angled my phone so she could see him now, even though he was fast asleep.

‘Awww, look at him,’ she cooed, with a smile that looked more like herself. ‘But I can’t. Not now, anyway. I can’t leave Zack.’

I felt a flare of annoyance. Where was Zack? At work, obviously. But hadn’t he realised that Amelie was ill, lonely and homesick? And if he had, why wasn’t he doing something about it?

‘Zack’s a big boy,’ I said. ‘He can look after himself. You need to look after yourself, okay?’

‘I am. Honestly. Don’t worry about me. I should get up now – I’ve been in bed for hours and I absolutely stink. I need to get these sheets off and wash them, and wash my hair.’

‘Am? Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘Yes. At least, I will be. Stop worrying, Luce. That’s an order.’

‘But I— Okay. Love you.’

‘Love you more.’

Reluctantly, I ended the call. But despite Amelie’s command, I didn’t stop worrying. I remembered the cloud of her hair against her pillow, and wondered if she was still using the same violet-scented shampoo. I wished she wasn’t miles and miles too far away to hug. I missed her so much it hurt.

EIGHTEEN

I got up off the sofa, immediately followed by Astro, loudly complaining that it was way past his dinner time. Not really focussing on what I was doing, I tipped food into one bowl and replaced the water in another and sorted out his litter box, then made myself a slice of cheese on toast and returned to my phone.

There was no point messaging Amelie again tonight. What with Nush, Bryony and Eve and no doubt loads of her other friends all trying to get in touch and Mum on red alert, she must have felt positively besieged. If she wanted to confide in me properly, she’d confide. And if she didn’t, more drastic action might have to be taken.

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