Page 31 of You Can't Hurt Me

“You two,” Amira jumps in, infuriated.

Tony raises his hands in surrender. “Just playing around. She knows how proud I am of her, really.”

He slopes away back to the table, holds up his empty glass for Amira to refill and asks about her day. She recounts another turbulent week at the magazine, a cover story pulled at the last minute, an actor threatening libel, the editor sacking a freelance picture editor who’s six months pregnant. The usual dramas.

It’s Tony’s turn to talk about his week, a humblebrag very much for Amira’s benefit, about the frustrations of preparing for his long-haul travel adventure next month: the visa queues, the reactions to various vaccinations, the malaria tablets that always make him queasy.

As he rakes through the remains of his rice, I catch a glimpse of the tattoo he got in Shanghai last Christmas. Four Chinese characters rising up his inner arm in blue ink. The tan is fading but Tony’s other mementos endure, the leather bracelet wound around one wrist, the outsized jade gemstone on his middle finger, global traveler’s code for spirituality and enlightenment.

He takes out a pouch of tobacco, rolls a cigarette. His fingertips brush Amira’s arm for a second when he asks if she’d like him to roll her one. When he inhales, he tilts his head back and I watch as her eyes light up. I look down, shiver imperceptibly.

“You okay, Anna?” Amira looks at me.

“Just tired,” I say, affecting to stifle a yawn. “Long day.”

She picks up on my expression. “Of course. I meant to ask. Your first day ghostwriting.”

“It was...interesting.” I tell them vaguely about reading Nate’s notes, breaking the news to him that his material wasn’t working.

“So Dr. Pain’s a terrible writer. No surprises there,” quips Tony.

“It’s all fine,” I say and shrug. “He got the message surprisingly quickly actually. We’re starting over on Monday, and I know I can get something good from him.”

Tony and Amira exchange a look I can’t work out and conversation circles back again to Tony’s travels. His itinerary, his plans. Amira flatters him, and by the time we finish with more wine, he’s scrolling for an Uber to take him back to North London where he’s staying with an old friend for a few days. We stand up to say our goodbyes, but it’s Amira who sees him to the door.

“So?” says Amira, walking back into the sitting room, a lopsided grin fixed to her face. “Why are you being so weird?”

“Weird?”

“About me and Tony.” She kicks off her shoes, falls onto the sofa. “I saw you looking at us all evening.”

I turn around and catch her looking at me as she sits down, hugging her knees to her chest. She looks beautiful this evening, her velvety teal top slipping from one shoulder, dark ringlets shimmering with gold highlights.

“I guess I worry about you getting hurt again, that’s all. I’m allowed to say that about my brother. I think you deserve so much more.”

“What is it about that word with you and Tony?Deserve.I’m not that naive, and I can look after myself.”

“It’s just—I know him so much better than you. He’s not—”

“I get what this is about, Anna,” she jumps in. “It’s okay if you feel a little jealous. Tony told me—”

I snort. “He told you what?”

“He told me earlier he’s worried about you. That you’ve become a bit...protective of him, or possessive or something. No big revelation, but he thinks this is a pattern of yours—” She hesitates, scans my face. “He says that’s why he’s been trying to travel much more lately. To encourage you to have your own life a bit more?”

“I’m the possessive one?” I let out a whoop of incredulous laughter.

“I knew you’d take it the wrong—”

“I’m happy for you both. Is that what you want me to say?” My voice rises and I register a tightening knot of rage inside me, one that will burn through me as I lie awake into the night playing Amira’s words over and over.

“I’m just saying he cares so much about you, Anna, and so do I. And you’ve been so consumed with the Reid case...” She shakes her head, assessing me as she pours the last inch of wine into her glass. She’s reached that dangerous stage where she’s drunk enough to feel sober again, to believe her insights are acutely perceptive. “You guys have such a unique bond, it’s natural, I guess because of what you’ve both been through.”

“Such a unique bond,” I echo, unable to catch her eye.

“I know how difficult it was after your father—” She stops for a moment. “He says how you both share all this stuff together but you never really want to talk about it.”

“You two really have talked a lot, haven’t you?” I say, coolly, slamming the dishwasher door shut, waiting for the comfort of its familiar purr to distract me from her needling voice.

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