Page 52 of Backhanded Compliments

It is so deeply mortifying that Juliette puts her head in her hands. She really needs to get a grip.

The night is young and bursting by the time they land and cram in the back of a cab to go to Claudia’s expensive Hackney townhouse. It’s on the opposite side of London from Wimbledon, but there was no talking her out of the charming space with the glossy hardwood floors, natural light, oak built-ins, and quaint garden.

Juliette always feels calm in Claudia’s space. Despite Claudia’s extroverted and riotous personality, her apartment is clean, tranquil, and full of quirky bits of her that no one else sees. Juliette almost feels like a teenager again when she walks in, especially as Claudia cranks up some pop song and opens the windows to let in a fresh breeze to air out the stale apartment. The sky is vivid-bright still, even as the sun sets beneath the building line in a flash of gold and persimmon.

It isn’t long until Livia arrives, a whirlwind as always, with her hair twisted into a messy bun. She’s wearing stylish wide-leg trousers and a silk shirt instead of her usual leggings-and-oversize-tee combo. Juliette raises an eyebrow at her.

“Were you on a date?” Claudia squeals as she yanks Livia into a massive hug.

“No, of course not. I had a meeting with your watch brand.” She smacks Claudia’s shoulder as she lets go. “I did send you notes.” Then she launches herself into Juliette’s arms, slamming into her so hard that they almost teeter off-balance, both of them laughing as they swing around.

They order more food than four people could ever possibly eat. And on plush couches the color of spilled wine, they talk and gossip like they’re normal sisters.

“Hey, why isn’t Leo here?” Livia asks eventually as the gossip peters out.

Octavia shrugs. “This is a Ricci Sisters Night.” She wiggles her fingers. “And until there is a ring here, he isn’t invited.”

“Harsh,” Claudia says with a pout from where she sits, with her head hanging upside down and her feet over the back of the love seat. “He’s been with you for years. He’s practically one of us.”

Storminess enters Octavia’s face, and Juliette winces internally. Octavia hates being argued with. “Well, it’s always been my rule.” Three of their phones ping in unison, and they all groan.

There is only one group they’re all a part of that Livia isn’t.

“Antony,” Claudia says, as if they don’t already know. “He wants to know about practice schedules.”

Octavia rolls her eyes. “I should block him.”

“Don’t,” Livia says, ever the diplomat. “He’s trying his best.”

“He’s irritating,” Octavia mutters darkly, “especially since he isn’t my coach anymore.”

Juliette hovers her thumbs over the keyboard, staring at the message. It’s a cold reminder that Wimbledon starts next Monday. Still a week to get ready, but the bubble of girls’ night has been thoroughly popped. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says. She leaves her phone on the couch, text unanswered.

She can feel Octavia’s eyes on her as she goes upstairs to one of Claudia’s many bathrooms. The hot water loosens her muscles and washes the airport smell and feeling off her skin, but her thoughts refuse to unwind. By the time she returns downstairs with one of Claudia’s curl creams in hand, Claudia and Livia are nowhere to be found, and it’s suspiciously quiet.

“They went to get ice cream.” She follows Octavia’s voice into the kitchen. An electric kettle starts to bubble, and Octavia leans against the island, her back to her.

“Why didn’t you go?”

Octavia shrugs with one shoulder.

The kitchen light is warm, the cabinets painted a lovely sage green. Juliette spots one of their mother’s many cookbooks on the shelf. Of all of them, Claudia has tried the hardest to capture the vibe of their childhood home, although the floors are wood, not terra-cotta, and the layout is all wrong.

The kettle flicks off, and Octavia pours the hot water into a mugthat proudly statesI MAY BE LEFT-HANDED BUT I’M ALWAYS RIGHT. Juliette chuckles at the sight of it. Octavia is right-handed, but Claudia will be annoyed at her use of her mug, so it feels almost like a joke.

“You want me to?” Octavia asks as she turns around.

At first, Juliette is confused, but then Octavia gestures to the curl cream in her hand, and she nods. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Octavia ushers her into the living room. “I won’t be nearly as efficient as Livia, but I’ll do my best.” She grabs a claw clip off the side table and twists her hair up into it. She hadn’t bothered straightening it again before they left Naples, and the natural curl is stubbornly trying to return.

Juliette sits on the couch, and the cushions dip as Octavia arranges herself behind her. Her fingers thread through her hair, gently detangling without breaking apart her natural curl.

Juliette closes her eyes, focusing on the scent of grapefruit and sunshine now permeating the room as Octavia finger-rolls her curls with cream. And when she remains quiet, Octavia starts to hum, slightly out of tune, like their mother, but Juliette recognizes the lilt of the old lullaby anyway.

“I keep fucking up,” Juliette says once the lullaby tapers off.

Octavia pauses in her finger rolls. “What do you mean?” Her voice is surprisingly gentle.

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