Page 50 of Tilly in Technicolor
“We’re leaving,” I growl at Cubby, marching across the room and tossing her jacket at her. I swing open the door and stare at her expectantly.
“So bossy,” Cubby says, raising her eyebrows and giving Tilly a conspiratorial look. Tilly presses her lips together in a failed attempt at hiding a smile. “It was great to meet you, darling,” Cubby continues. “We’ll see you after dinner for a pint. I’m not accepting no as an answer. Plug your number in.”
Tilly nods, accepting Cubby’s phone and typing away. “I’ll be there.”
“Fabulous. My bandmate Harry will be there, too. He’s single and artsy and always on the prowl for a new woman to write tragic love songs about so I’m sure he’ll be particularly keen to get to know you.”
“Cubby. Leaving. Now.” I’m not above dragging my sister out of this room with brute force.
“My, my, Ollie, what has you so flustered?” Cubby asks as she passes through the door, making sure to give my cheek a sharp pat. “You look downright feverish.”
“I’m fine,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
Cubby clucks her tongue. “Always such a closed book. No matter, I have all of dinner to pry it out of you.”
Chapter 24Birds, Bees, and Other Life Lessons
OLIVER
“And I explained to them, even before we left for tour, that Copenhagen was far too happy for my natural disposition and it would be an artistic disaster bookingfourshows here, but do they listen to me? No. Of course not. All they see is free booze and want to sign on the dotted line. Little do they realize that we need to constantly surround ourselves with emotionally stimulating environments to create our nuanced sound. It’s like trying to charge an iPad on an Android charger: it doesn’t work.”
Cubby has been talking for at least thirty minutes about the latest artistic differences she’s experiencing with her bandmates, this one centering on how touring in too-happy cities is bad for her creative process.
She’s the singer in a jazz-punk nightmare of a band that has exceptionally long song titles like “my last cigarette feels more like home than you ever did anyway.”
Apparently, they’re quite good.
I literally have nothing to add to this conversation, but I do enjoy listening to Cubby talk, and she seems to enjoy having someone to talk uninterrupted to. She pauses just long enough to take a bite of her pizza and a sip of wine.
“Ollie, are you using protection?” she asks.
I tilt my head as I look at her, finishing a bite of my own. “Against what? Thievery? You told me that my travel money belt was, quote,absolutely bloody hideous.Unquote.”
“I stand by that,” Cubby says, leaning forward and pointing her finger at me. “That belt-wallet-giant-beige-thingwashideous. But I’m not talking about protection from pickpockets, you twat. I’m talking about condoms.”
I choke on a sip of water. “Cubby. No. This is one of those inappropriate sibling boundaries Dr. Shakil told us about. I can tell.”
“We’re twins, Ollie. It’s different.”
“I’d be willing to bet it’s not,” I mumble, coughing harder into my napkin. “And it’s a moot point. I’m not… inneedof them.”
Cubby snorts. “That so? Because the way you look at Tilly conveys something very different.”
“Tilly?” I nearly yell. “No. No, no. Never. We’re… We’re not even friends. We’re just…”
“Totally obsessed with each other and spending ninety percent of your time sneaking glances while the other isn’t looking?”
“She looks at me?” I ask. My heart does an odd flip in my chest. Is this an arrhythmia?
Cubby rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dim. Of course she does. But what’s more interesting is the way you look at her.”
“No, it’s not,” I say, automatically. Then, “How do I look at her?”
Cubby laughs. “Do you remember when we went to the Dalí museum in Spain with Mums?”
“Yes.” It was one of the best experiences of my life. We spent hours weaving in and out of the playful and bonkers galleries.
“And do you remember how Mãe looked atGalatea of the Spheres?”
