Page 99 of The Worst Guy Ever
Space.
One word.
Five measly letters.
How can it hurt so fucking much?
Chapter 42
Hattie
PArtYtHisWaythe sign reads.
It’s a unique mix of wonky upper- and lower-case letters that could only have been written by my nephew, Teddy. Today he turns four and, oh to still be the age where everyone makes a fuss of you on your birthday.
I brace myself for chaos and enter, making sure to latch the gate properly behind me. I’m already the black sheep of this whole shindig, the last thing I need is getting the blame for some kid escaping because of my carelessness.
I don’t want to be here, but I’ve been guilt-tripped into it by a barrage of daily texts from my sister.
Georgina has the sort of garden that was made for parties, and here at the tail end of summer it’s in full bloom. The borders are filled with big ruffled flowers, the sort someone like me will never know the names of. At the bottom of the garden there’s a vegetable patch where she grows peas and tomatoes with Ted and my two-year-old niece, Rosalind (never Rosie).
I only know about it because I’ve seen it on her perfectly curated Instagram. I don’t come here very often, mainly because I’m still being punished for trying to hook up with the vicar at her wedding. In my defense, the second season of Fleabag had just aired and half the country had a thing for hot priests. It wasn’t my fault he was young and gorgeous, and I had no way of knowing he was my brother-in-law, Ryan’s, best friend since primary school. You’d think someone might have mentioned that. Thankfully he moved to a new parish, or I wouldn’t have shown my face today. Honestly, who’s best friends with a vicar anyway?
Much like her Instagram, everything about George is perfectly curated. From the hair that looks like she gets daily blow dries, to the tasteful aesthetic she has chosen for her home, right down to the pearly pink nail polish on her pretty little toes. In denim shorts, a vintage t-shirt, and oversized cardigan, I feel like a grubby street urchin in comparison. And this was me making an effort.
It’s a garden party for goodness’ sake, why is everyone dressed like they’re off to Ladies Day at Ascot. Teddy is in a shirt and a waistcoat. No four-year-old should be dressed like that. That’s why I’ve bought him a Nirvana t-shirt in his size so we can match when we hang out, which is basically never. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve spent more than ten minutes with him since his third birthday party, a similarly over the top affair.
George and I were raised the same way, by the same woman, but somehow she was able to pull herself together and blag the husband-kids-house package, while I scrambled around for what was left and ended up with a heart of stone. Looking around, I think I might have gotten the better deal. Shoot me if I’m ever posing kids for the ‘gram or spending time with my friends blathering on about mortgages and school admissions processes.
The garden is full of people, most of whom I don’t recognise, but I spy George amongst the masses with Rosie on her hip. I’ll need a drink before I see her, so I head for the trestle tables set up along one side, laden with ice buckets full of beers and champagne. Pretty sure the parties of my childhood served cheese sandwiches, Swiss roll, and that was about it. These kids don’t know how lucky they are, but of course it’s not really about the kids, is it?
Grabbing a bottle opener, I flip the cap off a beer and watch it fly off and land in a hedge.Oops.I glance around and make sure nobody noticed, taking a big slug when I’m certain I’ve gotten away with it.
“Hey, Sis.” Ryan appears at my side, the doting suburban dad in a navy polo shirt and khaki trousers. I hate it when he calls me that. I’m not his sister, I’m not his anything. “How you doing?”
“I’m great, thanks Ryan, how are you?” I smile, lying through my teeth. I haven’t told any of them I’ve lost my job, or that I’m working part time in a cafe. George would be mortified, as if it somehow reflects badly on her to have a layabout sister. Ryan would try to get me to invest in some crypto-tech-wank nonsense, though to be fair, he’s clearly doing well out of it. And Mum would give me some inane platitude that would make me want to rip my hair out. So I think I’ll keep that life update to myself just a little while longer.
I’ve tuned Ryan out, casting my eyes around the garden so I can find Mum. I don’t like to be ambushed by her, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I clock Teddy running circles around some old man who scoops him up and, with hands on either side of his waist, zooms him through the air like an aeroplane. With his toes pointed and arms spread wide, I can tell Teddy is a seasoned pro.
“Who is that with Teddy?” I ask Ryan.
“That’s Rick,” he laughs, like I’ve asked the most obvious question in the world.
“Who the fuck is Rick?”
“He’s Rick. Your mum’s partner.”
Since when does Mum have a new boyfriend, and what the hell is she doing bringing him here, to a children’s party? Has she learned nothing over the years? That little boy is four, completely impressionable. He needs security and stability, not a rotating cast of characters rolling in and out of his life.
Mum appears from through the patio doors and gives me an awkward hug that I don’t return.
“So you’ve got a new boyfriend, have you?”
“Well, not that new, but yes. I’m sorry I’ve not introduced you before now. I know you’re not normally keen to meet them.” What she means is that I normally cause a load of drama and they leave soon after.
“You’re introducing him to your grandchildren? Are you nuts?”
“Darling, Rick and I have been together for two years. He knows the kids well, we look after Teddy two days a week.”
