Page 5 of A Lot to Unpack
My attempts to lighten the mood are futile.
‘It’s not that,’ Hannah says. ‘It’s just… you do have a tendency to, sort of, erm, pull the focus.’
My eyebrows shoot up. I quickly force them back down.
‘I do?’ I check.
‘You upstaged Baby David at his christening,’ Auntie Eleanor reminds me.
‘I fainted,’ I point out.
‘How was he ever going to compete with that?’ she replies, missing the point entirely.
‘And then there’s your interesting job – it’s all anyone wants to talk about,’ Hannah adds.
‘Okay, well, I will avoid making small talk at all costs, and I can’t imagine my bare shoulders will do much damage to proceedings but, if there’s an issue, I’ll go grab a jacket – how about that?’ I suggest, holding my tongue.
‘And make me look like the bad guy?’ Hannah replies, unimpressed.
I don’t know why Hannah thinks I live to upstage her (although my guess would be insecurities, because we all have those). Sometimes it’s rational, I suppose, like when she thinks me talking about my job overshadows hers, but that’s only because people understand her job, as a primary school teacher, because we all went to school, whereas the idea of a private investigator fascinates people – because everyone loves a nosy and gossip. Other times it’s crackers beyond comprehension – like me ‘outdoing her’ in our GSCEs, even though I sat mine years before she sat hers. I promise you, I did it to get into uni, not so I could dunk on her in the near future.
‘Anyway, isn’t it party time?’ I check. ‘Let’s go, hmm?’
‘Right, yes, I don’t want you making late for my own party,’ Hannah replies – the implication being it’s me who is making her late.
I hang a few paces behind them, not wanting to arrive with them, lest it be considered a hostile manoeuvre.
Outside, I skirt around the edges of the marquee, finally spotting Ben with an almost empty pint glass in his hand.
‘It’s afternoon somewhere,’ he says, noticing the look on my face.
‘Oh, I don’t care about that,’ I insist.
‘Good, because your mum and dad are bringing me another,’ he replies. ‘I told them to get you a cocktail.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, practically flinching at the first syllable of the last word.
‘What’s up?’ he asks, sucking his cheek in on one side, rolling his eyes.
‘I got a text,’ I tell him.
‘You have a friend,’ he jokes. ‘Well done you.’
‘No, it wasn’t from a friend – although they did seem to know my name,’ I reply. ‘It was… it was a photo.’
‘Okay?’ he replies. He doesn’t sound all that interested, to be honest.
‘A photo of… someone,’ I continue.
‘Who?’ he replies. ‘Come on, Liberty, I’m not in the mood for trying to decode your girl talk today.’
‘Not a who – a what,’ I continue, letting that remark go for now. ‘A dick pic.’
I mouth the last three words.
‘Oh, yeah, and who is sending you dick pics?’ he asks, almost like he’s teasing me, like we’re a couple of mates.
I glance down at the ground, only to clock the trainers on his feet. God, they look dumb, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
