Page 7 of Stepbrothers

After dropping her keys into a bowl bought from Benidorm the year before, she stripped off and padded to the bathroom. Above her music thumped. Her neighbors liked to start early on a Sunday, another reason to find a Saturday night hookup and stay out.

She stared at her reflection. Her eyes were red-rimmed but nothing a couple of coffees wouldn’t fix, and her hair needed to be teased out of its tangled state. With a groan, she spotted a bruised-purple hickey on the right side of her neck. Her mother would roll her eyes and mutter when she saw it.

“Damn.” Clarice braced herself and slipped under the shower water—it always ran cold these days, she had no idea why. But it did mean she wouldn’t linger, and time was of the essence.

Within twenty minutes she’d downed a few hits of caffeine, given her hair a blast with the hairdryer, and dressed in a denim skirt and red and white polka-dot shirt, collar up, in the hope of hiding the now powdered hickey.

While she called a cab, she scooped makeup into a bag; she’d have to fix her face on the way to the restaurant.

“Balthazar, Covent Garden, right?” she said and jumped into her Uber.

“Clarice Morris?”

“Yep. Hurry, please, I’m late for a family lunch.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The driver put his foot down, and they whizzed into the traffic.

Clarice set to work on her face using a small compact mirror. Family lunch. It was strange to say that, especially when she’d never met her new family.

Her mother was remarrying, for the fourth time. Benjamin Talbot—a wealthy widower—was a retired CEO of some fancy Canary Wharf advertising agency and was in his early sixties, that was all she knew. Oh, and that he had three sons who she would be also meeting today for the first time. She hoped they weren’t terrible private school toffs who spoke as though they had plums in their mouths and harped on about skiing in Chamonix and yachting in St. Tropez. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to stay polite. Her habit of speaking her mind might just rise to the surface.

The driver undertook a line of cars using the bus lane, then turned right toward Seven Dials. He was making good progress.

She swiped red lipstick on that matched her shirt, then dug around in her bag for a pair of golden hooped earrings.

“You’re in luck,” he said, passing The Savoy. “Traffic is light. It is Sunday, I suppose.”

“You’re a star.” She shoved her makeup into her tote. “And likely saved my bacon. My mother gives me thirty minutes’ grace, then I’m in for it.”

He came to a halt outside Balthazar. The large glass door was elaborately decorated with a sumptuous arch of blue, lilac, and white flowers, and a member of staff stood at a lectern fending off a queue. “Have a nice family lunch.”

“Thanks. You have a good day too.”

She stepped out, stilled on the red patch of carpet that had been laid out on the pavement, and set back her shoulders. Her body ached from the athletics of the night before, but in a good way, a satisfied way, and she pulled in a breath, her breasts pushing up against her bra. “Here goes, time to meet my new stepfather and brothers.”

After bypassing the queue, a suited maître d’ led her through the restaurant, winding around tables bursting with food and heavy with flowing wine. The buzz of conversation filled the air along with a mouth-watering array of herby scents. Clarice’s stomach rumbled. It had been a long time since she’d last eaten.

She spotted her mother sipping from a flute. Her blonde hair was sprayed into a stiff bob, and she’d opted for a favorite navy dress teamed with pearls given to her by a previous husband—he hadn’t lasted long.

Making the most of the unguarded moment, Clarice checked out the rest of the table. She guessed it was Benjamin Talbot, the groom, to her mother’s right. Square-jawed, salt-and-pepper hair, and tortoiseshell glasses that suited his angular face. He’d teamed a bottle-green tie with a white shirt, and the tie appeared to have some kind of emblem on it.

To his left sat two men with equally broad shoulders and fine features. Late twenties perhaps. Neither were speaking, mouths set in straight lines, eyes narrowed, backs stiff.

“Thank the dear Lord,” Clarice muttered. She wasn’t the last to arrive. One of the brothers was missing. Her mother couldn’t possibly be cross with her.

She adjusted her collar, hoping it was still covering the hickey to some degree, and stepped up to the table.

“Ah, here she is…finally.” Her mother, Jenny, looked up. “My daughter, Clarice.”

Clarice plastered on a smile and stooped to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Hi, Mom.”

“So good of you to join us.” Jenny’s sugary tone was injected with sarcasm. But only a little, just enough for Clarice to feel its sting.

“I’m not the last to arrive.”

“You are.”

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