Page 5 of Carbon

“Couldn’t you have said I needed to go with you?”

“I tried, but she gave me that look. You know, the one where she summons Satan and channels him through her eyes.”

“Yes, I know it.”

Somehow, Angelica got away with more than I did. Her exuberant personality combined with the way Mother favoured her firstborn meant she’d always been granted more leeway. As the second twin, the one who’d popped out by surprise after a trainee midwife missed me on the ultrasound, I’d been playing catch-up to my mother’s expectations my whole life.

Father, on the other hand, adopted a more hands-off approach to parenting. As long as we didn’t bother him, he mostly left us alone. I say mostly, because it was he who’d decreed that any children of his would work for a living no matter how much money we happened to have.

The day after his colleague’s daughter maxed out her credit card and threw a tantrum at the office when it got declined in Harvey Nichols, he’d sat Angie and me down for a little chat.

“No child of mine is going to sit on her backside while the rest of the world slaves away. You both need to get jobs.”

It was a fair point, seeing as we’d graduated from university six months ago, but Angie acted like Father had ordered her to become a cat food tester or a shark wrangler.

“But, Daddy, I’m so busy. I’ve got tennis lessons, and lunches to attend, and I promised Mariella Huffington I’d help organise her wedding.”

“And all those things cost money. Who pays for them?”

“You do, Daddy.” She plastered on the smile that usually got her anything. “And I’ve always been grateful for that.”

“So grateful you almost got thrown out of university for turning up drunk to your lectures. No, you’ve got to get a job. Full time, part time—I don’t care, but you need to learn some responsibility.”

“But—”

“No excuses. You’ve got three months, and then I’m turning the bloody tap off.”

When he strode out of the living room, Angie sat down on the couch and groaned. “This is the worst idea he’s ever had. Is he trying to ruin my life?”

“He’s kind of right. And besides, we might find something we enjoy.”

Even as the words left my mouth, I crossed my fingers at the lie. Not only did I hate having to speak to strangers, which meant the mere thought of most careers sent me into a panic, the writing time I’d grown to appreciate after university would vanish. Three months. I had three months to finish my book before it became ten times more difficult.

So, the next morning, I set to work.

“What are you doing?” Angie asked two weeks later. “You’ve done nothing but type for the last fortnight.”

“Uh, filling out job applications?”

“What kind of jobs?”

She sidled around my desk, and I grabbed at the mouse to minimise chapter thirty-seven ofHe Called My Name, but instead of switching to the copy of my CV I’d knocked together, I accidentally played a rather dirty video of Michael Douglas inBasic Instinct.

Angie hooted with laughter. “You filthy woman!”

“It’s not what it looks like. This is...er...research.”

“Research? Into what? Are you finally going to try dating again?”

“No!”

“Don’t sound so shocked. It’s a reasonable question.” She crouched beside me, and her voice softened. “It’s been two years since Rupert died.”

“I know, but that’s not it.”

“What, then?”

How did I explain my worries that any man I found wouldn’t live up to the ideals I’d created in my head? “I’m just not ready; that’s all.”

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