Читать книгу So Now You're Back - Heidi Rice - Страница 10

‘I can’t believe it. You got Mr Perfecto to babysit us both? That is so humiliating.’

Trey Carson sawed the tuna sandwiches he was making for Aldo’s packed lunch in half while attempting to tune out the argument raging in the hall. He wasn’t having much success, given that he had become the subject of Lizzie Best’s latest spat with her mother—and her shrill angry tone could slice through lead.

He heard the muffled conciliatory tones of her mother’s reply, and even though he couldn’t make out the words, he had to give his employer points for patience. Halle Best never raised her voice to her children. Especially Lizzie. He often wondered if she had a secret stash of weed in the house to keep her so calm in the face of so much provocation. His own mother would have given him a backhander if he’d dared to speak to her the way Lizzie spoke to her mum. Before she got sick that was …

He cut the sandwiches into quarters.

‘Like I care that you’re going on some stupid book tour.’ Lizzie’s lead-slicing tone echoed round the large open-plan basement kitchen again. ‘So what else is new?’

Trey reached for the cling film and hastily wrapped the sandwiches, keen to get Aldo out of the line of fire before Lizzie stomped into the kitchen ready to take her frustration out on her little brother. He wasn’t in the mood to play referee this morning. Especially now he’d become Public Enemy Number One because his employer had asked him to move in for two weeks while she was away on a book tour in the US.

Keeping his cool around Lizzie for the past three months had been hard enough. Living in the same house with her for a fortnight threatened to up the stakes a lot more. Forget losing his cool, if he wasn’t careful he could end up throttling her. And he couldn’t do that. Killing his employer’s daughter would not look good on his CV. Plus, he’d probably lose his job.

And he needed this job. It paid well, came with good benefits, took his mind off his mum, and he got a kick out of looking after Aldo. The kid was smart and funny and affectionate—and they understood each other. Because Trey knew what it was like to grow up without a dad around and to get labelled a ‘problem’ by grown-ups who didn’t know shit about your life.

The poor kid had been in therapy for his anger management issues when Trey had gotten the job—the eighth au pair Halle had hired in as many months. But all Trey had seen was a confused and scared ten-year-old boy who needed a mate—and a chance to run off all his nervous energy instead of sitting around talking himself into a coma. They’d had a few scary moments when he’d started. Aldo could throw the mother of all tantrums when he set his mind to it. The sort of thing that required an exorcist rather than a time out. But once Trey had discovered the handy trick of simply ignoring them, Aldo’s Damien routine had become less and less frequent.

But while he liked hanging out with Aldo, Aldo’s older sister was a whole other matter. She’d been on his case from day one. And this wasn’t the first time he’d heard her bad-mouthing him to her mum. And calling him Mr Perfecto.

He’d been unfailingly civil and polite back, or as polite as it was possible to be when someone took great pleasure in needling you, but after three months of watching Lizzie fly off the handle over nothing, not to mention witnessing her never-ending strops and mood swings, the urge to kick back was becoming harder and harder to resist.

‘Aren’t you going to cut the crusts off?’ Aldo said, reminding Trey he didn’t have time to consider Lizzie Best’s personality disorder. If they didn’t get a move on, they were liable to become the target of it.

‘You know I hate them,’ Aldo added, apparently more concerned about an excess of fibre in his diet than the oestrogen apocalypse going on outside the kitchen door.

‘You’ll just have to deal.’ Trey shoved the cling-filmed sandwiches into Aldo’s backpack on top of the crisps and juice box he’d raided from the larder.

‘But I’ll puke if I have to eat them.’ Aldo was nothing if not persistent.

‘Don’t be so moist. You think John Terry gets his crusts cut off?’ The Chelsea deity was Trey’s go-to guy whenever Aldo went into serious pester mode. He used the hallowed Terry trump only in cases of emergency. But when Lizzie stomped into the room and climbed onto the stool next to her brother’s at the breakfast bar, sporting a face like a thundercloud, that wild puff of sunshine hair falling out of its haphazard ponytail, Trey decided this situation definitely qualified.

‘I hate her. This whole set-up is so full of shit.’ Lizzie thumped her toe against the counter.

Trey zipped the backpack, knowing better than to pick up the conversational gauntlet.

‘What’s Mum done?’ Aldo piped up, apparently unaware of the feral glint in Lizzie’s eyes that said she was likely to gut the next poor bastard who opened their mouth.

‘Shut up, you little turd. Like you care.’

‘I’m not a turd. You are.’

‘Come on, guys, give it a rest.’ Trey steeled himself to pull them apart, but instead of thumping Aldo, or having a go at him, Lizzie stared at the countertop.

‘I can’t believe she still doesn’t trust me. At all.’

She didn’t sound sulky. She sounded genuinely hurt—as only an eighteen-year-old drama queen could, but her distress arrowed under Trey’s usually reliable sense of self-preservation.

‘You OK?’ he asked.

Her gaze met his and he noticed the sheen of moisture turning the bold blue of her irises a shade darker. The colour matched the Tottenham away strip from last season now, instead of the bluebells he remembered from a rainy camping holiday in Wiltshire with his mum.

Lizzie stared blankly at him, as if she were surprised to see him there. She had amazing eyes. He’d always thought so, even though he pretended not to notice stuff like that. But there was no avoiding noticing this time. Her gaze captivated him, the stormy blue changing shade with her emotions, the lashes long and elegant even with all the gunk she put on them.

She blinked and the spell broke, the sulky irritation returning. ‘Excuse me, are you confusing me with someone you actually give a toss about?’

Trey mentally kicked himself. Seemed he was as clueless as Aldo when it came to keeping his mouth shut.

He slung the backpack to Aldo. ‘Why don’t you give your mum a break?’ And stop acting like a two-year-old. ‘She’s a busy woman and she’s on her own.’

The intriguing tilt at the corners of Lizzie’s round eyes went all squinty.

‘I know how busy she is. Or she wouldn’t be pissing off on a US book tour. And she’s hardly on her own. She has a whole army of minions.’ Her gaze raked over him, making it crystal his rank in Halle Best’s minion army was no higher than foot soldier.

‘Yeah, well …’ He shrugged, swallowing the urge to snap back. ‘This minion’s got work to do.’ He rubbed Aldo’s crown. The boy giggled, reminding him why he was never going to let the Drama Queen’s snooty barbs hit home. Or notice how amazing her eyes were, ever again. ‘Let’s get you to school, Beast Boy.’

Aldo clambered off his stool and bid Lizzie a wary goodbye. But as they headed for the back door together, Trey could feel her arresting gaze boring two eye-sized holes into the base of his skull.

And the skin on his neck heated accordingly.

‘Thanks for nada, Mr Perfecto,’ Lizzie whispered.

How come he was always right there, watching, and judging, and making her feel like even more of a loser?

Aldo yelled with boyish excitement as Trey Carson challenged him to a race up the outdoor stairs. Trey let her brother have a head start, then sprinted up the stairs after him, his body a blur of graceful, athletic motion as he disappeared from view.

Her knee twitched, her heart beating in heavy thuds.

He made her nervous, that was all it was. She certainly didn’t fancy him. He might be fit but he seemed so old and boring. He certainly wasn’t cool. He wore straight-legs like her dad, instead of skinny jeans, and battered Nike high-tops, which would have been OK, except they looked as if he actually used them for sports. He was way too serious. He thought her mum was Wonder Woman. And he hadn’t updated his Facebook status since last year. Plus, he wasn’t even on Instagram, or Snapchat, or WhatsApp, or Twitter, because she’d checked.

But there was something about the width of his shoulders beneath his un-hip polo shirts. Something about the way his short hair curled over the top of his ears that should have looked goofy but didn’t. Something about the scent of lemon soap and spearmint gum that clung to him, so unlike Liam’s scent of eau de stale cigarette butts.

What would it be like to spend time with Trey? To talk to him without resorting to her habitual snark?

Lizzie took her iPhone out of her back pocket and texted Carly. She needed a distraction. The latest argument with her mum must have messed with her sanity if she was actually feeling disappointed she hadn’t been able to walk the devil child to school with the moist au pair.

Wozzup? she texted.

Nada. Watching Friends reruns … Carly’s reply popped up two seconds later, because her best friend was surgically attached to her phone and her texting skills were autistic. U know, The One Where Rach Sucks Joey’s dick!!!

Lizzie choked out a laugh, glad her friend couldn’t see the insta-blush firing up her neck. You wish.

FYI Friends would have been amaze-balls as a porno. Bet Joey’s beef is at least 10 inches, Carly replied.

Fancy a trip to Primani 2morrow? Lizzie texted back, before Carly mortified her even more by teasing her about the size of Trey’s beef again.

Thought you were doing something with Superstar-Mum?

She’s going on a book tour in the US. No biggie. Means more quality time with my BFF. Lizzie typed the fake reply not wanting to let on to Carly how disappointed she was her mum had bailed on her again.

Carly was not a good ear. Not only did Lizzie have the sneaking suspicion her BFF was more interested in her mum’s celebrity than she was in her—ever since Heat magazine had published a blurred photo of Lizzie and her mum shopping in Knightsbridge at Christmas, Carly had convinced herself Lizzie’s life out-glammed that of the Brangelina clan—Carly had accused her of being a baby if she moaned about her mum’s work schedule. So now Lizzie kept her resentment a secret, because she didn’t want Carly to know her life was actually about as glamorous as Lisa Simpson’s or that Super Nanny, as Carly had nicknamed Trey, thought she was a bigger brat than Bart.

Bullcrap, I’m off to that thing in Clapham 2morrow w/ Kip & the guys. Want 2 cum?

Lizzie stared at Carly’s answering text and wanted to hurl her iPhone against the kitchen wall. She stifled the burst of temper, and the hurt beneath, mainly because she knew her mum would refuse to pay for yet another cracked phone screen. But seriously? How could Carly ask that, when she knew Kip and the ‘guys’ would include Liam? But then, of course she would, because her so-called BFF had told her she was being a baby about Liam, too.

‘Why are you getting so worked up. It was only a BJ, it was only once and it was Amber’s eighteenth. And she’s fancied Liam for ages.’

When Lizzie had argued that perhaps Liam should have stumped up some cash for a present for Amber rather than gift-wrapping his cock, she’d got Carly’s trademark eye-roll and the one word Lizzie had begun to hate with a passion. Because Liam had used it all the time, too. When he said she was getting too pushy, or too clingy, or doing what he called her ‘stalker vibe’.

Whatever.

A word that basically said, Don’t bug me, don’t bother me, don’t make such a fuss about bugger all. Your opinion, your feelings, your pride don’t matter in the big fat scheme of things that do matter.

You’ve got a boyfriend who gets caught getting a BJ from one of your friends at her birthday party?

Whatever.

You’ve got a mum who takes time out from her busy HELLO!-style life only because she’s having some weird freak-out about you being anorexic?

Whatever.

You’ve got a dad who still thinks you’re his smart, witty, wonderful baby girl. When you know you’re not?

Whatever.

You’ve got a little brother who used to look at you as if you were Hermione Granger and a Powerpuff Girl all rolled into one, but now looks at you as if you’re an unexploded bomb?

Whatever.

You’re going to be stuck for two weeks with a guy who’s weirdly hot but thinks you’re a bitch?

Whatever.

Somehow or other that one word had become a curse. And she hated it. But she knew, deep down, there was one thing she hated more than that bastard, buggering, like-I-give-a-shit word …

And that one thing was herself.

She’d dated Liam and given him BJs until her jaw ached because everyone else thought he was cool. She never confided in Carly, even though they were supposed to be BFFs, because she was scared Carly might drop her. She almost wished she did have anorexia because at least then she would feel as if she deserved her mum’s attention. Her dad didn’t know what she was really like because she didn’t have the guts to tell him. Aldo was scared of her because she’d gone postal on him once too often. And Trey thought she was a bitch because most of the time she was. Especially with him. Because …

Because she might be developing a small, inconvenient crush on him. A crush she could never ever let him know about. Because if he found out, he’d be horrified and she’d be mortified.

Her mum and her mum’s celebrity had come to symbolise all the things that were wrong with Lizzie’s life. But she knew the Domestic Diva was only really responsible for—at most—half of them. The rest of Lizzie’s failings were entirely down to Lizzie.

She texted Carly back. Thnx, but I’ve got to help out with Aldo while my mum’s away.

Just pretending her mum would trust her with that responsibility felt good for a moment. But it was another lie, of course. Trey didn’t need help with her brother. He was far too efficient for that. And her brother didn’t want to spend time with her any more, because Trey was the Aldo Whisperer now.

No wonder her mum had wanted Trey to move in for two weeks. Humiliation sat like a lump of uncooked dough in her stomach. Raw and stodgy and indigestible.

WotevZ. I’ll txt u next wk. Enjoy the mini-terminator. And c if you can size up Super Nanny’s meat while your at it. Carly’s text finished with a grinning devil emoji. And then another one with red cheeks.

The heat flushed all the way to Lizzie’s hairline as she texted back a grinning devil as if she was up for the idea, like the fraud she was.

Whatever.