Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Somewhere along the way our food gets served, and I dig in right away, completely famished. I note that Kara didn’t just order all that food for show, either. She puts it away like a pro, and I have to wonder if maybe she does have bulimia. Perhaps Robert would know. If she does, then she obviously needs more help than her two friends bitching behind her back about it.
As chatter fills up the table, I turn to him ever so slightly. “Is Kara all right?” I ask quietly, raising a meaningful eyebrow. She’s sitting at the other end of the table, so she can’t hear me.
He swallows down a forkful of lasagna, stating, “No, she’s a fucking nutjob.”
“I’m being serious, Rob. I saw Sandra and Michelle mouthing something about bulimia.”
He puts his fork down. “Oh, you mean the old…” He motions sticking his finger down his throat.
“Yeah,” I answer quickly before he says anything else that will make it obvious what we’re talking about.
“She’s been at that for years. I tried talking to her, but it’s no use. The behaviour is too ingrained now. She doesn’t even see it as abnormal.”
“But it is abnormal. She needs help.”
“Yeah, she does, but that’s not your problem, Lana. It’s not mine, either. Gary can deal with her.”
“I think Gary might be too wrapped up in his own muscles to be dealing with anything,” I say.
Robert makes a small snort of laughter. “You’re right. I bet he spends half the day looking at himself in the mirror bollock naked.”
“Shush, he’ll hear you,” I reply, giggling and putting my hand to Robert’s mouth before rapidly removing it when his eyes grow heated.
“Seriously, though, somebody needs to help her.”
“People have tried. Helping a person only goes so far. They have to want to be helped. Don’t worry about it. It’s not like it’s a constant thing. She’ll do it for a couple of weeks, then she’ll stop, and then she’ll start again. That’s why she never looks too skinny, because she has periods of puking and periods of not puking.”
“That’s really sad. Can’t you see how sad that is?”
“It is sad, but the bitch is doing her best to rub Gary in my face, so I can’t feel any sympathy for her at the moment.”
I nod. I get where he’s coming from, I suppose. Sasha finishes up with her work call.
“What was that about?” Robert asks.
“Ugh, another story about that pop star, the one I wrote about last weekend, Molly Willis. Apparently there’s a rumour going around that she’s preggers.”
“Interesting. Who’s the baby daddy?”
“No one knows yet, but I’m sure it’ll all come out eventually. Oh, and the last time I checked, only African Americans can use the phrase ‘baby daddy’ without sounding like a complete wanker.”
I laugh.
Robert scowls at her before continuing, “Don’t you have to rush back to write the story?”
“Nah, this is my day off. I gave it to another journalist. I can’t be arsed rushing into work just to write about that shit anyway.”
“And the disillusionment begins,” Robert announces, seeming pleased.
Sasha gives him a look. “What?”
“I told you you’d be sick of that job before long,” he tells her, finishing off his food.
“Yeah, well, I never planned on writing about bratty pop stars for the rest of my life,” she answers with a weary sigh, rubbing her forehead.
“Why don’t you apply for jobs at other newspapers?” I suggest. “Or maybe a magazine. Oh, you could become a music journalist. You love music.”
She grins at me fondly. “A music journalist, huh? It does have a nice ring to it. Well, I’m going to see how long I can stick it out at the Mail anyway so they at least give me a good reference before I jump ship.”
“Good idea,” I agree, even though I know Sasha would never have a problem getting a job. With her dad’s name, she could be hired just about anywhere she wanted. It’s why she’s writing for The Daily Mail with only a journalism degree and minimum experience, when other graduates in the same boat would have to slave away as interns for years before getting to where she is now.
We talk some more about possible career routes for Sasha until everybody has finished eating. Alistair gallantly offers to pay the bill, and after some grumbling from the other males present (except for Robert), he wins the battle. I imagine this is another of those little competitions that Sasha mentioned go on between those in her social circle. Paying for everyone’s meal shows wealth. Robert’s ego is too well established to be bothered by such things, and I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.
As we’re walking back to the cars, Robert allows his hand to brush against mine. I glance around quickly, making sure nobody notices.
“Stop it,” I mouth at him.
“What?” he mouths back with a delighted grin, putting his hand to my bottom for a minute.
I brush his hand away.
I also walk faster.
We say our goodbyes to the others when we reach the car park, stuffing all our bags in the boot. I get into the back again, relieved to be out of reach of Robert’s wandering hands. Sasha sits beside me this time, saying the sun shines in her face too much in the front and gives her a headache.
“Hey, Lana, why don’t you come sit up here with me?” Robert asks.
“I’m fine where I am,” I tell him.
“You sure?”
“Very sure.”
He smiles to himself and turns on the radio. Sasha huddles close to me and whispers in my ear. “Did he see you taking your insulin before?”
I nod.
“Shit. I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Nothing. I told him about my diabetes, that’s all.”
Robert turns down the radio now, the car slowing as he drives into traffic. “I can hear you both, you know.”
“I was just telling Sasha how I told you about my diabetes,” I put in quickly.
“So Sasha fucking knew and I didn’t,” he exclaims, giving his sister a look of annoyance.
“Of course I knew. Lana’s my best friend. You’ve never been her friend. Well, not until now, and I’m guessing that’s only because you’re bored and you want someone to amuse yourself with.”