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)
“Hey, we’re going to the Olympics closing ceremony this day next week,” I say to her. “It’s going to be amazing. Why don’t you just think on that, look forward to it, and quit worrying about how your dad’s going to react?”
She clutches my fingers and lets out a joyless laugh. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have Alan Phillips, professional disappointment distributor, for a dad.”
I don’t have any dad at all, but now’s not the time to talk about me.
“Okay, well, how about this? If your dad says anything to hurt you, I’ll give him a kick in the balls.”
She smiles at me fondly as Robert warns jokingly, “You won’t do anything of the sort. Dad’s never been shy about a lawsuit or two. Oh, and speaking of the Olympics,” he says, arching a brow at Sasha through his overhead mirror, “have you decided who you’re giving those extra tickets to yet?”
Sasha rolls her eyes, sighing. “Fine, you can have one. What kind of sister would I be if I denied you, eh?”
Robert pumps his fist in the air in victory while replying, “A very, very bad sister indeed.”
When we reach the house, Melanie answers the door in a stunning peach contour dress. When she sees Robert’s arm around my shoulder, I notice a subtle pout of irritation on her lips. You’d think she was only with Alan to get to his son or something. Well, that and the money.
She welcomes us in and we sit in an expansive living room, while what can only be described as a butler brings us drinks. I feel like I’ve just stepped onto the set of Downton Abbey.
Alan lounges in an armchair, sipping from a glass of sherry. We all make polite conversation until the butler returns, announcing that dinner is ready to be served. In the dining room Robert pulls out my chair for me, and I have a momentary thought of him being the perfect gentleman just before his fingers whisper over my bottom. Okay, so maybe not perfect.
“So, Sasha, honey, tell me what’s going on at work? I saw you had another article in the paper last week, very well done!” Alan exclaims proudly.
The article he’s referring to was again about Molly Willis and how all the backlash from the press over her miscarriage has caused her to fall into a depression. She tried taking a whole bottle of prescription meds, an obvious suicide attempt or cry for help, and has now been admitted to The Priory rehab centre for treatment.
I know she’s just another young celebrity among the dozens who get eaten alive by the press these days, but for some reason I can’t stop thinking about her story. Perhaps because I’ve been following it since the beginning of the summer. I can’t get my mind past the cutting nature of the cruelty dispensed to her, how she was lifted up so high and adored and then thrown to the depths where the sharks could eat her alive.
Not only that, but nobody actually cares. Not really. People read the stories about her, and their reaction is little more than a shrug and a “meh, she had it coming.”
What sort of world are we living in where people’s empathy levels have run so low?
Are we so jaded and desensitised to everything that we no longer hold the actual ability to care anymore?
These thoughts occupy my brain, and the theories that arise from them seem important in some way, like I’m on the precipice of a “eureka!” moment where I’ll suddenly realise exactly why I’ve been so preoccupied.
When I return my attention to the conversation, I find that Sasha’s still filling her dad in on work stuff. Robert, who’s sitting beside me, quite obviously throws his leg out under the table and gives Sasha a kick. She glares at him while he widens his eyes, as if to say, “Tell him!”
She coughs, and her cheeks colour. “Uh, I actually have something else I wanted to tell you.”
Alan grins, spreading a napkin out over his lap. “Oh, really, what is it? Have you been put up for a promotion?”
“No. It’s something more personal.”
Suddenly, Alan’s grin disappears, and his shoulders straighten. “Sasha, you know I don’t like talking about that kind of thing over dinner. Tell me later,” he says, brushing her off.
I see Sasha’s eyes get watery and immediately feel like throwing my arms around her and dragging her away from here. She swallows hard, pushing back the tears.
“No, Dad,” she says sternly. “I want to tell you now.”
“Sasha,” Alan warns her, his dark brow furrowing.
Melanie, clueless as ever, interrupts, “Let her speak, Alan. Come on, I want to hear her news.”
Sasha’s eyes cut to Melanie, and if looks could kill she’d be six feet under. Then she draws her gaze back to her dad and inhales sharply before letting the air back out. “What I wanted to tell you, Dad, and what I already told Mum last week, is that I’m gay.”
“Sasha!” Alan exclaims, standing in outrage. He walks over to her. “Come to my study with me. Now.”
Melanie mouths the letters “OMG” to herself, looking stunned and wide-eyed.
“No, Dad. I’m not letting you ruin this. I’ve come out to you. It’s done. Now you can either accept it or not. I’m past caring at this point.”
“Well, in that case, you should probably leave.”
“Dad!” Robert bursts out, rising and slamming his hands down onto the table. “Are you fucking serious?”
The butler comes in carrying plates of hot food, realises there’s a domestic under way, turns on his heel, and walks straight back out. I’d applaud his professionalism if I weren’t so concerned about Sasha.
“Oh, I’m deadly serious. Your sister knows I don’t allow this kind of thing. She’s doing it just to spite me.”
Robert laughs in disbelief. “You think she’s telling you she’s gay to spite you? Dad, now you’re being delusional.”
“Don’t you start getting involved, Robert. You’re in no position to speak.”
Sasha backs up against the wall, her shoulders drooping, as Robert and his dad square off. “Oh, yeah, and what’s that supposed to mean?”