she finally said.
‘That’s an understatement. We couldn’t be farther apart if we were drawing from different briefs.’
Rachel studied his sketches again. ‘It goes this way up, right?’ James’s building barely had any solid walls. It looked like a pair of glassed-in Brutalist car parks. ‘Well I am surprised by your interpretation,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘It’s all about bringing the outside inside.’ He looked very pleased with himself.
‘It’s not what the brief asked for,’ she pointed out.
‘Yes, it was. It said that we should work with materials that are consistent with the surroundings.’
‘Meaning what? Working with air? The sky? The fluffy white clouds? We’re not designing a house in the Caribbean. It’s a London office. We have to be practical.’
‘The brief didn’t say to be practical. It said it has to be functional. This is functional.’
‘Oh really. How are they supposed to get from one building to another? Swing over on a rope?’
‘You’re one to talk about practical. Were you trying to design a giant doorstop? Yours looks like the cheese grater fell over.’
Rachel had drawn an elegant building that tapered from the pavement on one end to twenty-one floors high at the other.
‘And what’s this supposed to be?’ he continued.
‘It’s an aluminium membrane encasing the external lifts. The brief said to be fun.’
‘That means interesting paint, not a water slide down the outside of the building,’ he said.
‘Clearly we’ve got different interpretations of the brief.’
‘Clearly. Maybe we should let Ed decide.’
‘No way, James. He’s given us this chance to design for one of the firm’s best clients. We’ve only got a little over a month to do it. How would it look if we can’t even agree on the basics? We’ve got to figure this out for ourselves.’
‘Flip a coin?’
‘Not funny.’
That was the trouble with working with your ex, thought Rachel. All the things you’d normally not have to deal with any more – the arguments, annoying habits and, in their case, competitiveness – were still there. And without any sex to compensate.
The idea of going out with James might have been fantastic way back when, but the reality gave Rachel the kind of aversion therapy that people paid good money for. She hoped his RecycLove assessment had space for essays.
No, she conceded as he took back his drawings. That wasn’t really fair. He hadn’t always been a horrendous boyfriend. For every time he’d made her want to throttle him there were probably three when they’d enjoyed themselves. In meteorological terms, he was generally fine with outbreaks of blustery showers. But she’d still got soaked, and that put her off him in a matter of … okay, fine, it took months.
Sarah’s brother had a rotten sense of timing. If you wanted someone to spoil your punchline, turn the room awkward with a single question or, in her case, ring the bell when her hands were covered in a papier-mâché of eggy flour, he was your man. With a sigh, she scrubbed her skin. Pasta dough made superglue look like children’s paste.
‘Just a sec!’ she shouted, even though there was no way he could hear her all the way upstairs at the front of the house.
‘You’re early,’ she said by way of greeting.
Robin leaned in to kiss his sister’s cheek. ‘Nice to see you too. You’ve got something on your face.’
He pointed, not moving to wipe it off. It probably looked like something had come out of her nose.
‘Sorry, I’m in the middle of the pasta.’
‘Home-made pasta? Is it a special occasion?’
‘Can’t I do something nice for my only brother?’
Of course, she wasn’t just doing something nice for her only brother. She planned to ambush him while he was in a carb coma.
She didn’t usually have to stuff Robin full of spaghetti alla Genovese to ask for favours. They’d always been close, and especially so since their mum died. But Sarah knew he wasn’t going to be keen to do what she wanted without a lot of persuasion.
‘Drop your coat and stuff on the sofa.’ She kicked her running shoes under the coffee table. ‘I’ve just got to finish kneading the dough and we can eat in about an hour.’
He sidestepped the reading lamp’s wire that trailed across the sitting room floor. ‘This place is a deathtrap.’
‘But it’s our deathtrap and we love it.’
‘I brought wine,’ he said as he followed her down to the kitchen. ‘You want some, right?’ He began flinging the drawers open like he lived there, which was fine with her. Wall-to-wall dereliction made everyone who entered feel at home. Maybe it reminded them of their student housing. Not for much longer though.
‘The opener’s in—’
‘What’s this?’
He held up The Great British Bake Off application.
‘It’s nothing. I was going to say the wine opener’s in the drawer to your left.’
‘Are you applying?’
‘No. It was Rachel’s stupid idea. Put it back in the drawer please.’
‘It’s not a stupid idea at all. You should do it. I love your baking.’
‘I doubt Paul Hollywood wants your opinion on it, but thanks. I’m not doing it.’ The way Sarah said it made him drop the subject.
Robin was two glasses into the Chianti by the time the water for the pasta started boiling in the huge pot. Both were ready for the next step.
‘So, I was thinking about Sissy,’ Sarah said, gathering the soft spaghetti strands from the broom handle where they’d been dangling since she’d pulled them from the pasta machine.
‘She was in cracking good spirits when I went up yesterday,’ he said, watching Sarah drop the pasta into the water.
‘I know. She’s been like that for the past few weeks. It’s probably because of that boyfriend. Have you met him?’
His expression darkened.
