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
