“Nothing.”
“Sure... B-T-W, you’ve got a message from someone called ‘Swannlake’ telling you you’re a f*****g i***t followed by a whole lot of numbers.”
I feel like I’ve just shot pure adrenalin into my eyeballs. I basically bounce off the floor but it’s nowhere near as graceful as that sounds. My mum calls out telling Jenny to watch her language, and she’s apologising in her faux-sweetness voice, her eyes rolling as though there’s someone to appreciate her disinterest. And then I’m shoving her out of the seat in a real tackle-of-the-week style hip-and-shoulder which sends her sprawling onto the carpet and crying out in surprise and utterly fabricated pain.
I click to open the message, my heart pounding for absolutely no reason.
Swannlake – 8:44pm
You’re a f*****g i***t, Reuben.
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