Page 105 of The Sound Between Us

25

shakespeare’s sister

Seren

The text arrives at half past seven on a Tuesday, which is either perfect timing or the worst possible moment, depending on how you feel about emotional ambushes disguised as sisterly concern.

Saw the photos. You looked like shit. Come over. I have wine and actual food.

I stare at my phone, wondering if Hailey Rogers has finally achieved full sociopathic transcendence or if this is what passes for compassion in her carefully curated world. The fact that I’m even considering it tells me everything I need to know about how broken I am. When stepping into Hailey’s lair starts looking reasonable for a Tuesday night, you know you’ve hit emotional rock bottom.

My basement flat feels smaller today, the walls slowly creeping inward whilst I wasn’t paying attention. The white paint that once felt clean and minimalist now resembles the inside of a padded cell. Even the piano seems to judge me, its keys gleaming with the particular smugness of something neglected.

Address? And please tell me you have actual food, not just whatever influencers pretend to eat.

Her reply is immediate: Chelsea. Obviously. And I ordered from that place in Knightsbridge—the one with the Michelin star and the judgmental waiters.

Of course she did.

But here’s the thing about desperation: it makes you accept invitations from people you wouldn’t normally trust to water your plants. And I’m desperate enough to want someone—anyone—to witness my misery and confirm that yes, it really is as pathetic as it feels.

The Uber driver clearly thinks I’m heading toward some kind of upscale breakdown. I’m in yesterday’s jeans, a vintage Joy Division tee that’s more hole than fabric, and enough emotional baggage to require its own seat. He keeps glancing at me in the rear-view mirror, trying to decide if I’m tragic enough to pity or just about famous enough to Google.

“Chelsea, yeah?” he says as we pull up outside a sleek glass building that’s practically flashing a neon sign: Please notice how understatedly expensive I am.

“Lovely,” I mutter, handing over cash and resisting the impulse to ask him to keep driving until we hit the sea.

Hailey’s building is the architectural equivalent of a smug Instagram post. Minimalist, high security, with a doorman who looks at me with the polite disdain afforded to people who clearly don’t belong.

The lift is mirrored, which feels unnecessarily cruel. I look awful—hair reaching an almost sentient level of chaos, dark hollows beneath my eyes that even dim lighting can’t disguise. Perfect. Nothing says stable adult woman than showing up to your half-sister’s in full cryptid chic.

The door to 4B opens before I knock. Hailey’s been watching the security monitor, obviously. Privacy is for people not constantly performing their own existence.

“Christ, Seren, you really do look like shit.”

But she says it gently, without her usual razor blade tucked in cotton, and that’s how I know something’s off. Hailey without the performance is unsettling, almost certainly a sign one of us is losing touch with reality.

She’s in a massive cashmere jumper, paired with leggings that have never seen a squat. Her hair’s in a messy bun that undoubtedly took thirty minutes and sixteen bobby pins, and she’s not wearing makeup—which is either a power move or a red flag.

“Come in,” she steps aside. “I’ve got wine. The expensive kind.”

Her flat is everything you’d expect—white, gold, curated within an inch of its life. Candles lit. Designer throws folded just so. Art that whispers generational wealth and barely concealed anxiety.

I perch on the edge of the sofa, trying not to ruin the aesthetic. Music plays softly from hidden speakers, familiar and haunting, and then it hits me. Harrison’s voice, curling around lyrics: something about falling, something about flying, something about beautiful disasters.

The track cuts off mid-chorus.

“Sorry,” Hailey calls from the kitchen. “Spotify’s algorithm is a bitch.”

She returns with two glasses of wine and sits beside me with practised elegance. But tonight, the polish feels slightly chipped. There’s something raw beneath the gloss.

“So,” she sips delicately. “Want to tell me what happened, or shall I guess based on the tabloid speculation?”

“The tabloids are speculating?”

She gives me a pitying smile. “Sweetheart, they think you’re pregnant, institutionalised, or staging a PR stunt. Take your pick.”

I laugh. Or try to. It comes out strangled.