She presses play on another clip.
Zoë
Day 6: 1.03pm
‘Where are your fairy wings, Zoë?’ Luca pauses from combing gel through his hair. ‘And why are you in shorts?’
Zoë sizes up her reflection in the bathroom mirror while Luca returns to humming along to the Alotta Peach song blasting from his phone. ‘What’s the problem?’ she asks. ‘They’re comfortable.’
‘No more bailing on your favourite cousin. We’re doing this concert properly.’ He peers out the doorway. ‘Violet, we need another set of wings in here!’
Violet hurls a set of rainbow wings through the open door.
‘Do we though?’ Zoë asks. ‘Aren’t we going to the Strip?’
Luca groans. ‘Keep up. Darius scored a stack of last-minute Alotta Peach tickets so we’ll have pre-drinks this afternoon, then head to the concert tonight. I’ve covered yours ’cos he wanted cash.’
Akito walks in with a towel wrapped around his waist, and sprays so much cologne over his half-naked body that it fogs up the mirror.
‘Are you trying to kill us?’ Zoë splutters, flapping her arms. ‘You’ve put on enough for three weeks!’
Luca grimaces. ‘How are you not ready yet, Akito?’
‘Forget the concert, Luca, I’m out,’ Zoë says, shooing Akito out of the bathroom. ‘Seeing Darius again is the last thing I need.’
‘Zo, pull it together. He’s done us a big favour. The concert was sold out.’
‘And what does he expect in return?’
‘We’ve paid him, so nothing,’ Luca says. ‘Now put on your wings.’
Zoë slips the wings over her shoulders. ‘Glittery,’ she says. ‘Fine. I’ll come, but I’m staying away from him. Happy?’
‘I will be once we get there,’ Luca says. ‘From what I read online, Alotta Peach fans go all out. Big costumes, bold make-up, even props. We’ll be the most boring people there.’
‘You, boring? Never,’ Zoë teases him.
The suite phone rings. No-one answers it and it eventually rings out. Moments later, it kicks off again.
‘Someone!’ Luca calls out from the bathroom. ‘Zo? Can you deal with the phone? I’m covered in gel.’
Zoë groans and hurries towards the phone, slipping in her socks on the floorboards. ‘Yeah?’ she mumbles.
‘Good afternoon, I’m calling from the front desk downstairs. Is a Miss Zoë Russo there?’ a woman asks.
Zoë stands up a little straighter. ‘That’s me.’
‘I have a Greta Russo here. She’s insisting on seeing you, but she’s not on your group’s approved visitors’ list.’
‘Greta?’ Zoë’s breath catches. She’d rather see anyone else on the planet right now than her sister. ‘Sorry, Greta’s here? In the hotel?’
‘Yes, and she’s refusing to leave the premises,’ the woman says. ‘I should point out that security are on alert if she needs to be escorted out.’
Zoë swears under her breath. ‘No, it’s fine, she’s an approved visitor,’ she fibs. ‘It must have slipped my mind.’
‘We’ll need you to come and collect her immediately.’
‘On my way,’ she says, hanging up.
When she gets to the lobby, Greta is sitting on a chair with a backpack in her lap, a security guard next to her. Jaw tightening, Zoë recognises him from the night Constable Inglis escorted her back to the resort. Keeping her head down, she rushes to Greta’s side.
‘Come with me,’ Zoë hisses, leading her sister by the hand out the door and down the wide sweeping path towards the gardens. She storms along in silence before pulling Greta into a private garden with a tree standing over a sweetheart bench.
Zoë turns to her. ‘This is so embarrassing. What are you doing here?’
‘Hello to you too,’ Greta says, placing her backpack on the bench. ‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘Everything is fine,’ Zoë says. ‘I’ve spoken to Dad.’
‘You’re welcome by the way. They were ready to disown you.’ Greta folds her arms over her chest. ‘But that’s not the problem. I saw Violet’s photos and videos.’
It feels like a punch to the stomach. ‘What?’
‘On her profile. The police, Zoë? I messaged you, no reply. I called you, no answer. So that’s what I’m doing here.’
Zoë groans. ‘It’s nothing,’ she says, mentally berating herself for getting stuck in the whole mess to begin with; for not being more responsible, like she’d promised their dad. ‘It’s a misunderstanding.’
‘Help me understand what’s going on then.’
Zoë holds her hand up. ‘You’ve crashed my week, Greta. You don’t need to come to the rescue again. And since when were you ever online and stalking everyone’s profiles?’
‘Violet’s my cousin too. I was worried!’
‘More like you were worried I’d bring more shame on our family. You think you’re so much better than me and you always take Mum and Dad’s side.’
Tension hangs in the air.
Greta takes a deep breath, then exhales. ‘That’s not true or fair. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m here because I’m your big sister and I feel like something’s up. Are you okay, Zo?’
Zoë freezes. Greta rarely calls her Zo.
‘Did you hear me?’ Greta asks. ‘Zo?’
‘I’m fine,’ Zoë manages, but her voice cracks. ‘One hundred per cent fine.’
‘I wish I believed you.’ Greta’s gaze softens. ‘I think Mrs Pepper’s lemon tree needs pruning,’ she says, slowly, deliberately.
Eight words that press pause on everything.
A small smile slips out of Zoë’s mouth. ‘Don’t.’
They’d first used the phrase when Zoë was six and Greta was eleven, but Zoë couldn’t remember the last time they’d said the words. It was a childhood secret SOS call; a circuit-breaker to let the other one know they were in it together. Whenever their parents had friends or relatives over — which was often in their family — one of the sisters would inevitably hit a point when she couldn’t handle another second of hearing Great-Aunty Martina, who wasn’t their aunty at all, talk about her painful bunions. She’d utter the phrase ‘I think Mrs Pepper’s lemon tree needs pruning’ to loop in the other so they could make their escape together. There were always confused looks from the adults, but no-one ever questioned it.
Greta takes a step closer. ‘I think Mrs Pepper’s lemon tree needs pruning,’ she repeats.
Zoë sighs. ‘We were kids. It’s silly.’
Greta shrugs. ‘Fine. But what’s going on, Zo? I’m not a rat. I haven’t told Mum and Dad about the police. They don’t even know I’m here — they think I’m driving back to campus. I came as soon as I saw what Violet posted.’
‘Why though?’ Zoë’s voice is barely a whisper.
‘Because I care.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since always.’
Zoë sinks down onto the bench, unsure what to say next. Her life feels messy and smudged over the edges, while her sister’s always seems perfectly within the lines.
‘I feel like a failure,’ she blurts out, brushing away tears with the back of her hand.
Greta sits down next to her, their shoulders pressing together. ‘That couldn’t be further from the truth. What’s happened?’
Everything spills out. The final biology exam, the two rejection emails, the night in the cell.
‘This year was so challenging, but I can picture what I want for my future so clearly it hurts,’ Zoë continues with a sniff. ‘I’ve worked so hard and sacrificed so much. I want to help people, but I’ve never been so scared that it won’t happen.’
‘I know how hard you work,’ Greta says. ‘You put too much pressure on yourself, but it’s all going to come together somehow. I promise.’
Zoë groans. ‘Don’t say that — you don’t know. Everyone expects so much of me because I’m your sister. You’re the perfect daughter, student, all of
it. You’ve never let Mum and Dad down — not once.’ She pauses. ‘Your achievements are gargantuan, and they hover over everything. Now I’m going to fail and disappoint everyone.’
Greta nibbles her fingernail. ‘I hate that you feel that way. No-one is perfect. You know that, right?’
Zoë thinks of Greta’s trophies, the smiling photos of her at graduation, the way their parents gush whenever a relative asks how she’s doing. ‘I think your grades, teachers and our parents would disagree.’
‘You’re wrong. Perfect doesn’t exist.’
‘Maybe not for me, but things seem perfect for you.’
Greta turns to face her. ‘You play sport, you’re in musicals . . . you’re school captain! You have brilliant grades and friends. I just had school . . . a haven and a prison.’ Her bottom lip trembles. ‘That’s it.’
‘Greta, come on.’
‘It’s true. People like you, Zo. They have fun with you; they miss you when you’re not around.’ Greta’s voice shakes a little. ‘There were years when you were my only friend, and I was never that for you. I didn’t have friends, not really. Everyone in class saw me as competition. A girl even told me she was sick of coming second to me and stopped inviting me to sit with her at lunch.’
Zoë wraps an arm around her older sister’s shoulder. ‘That’s awful,’ she murmurs, feeling guilty because that’s how she felt for years. She’d always seen Greta as a genius who has everything worked out. The bar to meet if she ever wants to be a success. But here, on the bench in the gardens, she looks small, like her natural gifts could be crushed to dust.
‘And I do miss you at home,’ Zoë continues. ‘The house feels so empty.’ It’s the first time she’s said those words, but she means it.
‘Really?’ Greta replies. ‘Because I miss you terribly. I don’t want to be someone you compare yourself to. Dad always says that when it comes down to it, we’re all we have. It’s why I’m here.’
‘Stop it, you’ll make me lose it,’ Zoë says, wiping away a tear.
Her phone buzzes. It’s Luca in the group chat.
Where are you?!!!!
‘Look, I should head up and meet the others,’ she says, ‘but why don’t you come with me? You can stay with us, there’s loads of space.’ She gestures to her rainbow wings. ‘You’d make a fine fairy too.’
Greta shakes her head. ‘I’ll leave you and the cousins to it. I don’t want to embarrass you any more than I already have.’
‘Come! You’re their cousin too. Plus, I can introduce you to Prakash and Akito.’
‘Prakash? The little boy who weed on our kitchen tiles?’
‘That’s him,’ Zoë says with a laugh. ‘It’ll be fun. And if it’s not, we can whinge about it together.’
‘Okay.’ Greta’s mouth stretches into a smile. ‘But I don’t have any nice clothes with me.’
‘We’ll find you something. Violet brought two suitcases.’
Greta’s phone suddenly bursts to life. She holds it out: their parents are video-calling. ‘Should I answer? They’re calling to check I’ve made it back to campus safely.’
‘Alright,’ Zoë says, drawing in a deep breath. ‘But don’t say a word about . . . well, any of it.’
Greta takes the call and their parents’ faces fill the screen.
‘Hold it out further, Dad,’ Greta says. ‘I can’t see you properly. I swear they should teach phone courses for adults.’
Zoë leans in over Greta’s shoulder. ‘Surprise.’
Mrs Russo moves even closer to the screen. ‘Zoë?’
‘Chickpea!’ Mr Russo beams. ‘You’re together? I don’t understand.’
‘Greta’s passing through,’ Zoë says, voice cracking at the sight of her parents. Despite everything, she wishes they could all be together right now. ‘How . . . how are you two?’
‘I’m turning your bedroom into a gym as we speak,’ Mrs Russo jokes dryly.
Zoë giggles. Teasing from her mother is a good sign. ‘Don’t forget to add an elliptical,’ she says.
Her dad hasn’t stopped smiling. ‘What’s happening with you? It’s good to see your face.’
‘Not much, Dad, just . . .’ She notices the cabinet full of trophies and certificates behind them and her body stiffens. ‘Well . . .’ The truth tumbles out about the two rejection emails. ‘I’m so sorry I’ve let you down,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll work twice as hard to make up for it if I have to. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you proud.’
There’s a pause so long that Zoë wonders if their connection has stalled.
Then Mr Russo breaks the silence. ‘I know you’re upset and we hate to see that, but we are proud of the person you are, medicine or no medicine. You’ve worked so hard, Chickpea. Put so much pressure on yourself. Too much, I’m starting to see. I only wish we’d understood that sooner.’
Mrs Russo nods. ‘Your father’s right. Life will go on and on, after all.’
‘Who brainwashed you?’ Zoë teases. ‘Where are my parents?’
The screen glitches. The visuals aren’t moving but the audio still comes through.
‘Hello? Zoë?’ her mum says. ‘What’s happening? I don’t know if you’ll hear this, but we love you. No matter what happens.’
‘I can hear you . . . I heard you. I love you too,’ Zoë says, moving away from the screen and passing the phone back to Greta.
As Greta wraps things up with their parents, Zoë lets herself sink into the feeling. She can’t remember the last time her mother said ‘I love you’ or validated how hard she’d been trying, and she wants to cement this moment in her mind.
She pinches the skin under her forearm, just to triple-check she’s not dreaming, and her gaze catches the fading heartbeat tattoo on her wrist.
One preference to go.
Samira
Day 6: 6.11pm
Thousands of people mill around the stadium. Some are in extravagant costumes, while others have come from the beach in wet swimsuits and sundresses. The sound of the pre-show entertainment inside the stadium is scrambled with the screams of fans outside.
Samira and the Peachies huddle together by the stadium entrance. Samira catches a glimpse of her reflection in Kris’s mirrored aviator sunglasses. Bold lips, long lashes, swimsuit, purple cape. She’s borrowed Kris’s wig — a striking red bob that cuts in at the chin — as well as Tilly’s silver knee-high boots.
Cameras flash as the stretch limousines arrive. The fans strain against heavy barriers near a roped-off red-carpet area that leads to the media wall. There’s no sign of Alotta Peach, but a trickle of media personalities and influencers in sparkly colourful outfits wait off camera until the photographers wave them forward for their five seconds in the spotlight.
‘Look,’ Samira says, showing the Peachies her general admission ticket. It’s burnt orange with silver edging, while their VIP tickets are pastel peach with gold edging. ‘The differences are obvious. No way is security letting me in with you.’
Tilly adjusts her crown, eyebrows narrowing in concentration. ‘We can pull this off,’ she says, inspecting the tickets. ‘When you want something bad enough, anything is possible.’
Samira and the boys trade smirks.
‘Is that an Alotta Peach lyric?’ Samira asks, twirling her plastic sword and shield.
Kris snorts. ‘Sounds familiar.’ He strains to reach around his bulky robot costume to fix his loose shoelaces.
‘No, it’s a Tilly special,’ Tilly says, dropping to one knee to help him.
‘Sammy, you’re the Warrior — you have to come with us,’ Harry adds.
Tilly jumps to her feet. ‘He’s right. Look at you in that wig and those boots — the embodiment of a true Peachie.’
‘Exactly.’ Harry smiles so widely cracks form in his face paint. ‘Let’s do this. VIP is through Gate 1.’
Samira checks her ticket. ‘Gate 6 for me.’
Tilly runs over the plan again. She’ll meet Samira near the bathrooms at Gate 3 in f
ifteen minutes and will have one of the VIP ticket stubs to smuggle her in.
They squeeze hands, then part. Samira is alone again. The thundering noise from the music and crowd is overwhelming and she makes her way to Gate 6 in a daze, like she’s stumbling through a fog.
Through the gate, along a walkway, past Gate 5, up some stairs, along another walkway, past Gate 4, weaving around people until she spots the Gate 3 sign. To the right of it are the bathrooms. She can’t remember if she and Tilly agreed to meet in front of them or inside.
She goes inside and waits in the furthest corner of the bathroom, trying to be invisible as people come and go, which isn’t the easiest act for someone carrying a plastic sword and shield. Head lowered, she leaves the bathroom and returns to the bustling walkway. She can’t see Tilly in the swarming crowd, so heads back into the bathroom, past the line of girls, to shelter in the corner again.
She scrolls through her phone, willing a text message or notification to show up to numb her feeling of awkwardness. Nothing appears so she gives in and calls her mum, who answers on the second ring.
‘Sammy! You’re on speaker, darling.’ Teta’s voice cheers in the background. ‘How is it?’
Samira turns her back on the waiting girls and leans against the wall. ‘Things are good, Mum, just wanted to hear your voice,’ she murmurs. ‘I miss you.’
‘I didn’t think you’d have time,’ Mum says, raising her voice as the thumping music inside the stadium kicks in even louder. ‘What’s all that noise?’
‘I’m at a concert.’
‘Is it someone famous? Get an autograph and take photos for me. You haven’t posted any photos.’
‘I know. I know.’
‘So much mystery. Well, how’s it all been? Perfect as planned? I bet everyone’s loving it.’
‘If you could let me get a word in . . .’ Samira glances up as a group of girls wearing rainbow bows on their heads parade into the bathroom. Still no Tilly. ‘Mum, I think I need to tell you something.’
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