Chapter Eight

  I walked towards the Onslow Hotel kitchen, ready to assume my station at the sink.

  I thought I would save Chris the trouble of banishing me to the kitchen, and instead I used some initiative and went on my merry way. If you could call it that. But I was merry; I had taken off the remnants of last night's battered French nail polish, I was working my Guinness shirt with a non-offensive skirt instead of leggings, and I had even managed a bit of colour from the afternoon spent at McLean's Beach with Ellie. There was nothing like a healthy dose of vitamin D and the beginnings of a tan to boost your spirits. As I pushed through the swinging kitchen door, ready to greet cranky Melba and crazy Rosanna, I was met instead with a set of glaring blue eyes.

  Eyes that were attached to Amy, Uncle Eric's fifteen-year-old only daughter. She was elbow deep in dishwater and stared me down with dagger eyes.

  "Oh, hey," I said, "Amy, isn't it?" I smiled politely and wondered why she was there until Chris stuck his head into the kitchen.

  "Tess, you're on the floor tonight."

  Bewildered, I looked from Chris to Amy and back again, my surprise evident.

  "Really?"

  "Really," he said. "Unless you think you might suffer from separation anxiety from Melba and Rosanna?"

  "NO!" I shouted, probably a bit too readily.

  Chris smiled. "I didn't think so. Come on, Amy's gonna take your place."

  I looked back at Amy, ready to offer her a smile, but her glare deepened and I side-stepped away. Wow. I was on the floor again. Guess I didn't do as badly last night as I thought. And this time I was determined not to stuff it up.