Oh shit! Did I have something on my face? Was she too afraid to look at me in case she got stuck staring in horror? I’d barely blinked at myself in the mirror. Had a giant zit come up overnight that I hadn’t noticed?

“I …” I wriggled my face as surreptitiously as I could manage, trying to feel for the tell-tale sensation of a big, juicy pimple. Nothing. “I’ve got a sweet tooth, but I’m gluten intolerant, so … what can you suggest?”

The girl turned my menu to face her, glancing up and down the breakfast options. “Uh … the coconut yoghurt with lemon-honey drizzle, roast nuts, and macerated berries?”

I sighed. “Is that the only option?”

The girl shrugged, her eyes back on her tablet. “If you want to steer clear of savoury, that is. We have a roast pumpkin rosti with⁠—”

“She’ll have the yoghurt,” Joe interrupted. I glared at him, but he was still engrossed in the bloody stock market or whatever.

I opened my mouth to argue, but the girl had already scurried away.

“I hate coconut yoghurt, it tastes like⁠—”

“It tastes like coconut. No one hates coconut.”

“I do,” I muttered mutinously, folding my arms over my chest.

“Well, these are the things you have to deal with when you insist on eating such a restrictive diet. Now, I’ve⁠—”

“I ‘insist’, do I?” I fumed. My face flamed, and I longed to jump to my feet, to climb across the ridiculous pallet and punch my self-righteous brother right in the nose. “Yes, I suppose I do insist on eating a diet that doesn’t make my insides try to murder me!”

Joe finally looked at me, his eyes derisive. “When was the last time you even tried to eat gluten? People grow out of these things all the time. And keep your voice down. The whole café does not need to be privy to your digestive complaints.”

I rolled my eyes, huffing out an exaggerated breath. “Brunch is off to its usual, delightful start.”

“Take a look around you, Jemma,” Joe said as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “Have a look at how busy this place is.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “Just do it.”

I swallowed back a grumble and let my eyes rove around the place. Yes, most of the tables were full. It was a mix of hipster types and people in business attire. A lot of them were working on laptops or their phones. Or sitting together having meetings.

My eyes caught the art again, and my stomach lurched. Shit. I realised now why the sub-par technique, the themes, styles and colours that were so obviously derivative of other, more popular artists seemed all too familiar to me.

“Is this a … an art gallery?” I asked faintly, turning back to Joe.