“My sister isn’t faking it,” said Carmen suddenly. The thought had only just occurred to her. “She’s genuinely really good at stuff. Christ. No wonder she’s exhausted all the time.”

“Your sister sounds amazing.”

Carmen thought about it. “Well, I suppose so,” she said. “I’d never tell her, though. Everyone else does all the bloody time.”

“She needs one of my books.”

“Oh, she thinks you’re awesome too.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Blair, who wasn’t particularly interested in Sofia really. “But honestly, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing sometimes.”

“Well, that makes you and everyone else.”

“Dang,” he said. “I thought I’d be a bit more special than that.”

“So does everybody else.”

“Ow!” said Blair. “You are being very hurtful.”

“Don’t you have, like, nine therapists to help you with this?”

“Are you kidding? Therapists all have my books in their office. Sorry, does that sound conceited?” He looked up, hollow-eyed. “Because”—he looked as if he was going to say her name but couldn’t quite remember it—“because . . . sometimes I’m a bit worried that everything I do . . . It’s all . . . I mean, some of it’s a bit contradictory.”

Carmen looked at him, surprised.

“I mean. Smile at the dawn? What does that even mean? Find your own happiness? Well, what if your happiness is . . . I don’t know . . . kicking dogs? Do what you love. Unless you’re a pedophile. I mean, it’s . . . I think people get unhappy trying to do what makes them happy. Don’t tell my publisher.”

“I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday” came on the in-house stereo.

“Like that,” he said. “Christmas every day would be hell. It would be torture; it would be awful. But maybe that’s what I’m telling people to aim for.”

“Well, the pay is good . . .” ventured Carmen.

“Do you know?” he said. “Do you know what they did with my teeth?”

“Painted them with Dulux?” said Carmen cheerfully.

He frowned at her as if he wasn’t entirely sure she’d made a joke. “Worse,” he said. “They’re veneers.”

“I know,” said Carmen. “Like Simon Cowell. Big, scary, shiny gnashers.”

“Do you know how they make veneers?”

“Do they stick a horse’s teeth on top of your own teeth, then cover them in Wite-Out?”

“Kind of,” said Blair. “But first they have to file down your real teeth.”

Carmen blinked. She hadn’t known this. “What do you mean?”

“They take off your real teeth. File them down to little nubs so they can stick other teeth on over the top.”

“You’re telling me your teeth are tiny, pointed fangs?”

Blair nodded. “I did that to myself.”

“You filed off your own teeth?” Suddenly Carmen wasn’t hungry. Even looking at the china plates made her feel sick. “That’s . . . that’s barbaric.”