Fairytale of New York (12 page)

I regained my composure and accepted his greeting. ‘Thanks. I like it.’

‘So do your customers, it would seem.’ Nate smiled, his deep brown eyes circumnavigating my shop and then finally
returning to me. ‘I heard you’re rapidly gaining favour with the great and the good of New York.’

‘Yes. Thanks to Mimi Sutton, it seems…’ I checked his expression, but it didn’t alter. ‘Although I think it’s going to bring me more problems than benefits. I’d prefer people to recommend me on my own merits, rather than being a token of someone else’s—’ I stopped, shocked at myself. ‘I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said that.’

Nate’s amusement was evident as a smile danced across his face. ‘No, no, I agree with you. It’s no fun being a pawn in someone else’s power game. Believe me, I know.’

Hmm, interesting…But while the temptation to press him further on this comment was immense, I fought it valiantly and changed the subject. ‘So, how come you decided to sample the great delights of Kowalski’s today?’

‘I was in the neighbourhood and…Oh, wow, you have coffee too?’ He moved to the counter and laughed when he saw Old F. ‘I see the culprit, but I don’t believe it. Tell me, how can a smell so good come from something so battered?’

‘Don’t mock Old Faithful till you’ve tried his coffee,’ I defended, walking behind the counter and patting the machine protectively. ‘Appearances can be deceptive, Mr Amie. Don’t be fooled. You are looking at one of the great, undiscovered talents of New York City.’

Nate turned to look straight in my eyes and I caught my breath. ‘Oh, really? I’m always waiting for my perceptions to be disproved. So, surprise me…’ Seeing my expression, he added, ‘If that’s an offer, I’d love a coffee.’

As I prepared Old F for another vociferous onslaught on fine espresso blend, I checked myself. For absolutely no reason whatsoever, my hands were shaking.
Get a grip, girl,
the little voice in my mind scolded me.
This is not—repeat, NOT—a
big deal. He’s simply come to see the shop, like any other customer. You are in control, repeat with me now, you are in control.
I am in control, I repeated with silent internal obedience. Really, I am…I poured three mugs of coffee and put two on the counter. Picking up the other, I looked up at Nate.

‘Here’s your coffee. Feel free to look round…I’ll just take this to my co-designer.’

‘No need,’ Ed said, appearing beside me and nearly getting a hot caffeine shower in the process. ‘He’s here. Hi, I’m Ed Steinmann, Rosie’s co-designer.’

Nate smiled and they shook hands. ‘Nate Amie—I’m an admirer of Rosie’s work.’

‘That so?’ Ed turned to me with an innocent smile, thinly veiling the mischief within. ‘Good, well, I must carry on her great work, so if you’ll excuse me…’ As he passed me, he whispered, ‘Mr Nobody, huh?
Ni-i-i-ice…’
I resisted the urge to trip him over, resorting instead to a forced smile in his direction.

Nate sampled his coffee and let out a low growl of satisfaction. ‘Now that is
great
coffee.’

I patted Old F lovingly. ‘You see, I told you.’

‘Indeed you did.’

There was a pause. We exchanged smiles and sipped our officially certified Excellent Coffee. Now, at this moment I suppose I should have been thinking of the next highly efficient and consummately In Control thing to say. But I wasn’t. I was too busy noticing the way Nate’s right eyebrow lifted at a complimentary angle to his lop-sided grin. And how the shadow of his brow darkened his eyes, increasing the intensity of their gaze…

‘So…I decided to come visit because I need to make an order,’ Nate stated suddenly. ‘It could be a regular order,’ he added.

‘That’s fine,’ I replied, my control returning.

‘It’s just that I don’t know what to…uh…I guess I need some advice, Rosie,’ he frowned. He put his mug down on the counter and twisted it slowly from side to side. ‘Here’s the thing: I’ve ordered I don’t know how many of these bouquets before, but they’re all the same. I want to send something different now. I…I
need
something different.’

I nodded. ‘Ah, I see you’re experiencing what we in the business call The What Do You Get For The Woman Who Has Everything dilemma?’ I smiled calmly, mentally awarding myself several brownie points.
Thank you, Celia…
It’s amazing how one titbit of background info about Nate’s love life had transformed me now from Regular Florist to Official Font of All Knowledge.

His eyes widened slightly. ‘Yes—how did you know?’

‘I just guessed,’ I replied, hoping my air of wisdom didn’t belie the truth. ‘Well, I suppose it all comes down to what you want to say to the lady in question.’

Nate shook his head, confused. ‘Sorry, you lost me. What I want to
say
?’

I took a breath. It’s always difficult attempting to explain how I work. Right from the first time I ever designed a floral arrangement, I found I instinctively knew what I wanted to say. ‘Say it with flowers’ is an old cliché, I know, but it’s essentially what I do in my work. My designs aren’t solely based on colours, species or scents, although these are obviously important components. Instead, each one has a meaning, an emotion to convey, with a deeper significance than just a nice thought. Mr Kowalski used to say there are many reasons why people choose to send flowers—celebration, commemoration, declaration, apology, regret…

‘But you got to look beyond the reason and convey the Big
Story. It’s not the What but the Why. Why is this man saying sorry? Is he apologising for a mistake he made, or for the man he finds he has become? You gotta be detective, doctor and counsellor when you create something, believing that what you create will have the power to change somebody’s life. Design with your eyes, your wisdom and your heart.’

People have said that I design as if I intimately know the person who is going to receive the flowers. I can’t explain it any better than Mr K put it, really—I design with my eyes, my wisdom and my heart.

Nate’s eyes focused on a point a million miles away. Thoughts I wasn’t party to washed over his face and his voice was quiet when he spoke. ‘I…I guess I need to think about what
my
story is, then. I need to think…I’d like to come back and hear more, Rosie. And talk about it. Would
you
talk about it with me? Look, I have some time free tomorrow—about the same time. Can I make an appointment for coffee then?’

This was utterly unexpected, but inexplicably welcome. ‘Of course,’ I replied softly. ‘No problem at all, Nate.’

Once Nate had left the shop, Ed appeared from the back room like an inquisitive meerkat from its burrow. ‘Hmm. So that’ll be
three
times you’ve spoken, to date. And would I be correct to assume he’s just booked a fourth?’

I ignored him and flipped the Open sign to Closed.

‘Aw, come on, Rosie, you gotta tell me now. I just shook hands with your secret guy. We’re practically family.’

‘I’m going to cash up,’ I replied coolly, going to open the till. But Ed never gives up. Not without a fight, anyhow. He reached over, pushed the till drawer shut, stole the key and sprinted to the other side of the room, holding his trophy aloft.

‘Don’t be an idiot, Ed. Give it back please.’

He held out his hands, a wicked expression lighting up his azure-blue eyes. ‘So come and get it, already.’

‘Fine.’ Annoyed, I walked over to him and attempted to retrieve the key. But it was no use. As my fingers touched the palm of his hand, Ed lifted it high above his head, laughing as I fell forward and ended up face to face with The Grateful Dead on his faded vintage T-shirt.

‘Well,
hello
there,’ he grinned down at me as I rested awkwardly against the warmth of his chest, ruffling my hair with his free hand before stepping away, the key still frustratingly out of reach. It’s one of the things I hate about being five feet four inches tall; it means irritatingly tall people like six-foot-two-inch Ed always have the upper hand on me. Literally, in this case.

After much jumping about and other failed tactics like pleading, demanding and tickling (which, I must confess, made the fight far more amusing than annoying because Ed has a giggle like the Mayor of Munchkinland), I resorted to the vertically challenged person’s ultimate move. Mustering every scrap of strength possible, I stamped on his foot. Surprised and shocked by pain, he doubled over and I skilfully caught the key as it fell from his hand. Works every time.

‘Too easy,’ I mocked. ‘Never underestimate a shortie, tall guy.’ Flushed with victory, I swaggered back to the counter and resumed my task.

‘That’s
so
not fair!’ Ed wailed, clutching his wounded limb.

‘Sorry. Are you OK?’

‘Oh, sure, I’m fine,’ he shrugged.

I let him sweat it out for a while. But once I’d finished cashing up, it was time to put him out of his misery. Grabbing his hand, I led him to the sofa and we sat down.

‘OK, mister. You want details? I’ll give you details.’

Ed did his best to feign disinterest, but his eyes were far too twinkly for someone who didn’t want to know what I was about to divulge. ‘Well, in the light of the callous injury you’ve just inflicted on me, I reckon that’s the least you can do,’ he sniffed.

In truth, there wasn’t an awful lot I could tell him. I wasn’t sure why Nate had chosen to visit today. After all, I still didn’t know a great deal about the man. But I could see there was a lot more to him than first impressions suggested. And I found that…well,
intriguing.
Ed smiled as I tried to explain this. The only way I could represent my gut feeling was by comparing Nate to an iceberg. Which, inadvertently, revealed my secret theory about Ed, when I added: ‘He’s just like you.’

‘You think I’m an iceberg?’ he repeated, more than a little taken aback.

‘Yes. In a good way, though.’

Ed ran his hand through his dark brown hair and shot me a quizzical look. ‘What’s
good
about an iceberg?’

I have to admit I was stumped for an explanation, but I made a valiant attempt anyway. ‘Well, you’re a good iceberg—meaning there’s a lot more to discover about you than first meets the eye. You know, as opposed to a bad iceberg, as in bad news for the
Titanic.
You get what I’m saying?’

Ed’s expression remained unchanged. ‘I’m an
iceberg
…’ he muttered, as though considering an awful diagnosis and finding a deeper implication that I hadn’t meant.

I put my head on one side and peered at him, my hand lightly resting on his knee. ‘Trust me, it’s a good thing. I find you…intriguing.’

He laughed despite himself. ‘You sound like Celia Johnson in
Brief Encounter.
’ He adopted a clipped, old English film actor accent. ‘Do you find me
terribly, terribly
intriguing, darling?’

‘You are such an idiot sometimes,’ I smiled.

‘Hey, but this is only one-tenth of me,’ he replied. ‘Imagine how bad the other nine-tenths could be.’

I squeezed his leg and let my eyes rove around my shop, so still and quiet now the Closed sign was turned. Outside New York continued to pulse with life, the rush-hour traffic along Columbus Avenue crawling at a snail’s pace; a colourful procession of frustration past our window. ‘Glad I’m not stuck in that today.’

‘The subway is a great invention,’ Ed agreed. ‘So Nate, huh? Reckon we’ll be seeing a lot more of him, then?’

I took a breath and looked him straight in the eye. ‘You know, I think we might.’

So there we sat: my hand still on Ed’s knee and his hand stretched across the back of the sofa, his wrist making the lightest contact with my shoulder. He smiled but his eyes were strangely serious as they bored into mine. Taxi horns blared in the traffic jam along Columbus and the clock behind the counter marked the passing seconds with its long, measured ticks. Just when the scrutiny was beginning to feel uneasy, he spoke. And it wasn’t what I was expecting to hear.

‘I’ll make the delivery tonight, Rosie.’

‘Oh.’ Disorientated by this sudden mood-shift, I stuttered, ‘Y-yes, great—if you don’t mind?’ I tried to gauge the emotion in his eyes. ‘You
don’t
mind, do you?’

‘No problem.’ He turned and walked briskly to the back room, then reappeared carrying the pair of bouquets.

‘You have the paperwork?’ he asked, looking straight at me. His smile was bright as ever but somehow the tone was wrong.

I reached behind the counter and handed him the order sheet. He thanked me and I followed him to the door, switching off the lights as we stepped outside into the noisy buzz of
the city. As he went to leave, I grabbed his sleeve. ‘Ed, are you…is everything good here?’

Ed leaned forward and gently kissed my cheek. ‘We’re good, Rosie. Stop worrying. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He smiled, turned and began to walk away quickly.

Remembering something, I called after him. ‘Ed!’

He spun round. ‘Yeah?’

‘Have a great time with Yelena tonight.’

Without answering he raised a hand, saluted briefly and resumed his journey.

I watched him until he disappeared round the corner of the next block. A ball of anxiety rolled to the bottom of my stomach. I pulled the shutter down, locked it and slowly set off on my journey home.

New York was as loud, hurried and colourful as usual, but as I passed familiar blocks and crossed familiar streets it seemed to fade into the background somehow. Questions flitted around my ears like the insistent butterflies inside me. Nate, Ed, Marnie’s love life, Mimi and Caitlin Sutton, and that
thing
about ‘certain journalists’ that Brent had mentioned—all appeared like jigsaw pieces before me that didn’t quite fit.

I was two blocks away from my street when I heard a familiar shout.

‘There
you are, sis!’ James appeared at my side, face flushed and happy. ‘Mind if I walk back home with you?’ He held up a brown paper grocery bag. ‘I’ve stocked up from Dean & DeLuca.’

‘Then you’re more than welcome to come home with me,’ I laughed, suddenly glad of the company.

I remember watching the six o’clock news one time with Mum when I was about eight. When I was growing up there were several things we always did together: watching the news was one of them. Mum disliked the ‘game-show host’ journalists on ITV, preferring instead the serious-faced, crisply spoken newsreaders of ‘the good old BBC.’

But one occasion sticks in my memory because a very out-of-the-ordinary news event was headlining. Some British hostages were finally released from Beirut. I remember Mum telling me that the three bearded, excruciatingly thin and tiredlooking men had been missing for five years. We saw one of them speaking at a press conference. He was smiling—telling the world how he and his fellow hostages had thought this day would never arrive. I remember commenting on how happy he looked to be free.

‘His
face
may be happy, but his eyes aren’t,’ Mum had replied. ‘Always look at the eyes, Rosie. They’ll tell you the real story.’ Her own eyes were filled with tears—and I remember her going up to the screen and covering the bottom half of the ex-hostage’s face. Sure enough, his eyes showed pain, anguish and fear. When Mum removed her hands, the smile returned but the eyes remained dead.

I learned to look for those signs in people’s eyes and consequently witnessed awful truths in others as I grew up. I saw it in Mum’s eyes when she heard about Dad. I saw it in Ben’s eyes just before I left Boston. Worst of all, I saw it in my own eyes almost every day since New York adopted me. Sometimes I wish Mum hadn’t told me about the eyes thing. Sometimes the truth is better hidden away inside.

Ed’s eyes had scared me that day. There was a whole other story going on in those eyes. And I couldn’t read it completely. Their piercing blue was usually warm and mischievous, impatiently awaiting any chance to sparkle. But that afternoon his eyes had been cool, questioning—guarded, even. I hadn’t seen that before and it unnerved me. He had said things were OK. His smile and friendly kiss said things were OK. So I should have believed him—I
did
believe him—yet that stubborn question mark remained. He had said he was OK, but his eyes maintained their silence.

On the walk home, I noticed something odd in my brother’s eyes too. Though James chatted happily about his day and joked about the people he’d met, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he wasn’t telling me. It had been steadily building since he’d arrived and he had done nothing to dispel my suspicions.

It was still on my mind two hours later, when James and I ventured out again to Blue: One, the current restaurant of choice in New York. I was stunned that James could even get a drink in this place, let alone reserve a table. Celia could normally get a reservation anywhere, but even
she
had to wait a month for one here. The restaurant sat beneath one of the top hotels just off Broadway and its clientele included theatre stars, television celebrities, directors and lawyers. It was said that Blue: One had a waiting list four pages long for bar and waiting
staff, due mainly to the fact that jobbing actors regarded it as
the
place to be noticed by the People Who Mattered.

James and I were shown to a table towards the back of the restaurant. Blue was undisputedly the theme here. The walls were painted dark navy and illuminated by aquamarine uplights, whilst tiny blue lights dotted like cobalt stars around the main halogen spots in the turquoise ceiling, adding to the intimate ambience of the venue. Efficient waiters scurried about in white shirts and navy-blue trousers, carrying blue linen cloths over one arm. A large aquarium was set into two of its walls, filled with a plethora of tiny, multihued fish, which appeared to be moving with the same momentum as the staff.

The waiter brought us each a mojito and we ordered our meals. James took a sip of his drink and looked at me. ‘Right, Rosie, what’s up?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Don’t give me that. You’ve been quiet all evening.’

I smiled at him. ‘I’m fine, James, really. I had a busy day. That’s all.’

‘Phew! I thought you had a major problem and I’d have to work at you all night to get at it. What a relief!’ James has never been the World’s Most Tenacious Bloke. Which is one thing I like immensely about my brother: I know he’s too lazy to pry too far. Satisfied with my answer, he continued, ‘So, I had fun today…’

‘You did?’

‘Uh-huh. I did some cheesy sightseeing first thing—you know, Empire State, Statue of Liberty, Macy’s—and then I caught up with an old friend from Oxford.’

‘Who?’

‘Do you remember Hugh Jefferson-Jones?’

I did. My friends and I called him
Huge
Jefferson-Jones, on
account of his considerable height, build and the devastating impression he left on our young minds the moment we saw him. We weren’t alone in calling him this: so too (allegedly) did a considerable contingent of his fellow female students and at least two of his female lecturers, although for an entirely different reason…Huge used to come to our house and stay for weekends so he could go rock climbing and sailing with James. I was about sixteen at the time and all my friends fancied him like mad. Huge was the ultimate charmer, one of life’s naturally gorgeous people. And he knew it—even at nineteen years old. Standing tall at six foot four, he dwarfed my brother (much to James’s annoyance) and had a body like I’d only ever seen in action movies. He was a star of the rowing team, a leading light in the drama society, a general all-round hero. Hailing from a millionaire’s family, he spoke the Queen’s English with a deep, velvet-smooth voice, which made my tummy flutter. I had a
massive
crush on him but, seeing as my vow to never, ever get married was still intact at that point, I resolved to be happy just looking.

‘How is he?’ I asked.

James smiled. ‘Still Huge. Still popular with the ladies. And still a good old toff, to boot. He’s working at the British Consulate-General and has to go to the UN regularly.’

I grinned at the thought of Huge charming the ladies of the world as part of his job. ‘I bet he’s a whiz at diplomacy. He always had a way with words.’

‘Hmm, amongst other things,’ laughed James, ice cubes clinking as he took another sip of his drink. ‘He asked after you, by the way.’

‘Did he? What did he say?’

‘He said, “How’s that adorable chubby little sister of yours?”’ James laughed, enjoying my mortified expression. ‘He couldn’t
believe you were living here now. So I told him to get the
New York Times
on Saturday and see how much you’ve changed. I gave him your card, said you weren’t a patch on Devereau Design, but that he should support his fellow ex-pat Brits.’

‘Thanks, James.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Sarcasm is always lost on my big brother. ‘Yeah, so we had some lunch and he showed me round the consulate building. He’s just split from his second wife you know.’

‘Second?
I didn’t know he was married at all.’

‘Of course he was—where have you been, Rosie? You must know that, surely? Oh, well, he met his first wife just after uni, but they lasted only eighteen months. Then he moved to the consulate after his divorce and hooked up with an intern at City Hall. They lasted six years. Sad really. She left him a few months ago for one of his colleagues.’

‘Who’d get married, hey?’ I commented. And it was weird, but I’m certain I saw James flinch. I said nothing, but watched with interest as he changed the subject quicker than Celia on a good day.

‘Ah, splendid. Here’s our food at last. Don’t know about you, but I’m starving…’

When we got back to the apartment there was a message from Celia so I called her while James made a pot of tea.

‘Rosie,
darling,
I’ve seen the proofs for your piece on Saturday. It’s
wonderful
—you’re gonna be so
thrilled,
honey! I’m due to meet Henrik at The Aviary on 66th tomorrow for lunch, so can I come see you first? I want to get all the details on your meeting with Brent.
And
Nate Amie.’ I could hear her smile right down the phone.

‘How on earth did you find out about that?’ I asked incredulously.

Celia giggled. ‘I’m a
journalist,
honey, it’s what I do. And I’m afraid I can’t reveal my sources. That would be highly unethical…’ She paused, waiting for my reaction.

I played hard to get. ‘Absolutely. Quite right. You stick to your principles, mate.’

Bingo!
Celia exploded with pent-up frustration. ‘Rosie Duncan, you are infuriating! OK, OK, I’ll tell you who it was…but only because you’re my closest friend and I love you dearly. Nate called me this evening and told me he’d been to see you. And he mentioned the word “remarkable” in the same sentence as your name!’

I made a mental guess at what that could be. ‘Rosie Duncan’s store was
remarkable’
—that would be OK. ‘The coffee from Rosie Duncan’s percolator is
remarkable’
—that would be good too. But what if it was something like, ‘It’s
remarkable
how weird Rosie Duncan is’? Hmm.

‘Well, I can tell you all about his visit when you come to the shop tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ve got lots to tell me too.’

‘Absolutely,’ she affirmed,
‘especially
considering the fact I also saw Mimi Sutton tonight.’

‘Ah, the plot thickens.’

James arrived with two mugs of tea. ‘Is that your wacky friend? Say hi from me.’

I smiled. ‘James says hi.’

Celia’s tone changed. ‘James? Your
brother
James? He’s
there
?’

‘Yes times three. He surprised me yesterday.’

‘But I thought he was in Washington…’ Celia sounded distracted, thoughtful.

‘Yes, he was. He’s just staying with me till Saturday morning, then he’s going back. Are you OK, Celia?’

There was a brief pause. I could hear her breathing. ‘I’m
fine, Rosie. Yes, just fine…Well, gotta go. The kids go back tomorrow,
thank heaven,
so we’re getting pizza tonight and they’ve rented some gosh-awful movie. I may not survive the night…I’ll see you tomorrow morning, honey. Bye.’

James saw my puzzled expression as I put the receiver down. ‘And how
is
the inimitable Ms Reighton?’

‘She’s fine, I think.’ Truth be told, I wasn’t sure. ‘She seemed a little surprised you were here.’

James flopped down beside me. ‘There isn’t a great deal of love lost between me and Celia, Rosie, you know that. The last time I saw her we had a blazing row—don’t you remember?’

I did. I’d just as soon as forget it, though. It was one of those Really Bad Ideas you have in all good faith, only to repent at leisure.
Wouldn’t it be a great idea to invite Celia to have dinner with my brother?
I’d thought, in my naive innocence. It was about a year after I’d settled in the city and I’d finally completed refurbishing my apartment—including my prized 1920s dining-room table that I’d found at the Boston Flea, a wonderful flea market that Ed and I visit regularly, with the most eclectic collection of vintage furniture, lamps and clothing. (I go for the vintage stuff, Ed goes for the waffles.) So, thought I, who better to invite to my housewarming than my brother, my best friend and her partner?

Now, a self-confessed optimist I may be, but I defy even Pollyanna to find something in that evening’s events to Be Glad about. As I recall, Jerry kicked off the argument by remarking that
everybody
agreed that Oxford and Cambridge were far inferior to Harvard or Yale—to which James responded with an attack on American ‘all-mouth-no-substance’ intellect. Celia attempted to change the subject by talking about her latest gathering of New York writers but James was on a roll and proceeded to reduce every author after Steinbeck as ‘mere
pretenders and band-wagon jumpers’. By the time I served dessert, the debate had run its course and my guests had resorted to defiant silence. And coffee was accompanied by averted eyes, served with generous helpings of underlying rage. I still harboured hopes that, one day, Celia and James would get on. But it appeared that, for now, those hopes must remain safely stashed in the file marked Highly Unlikely.

James was dismissive as ever about Celia’s reaction, but I was aware of a jumpiness about him. It was carelessly hidden—like the dodgy magazines he used to stash under his bed as a teenager—with just enough showing to reveal their existence, but not enough to tell you exactly what they were.

Once I knew his guard had dropped, I broached the subject, handing him a pack of Oreos to soften the impact of my question. ‘So—what’s the story, Jim?’

‘How do you mean?’ he replied innocently.

‘The visit—the meal tonight—Celia’s reaction…what’s going on?’

James’s smile remained bright as ever, but I saw him shift uneasily.

‘Nothing…’ His voice was strained. He cleared his throat. ‘Nothing, sis. I just needed to get away from DC for a while and…and I missed
you,
believe it or not.’

‘I know Mum thinks you can do no wrong, but I worry about you. I mean, let’s face it: trouble has a habit of finding you, doesn’t it?’ Careful to maintain direct eye contact, I continued: ‘When I mentioned marriage earlier you flinched. What was that all about?’

James cleared his throat again. ‘Ha! Rosie, that’s a guy thing. I’m only thirty-four; that’s way too young to settle down. Believe me, I’m enjoying playing the field too much right now.’ Was he sweating? ‘Plus, I thought it was a weird thing for you
to say…
considering.’
That one hurt. I looked away. His smile dropped and he reached across and took my hand. ‘Really, I’m fine, sis. Let’s just have a good time together and enjoy these few days…You know if I need help I’ll always ask you first, yeah?’

I smiled and gave him a hug. Even now, all grown up, my arms were barely able to go the whole way round him. His broad shoulders seemed to relax and he held me for a long time. ‘Thanks for caring, little sis,’ he mumbled.

Later that night in my room, I thought I heard a noise. I put down the battered copy of E. F. Benson’s
Mapp & Lucia
that I was reading (a present from Marnie from her favourite old bookstore) and climbed out of bed. Tiptoeing to the door, I noticed the living-room light still on and as I got closer I was aware of James’s hushed voice. I opened the door slightly and peered through the gap. James was on the couch-bed, propped up on one shoulder, hunched over his mobile phone. He was whispering with hoarse insistence and, although a glimpse of his face was denied me from my vantage point, his aggravation was obvious.