Chapter 17
17
Theo did make me coffee in the morning. He knew more about the house than I did, coaxing the massive espresso machine to life like it was an old familiar friend. I wondered at this, while we drank our coffee, but then the mugs were empty and he put me up on the counter and fit himself between my knees and kissed me until all I felt was a hollow, hungry need.
We went back to bed—his arms around me, pulling me in and under him, just where I had wanted to be since the moment we’d woken that morning. It no longer seemed surprising that Theo had called, that he wanted to continue where we’d left off in Saint-Tropez. He’d be crazy not to, the way our bodies fit together. And I’d be crazy to mind that he spent half his time in other countries. As long as I got these bright, breathless mornings whenever he was in London, I was happy.
We dozed after, and then it was lunchtime. I was supposed to meet Liv and Andre in Finsbury Park, but Theo convinced me to cancel. He wanted to take me to a pub in Highgate Village for the traditional Sunday roast—roast beef, root vegetables, fingerling potatoes, doughy Yorkshire puddings to sop up the gravy. And we’d probably see some of his friends there; he was sure I’d like them.
Before he got in the shower, he handed me an iPhone from his bag. “Put your SIM card in that,” he said.
“Theo,” I protested, more stunned than anything, “I don’t need you to buy me a phone.”
“I didn’t. It’s my old one. Doesn’t hold a charge very well, but still miles better than that old brick you’ve got.”
While I waited for the iPhone to boot up, I dug through my suitcases for something that wasn’t too cheap-looking to wear to meet Theo’s friends. I pulled out my favorite jeans. Jeans at least were universal across class and country. The more battered, the better.
My eyes caught on the white tennis shoes by the bedroom door, where I’d kicked them off last night. Faye’s, left behind, wholly unmissed.
I went silently into the next bedroom, where the closet yawned open just as I’d left it. I stepped inside and let my fingers slip through the clothes, the hangers tinkling musically as I went: silk shirts, cashmere sweaters, knit cardigans with the tags still dangling from one sleeve.
I had Faye’s number in my phone. I could text her. I could ask.
She loved clothes; they were her superpower. But she had no attachment to them. How could she, if she’d moved away and never missed them? They were only things to her, and she had more things, and other things, and newer things.
A V-neck sweater: the dark blue-gray of storm clouds, the knit a subtle interlocking herringbone. I took the hanger off the rail and held the sweater in front of me, in the mirror. It didn’t fix everything; I was still myself in all the ways I had always disliked, and all the new ways London had brought to my notice. Back home, I hadn’t known that a haircut could look cheap, or that eyebrows could be professionally crafted. But the storm cloud sweater made me feel like I could manage a Sunday roast with Theo’s friends.
I slipped the sweater off the hanger and looked at it for signs of—of what? Of belonging to somebody? I brought it to my face, and it smelled of nothing, of no person, of mattering to no one but me.
The Gatehouse was a huge Tudor-style building in the heart of Highgate Village. The walk there was short but freezing, very windy, and Theo tucked me against him, promising a table by the fireplace. I followed him into a high-ceilinged, open, uncrowded room, lit with the golden glow of an enormous glass chandelier. Much too nice to be called a pub. The fireside table was already occupied, but Theo pulled me forward anyway, right up to the three young men seated at it.
“Mate, where’d you blow in from?” said one of them, laughing as he stood. The farthest turned reluctantly away from the fire, and I saw, with a jolt in my stomach, that it was Callum. In Saint-Tropez, seeing him almost daily, I’d made myself immune to it: the ample lips, the sweeping cheekbones, the dark, long-lashed, watchful eyes. The way his brushed-back hair, the color of black coffee, spilled over his forehead when he looked down, away from me.
“And here I thought we’d seen the last of each other,” I said to him.
“I guess this city isn’t big enough for the two of us,” he said through the same tight smile.
Oh, you can do better than that , I thought. Say how really corking it is to see me here, that American scrounger you just can’t seem to get rid of.
He stood to greet Theo, and then turned to me. The usual cursory cheek kisses were required, but I could see his whole body stiffen as he leaned toward me. Like he didn’t trust himself to do it. His lips felt hot against my cheek, still cold from outside. Then he pulled away, and his cologne, or shampoo maybe, smelled of riding in the Citro?n with him, in the dark, just the two of us. It was embarrassing how alluring I still found him, even with the stiffness, his obvious unhappiness at seeing me here.
Theo introduced me to the other men, both late twenties. Sebastian, nattily dressed, and Hamza, on the short side with long, thick hair. He pumped my hand warmly.
“Here, you two look frozen,” he said. “Bit parky out there. Take our seats, scooch right up to the fire.” He waved off my protestations. “I’ll get more chairs, we’ll fit just fine.”
Hamza waved me into Callum’s chair: red leather, high-backed, the one nearest the fire. After I sat, Theo came behind and picked up the chair with me in it, moving it still closer to the fire. He brushed my hair back and bent in for a kiss. Behind him, I saw Callum scowl and turn away, head for the bar.
Theo settled in the chair opposite me. Sebastian and Hamza sat next to him, and they dropped immediately into politics. Or, more accurately, how politics would affect business. Speculating if the Labour prime minister would call a general election soon, whether the Conservative Party would win back control if he did.
“Tories will decimate him,” Sebastian said with relish. “It’s long past due.”
Theo shook his head. “Austerity, after a recession? That won’t be good for any of us, you know.”
“No joke,” Hamza said, nodding. “My boss is hedging on everything.”
Sebastian waved this away. “You lot just like Brown ’cause he bailed out a few banks. Now you’re on the take.”
I stared into the fire. In my world, the recession had been about interrupted futures—back to school, back to shift work, back to childhood bedrooms. For them, it was a question of business, numbers, and how best to capitalize. For me, it might also be a question of staying; the Tories would slash immigration limits. There was talk that they might do away with the post-study work visa scheme I was counting on.
Callum placed a small glass of rosé in front of me, wordlessly. Passing a pint of lager to Theo, he settled into the only empty chair, to my right. He took a sip of his own beer, then nodded at the debate across the table. “Riveting stuff?”
I’d planned to give him an unbothered smile, but I was, in fact, bothered. I made a face.
“Don’t panic,” he said. “We’re not all Tories, you know.”
“What a comfort,” I said, unwinding my scarf. The fire was roaring.
Callum kept his voice low. “Just Seb is, here. Bit of a lad’s lad. His father set up Kenya’s banking system, so, you know, they’ve done all right for themselves .” He said this sarcastically. “The rest of us vote Labour. If only to stick it to our fathers.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank god for the Oedipal vote.”
“Well, you know, if it wasn’t for the US, Labour’d be in a much stronger position right now,” Callum said.
Honestly, it was a talent—the way he could turn any conversation, no matter how innocuous, into backhanded criticism. “Sure,” I said, reaching for the wine. “And that’s somehow my fault?”
“Well, there’s no denying your government’s policy played a part—Gordon’s made a go of it, but Blair was hugely popular before he let himself be led by the nose into a war that had nothing to do with us.”
“It had nothing to do with me, either,” I snapped, keeping my voice low so the others wouldn’t hear us. As an American, I got a fair bit of grief about Bush, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Like I’d started them myself. From others, I understood it. From Callum, I couldn’t stand it.
“Well, that’s not strictly true—” he began.
“Just because it’s a democracy doesn’t mean people like me get a say. That’s not how it works.” I gestured around the table. “It’s people like this, sitting around tables, talking about the world like it’s a business. The people I grew up with, they fight in the wars that the people you grew up with plan.”
Callum scoffed. “Oh, yes, of course, the Sunday pub war room.”
Which was more annoying, his patronizing tone or how easy it was for him to get to me? I turned in my chair toward the fire, away from him, and tried to listen to what Theo was saying—something about EU policy, or rates, or tariffs. I pulled my fingers through my hair, attempting to unknot what the wind had done.
“Your hair, you look rather windblown,” Callum said, after a few moments.
“You really know how to compliment a girl,” I said, talking to the fire.
He shook his head impatiently. “I was just going to ask if you’d been out walking on the Heath, that’s all.”
I turned back, studying him for a moment. The last time we’d talked about the Heath, he’d admitted seeing me there last summer, long before we knew each other. But he made no sign that he remembered that now. That had been the other, kinder Callum. This one would never admit he’d ever noticed me.
“I haven’t been out on the Heath since I got back from France,” I said. And then, stung by his impassivity, I couldn’t resist adding, “But yesterday Theo took me around Highgate Cemetery.”
Callum laughed, lips parting over perfect white teeth. “Ah, yes, Theo’s Highgate tour. A favorite among many young ladies in North London.”
I forced a smile, but my stomach had tied itself in a firm, uncomfortable knot. I filed the comment away, to dissect later.
“Highgate’s not even the oldest cemetery in London,” Callum went on. “Did he tell you that? It’s just the most famous one.”
But not even Callum could ruin that perfect day for me. I smiled and sat back in my chair. “I thought it was beautiful, the way the woods are reclaiming it. And it was so sweet that Theo knew I’d like it. You know, my favorite parts of London are like that—the spots where you can see the different layers of history. It’s like seeing the seams, the centuries stitched together.”
“Did you see Marx’s tomb? Did he tell you it was bombed, in the seventies?” he asked.
“No, he failed to mention that.”
Callum’s full lips turned up into a smile. “It actually leans a little to the left now.”
I burst out laughing, then stifled it with my hand as a table of frowning old men looked over at me. “Sorry,” I said as Theo and the others turned toward us. “I usually try not to be such a loud, embarrassing American.”
At that moment, a trio of beautiful young women approached the table. “Theo!” the blonde exclaimed. “How long are you in town?”
As Theo stood to kiss her cheek, and then the cheeks of the other two women, my jealous brain offered me the image of him leading each of them, one by one, on a personal tour of Highgate Cemetery, down every dark, secluded path. Fucking Callum.
But then Theo turned to me. “You have to meet Anna!” he said to the women. Sweetly, with what seemed like genuine eagerness. He introduced each one: Zara was impossibly blond, with a tan that spoke of frequent trips to warmer countries. Tess and Ginny were clearly sisters, both with long reddish hair and creamy skin. Ginny seemed younger, maybe twenty, and softer; Tess was statuesque—she looked like Vivien Leigh, but with hair the color of deep merlot. A classic film heroine, standing in front of me in dark jeans and a boatneck sweater.
“How did you two meet?” Tess asked.
I looked to Theo, and he said simply, “Oh, Anna’s a friend of Faye’s.” He raised his eyebrows slightly, as if what he’d said was a question. A question I could choose how to answer.
Callum turned in his chair to look at me, those piercing eyes, as if he was very much interested in hearing what I might have to say on the subject of my friendship with Faye. Which was based on me working for her family. Not a detail I intended to include, since Theo had kindly given me the choice.
“We never see her anymore,” Tess said, leaning toward me. “Where is she? How is she?”
“Well, she’s good,” I said. “Really good. She’s in Saint-Tropez.”
“Isn’t that lovely,” Tess said genuinely. “Where’s she staying? Is it just for the winter?”
“Up the hill from Plage de la Moune, just before you get into town. With family.” But everyone was still waiting for me to say more. “She— She’s got a lovely little cottage there. It’s absolutely busting with clothes, you know Faye.”
They all laughed and nodded. If they didn’t even know that Faye lived in Saint-Tropez, they couldn’t be that close with her. Theo must have known; he must’ve seen that I had a chance to meet his friends differently, like a peer, not like their peer’s hired help. I was glad.
Tess and the others went to the bar, and I took the moment to kiss Theo. Over his shoulder, I saw Callum frowning down at his drink, like it tasted bad. Probably he’d make sure to mention my tutoring job loudly before the day was over, filling in the information Theo and I had omitted.
When the girls returned, Hamza pulled a table over, and more chairs, and we all squeezed in by the fire. “What’re you drinking?” I asked, noticing the steaming purple liquid in their mugs.
Tess pointed to a small black vat on the bar. I’d seen the barman ladle their drinks from it. “Mulled wine. It’s so scrummy.” I recognized the neat, flat accent of the incredibly posh, the boarding-schooled elite of Britain. Leaning toward me conspiratorially, she said, “It’s easy to have too much. Not that I’d know about that, of course.”
“I’ll have to try it.”
Ginny made a horrified face. “Don’t they have it, in the States?”
“That’s actually why I left,” I said, unable to resist. “The tragic dearth of hot mulled wine.”
The girls all laughed, loudly and unself-consciously, even though the old men were frowning at us again from their table nearby. And I felt something loosening in me, not entirely connected to the full glass of wine now sloshing in my still-empty stomach. And then Tess said, “What else brings you here? Besides the mulled wine, of course.”
“I came for a master’s program. Literature, at Queen Mary.”
Tess put her hand on my arm. Her fingernails were perfect pearl ovals. “Really? I studied literature,” she exclaimed. “At UCL. I just finished, year before last.” I remembered what Theo had said, about Tess having interned at a London publisher.
“I’ve heard that’s a great English program,” I said. “Did you have a specific focus?”
“The Romantics, I guess?” Tess said, scooting her chair closer to me. “They’re sort of irresistible, aren’t they? The drama, the stately prose, the brooding heartthrobs. What about you?” She waited for me to reply, eager, the mug of wine half raised to her lips.
I shrugged. “I know it’s not groundbreaking, but I’ve always loved Jane Austen. I read Sense and Sensibility in the library when I was really young, probably too young to read it, and I really fell for Willoughby.”
“Willoughby, Wickham, no one does a dreamy fuckboy better than Austen,” Tess said, arching a perfect mahogany eyebrow. “I wonder—you’re not one of those people who thinks Wuthering Heights is the height of romance, are you?”
“God, no,” I laughed, shaking my head. “The book is a well-executed idea, but I fundamentally hate the idea being executed.”
“Listen, Anna, I’ve just had a thought,” Tess said, leaning forward, her face lit with excitement. “Have you been to the British Library yet? Please say no.”
“I’ve walked past it a lot, but never been inside.” It was a mystery to me what the British Library was actually for; it didn’t lend out books.
“You must let me take you!” Tess said. “They always have different exhibits on, but really, the permanent exhibit is the best part anyway. They have Shakespeare’s first folio, loads of original manuscripts. You’ll love this—you can even see Jane Austen’s actual writing desk. And her specs!” She was practically bouncing in her seat, her exuberance was so sincere. It made me think of Lucy and Simon back in Saint-Tropez, too sophisticated for anything London had to offer. “What are you doing on Tuesday?” Tess said, leaning in. “I have yoga, but that’s in the morning.”
“I have class Tuesday.” And a tutoring student , I didn’t say. But that was in Farringdon, not far from King’s Cross, very walkable. “I could probably be there by two or so?”
“That’s perfect, we can meet there! Give me your number.”
The wine was warming me from the inside and the fire from the outside. The scene around me was like a dreamy magazine spread: these handsome men, these beautiful women, their cashmere sweaters and soft-spun button-down shirts, leaning forward in their chairs, glowing with firelight and wine. They looked like they had everything they needed, like they had never wanted, never failed, never lost someone.
At the bar, Tess ordered roasts for everyone and four mugs of mulled wine. I helped her carry the drinks back to the girls.
“That’s it, let the lads fend for themselves,” Ginny said. She shot a look at Hamza down the table, a look with some history in it, but before I could wonder about it, Zara was saying my name.
“You’ve got the Stella McCartney trainers.”
It took me a moment to realize what she was talking about. Trainers, Stella McCartney. Faye’s shoes.
“These?” I said dumbly. I looked down at my feet and felt a thin curl of shame lick through my insides: Faye lending me a pair of her shoes at the villa, making fun of my Primark flats. The fraying threads, the glue showing around the sole. How I’d always felt with her, classless and outclassed.
She’d liked me best when I was quiet, dazzled: her own Eliza Doolittle from My Fair Lady , dressed up for show. Like she was waiting for me to recite, haltingly, The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain?, so she could clap her hands and deliver me, her novelty poor friend, to whatever bar, boat, or beach club she’d decided on.
But I didn’t have to be Eliza Doolittle here, too. Maybe Callum would stay quiet. Maybe I could fit myself into this fireside magazine spread. Not spend every moment on the grinding, exhausting, needle-thin tightrope I’d been walking since I got here. In and out of fancy homes, brushing alongside the fuller life I wanted but never inhabiting it.
“I have a couple pairs, too,” Zara said, nodding. “Don’t you love them?”
I looked down at the shoes again. Completely white and plain, with thin white laces. How could Zara even tell? They were all waiting for me to answer. I felt rather than saw Callum watching me. Listening, hovering on the edge of his conversation and mine. I did not look up at him. “Yes, they’re great shoes,” I said. “So comfortable.” Not a lie, but not at all the truth, either.