24
The Kellaways arrive shortly after midday. Mrs Kellaway asks to be shown to their rooms, ignoring the email in which I told her check-in was from 3 p.m.
‘But we’ve been travelling since yesterday. The girls are exhausted,’ she says, elongating the middle vowels of ‘exhausted’ for emphasis. She indicates her teenage daughters, who are scrolling through their phones inside an enormous SUV.
I smile apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kellaway, but your room isn’t ready yet.’
She clicks her tongue and pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head.
‘It’s Kate,’ she says, peeved. ‘Mrs Kellaway is my mother-in-law.’
Kate tucks a strand of hair behind her right ear. It’s a delicate ear, full of delicate earrings – a moon, a star, a lightning bolt, a mini cuff on her helix. She’s wearing the vegan trainer brand Cillian and his celebrity clients are obsessed with. Cillian says showing you care and staying on trend aren’t mutually exclusive.
‘Look,’ she says, in a softer tone. ‘Surely you can sort something out? We could really do with freshening up.’
I glance at my phone to check the time. I’ve to head to the supermarket to pick up ingredients for dinner and it’s Myriam’s day off. That leaves Jack, hunched over his laptop at his usual table. I wonder what it would take to convince him to help me out. Kate follows my gaze.
‘Wait, isn’t that … Jack Hamilton?’ she says, straining for a better look. ‘It is! I don’t believe it. Jack Hamilton is staying here ? Uh, I loathe that man. Does he seriously think he’s been cancelled? He really ought to check his privilege.’
She turns to me, grabbing my arm, a demented look on her face. ‘You must introduce us.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I suppose he’ll want to sit with us tonight, won’t he? Well, if he thinks he can mansplain his way through dinner, he can think again. I’m raising my daughters to speak their minds. Jack Hamilton is no match for the Kellaway women.’
‘Well, everyone tends to sit where they like for dinner. It’s not a communal thing.’
‘Oh.’ Her face falls. ‘Usually, in these kinds of smaller places, everyone gathers round the same table. It’s more convivial. Gives guests an opportunity to meet new people, broaden their horizons.’
I hesitate, loathe to ask Jack for a favour. But I’ve no choice.
‘Let me see what I can do,’ I say. ‘I’m sure Jack would be delighted.’
~
Jack is not delighted.
‘Absolutely not,’ he says, continuing to type as I plead my case.
‘Oh come on, it’s just one dinner. What’s the big deal?’
‘The big deal is, I’ve met the likes of Kate Kellaway more times than I care to remember. She’s the sort who can’t wait to tell you that the dress she’s wearing is rented in protest against fast fashion and that her kid’s best friend is black. Yet she has no qualms doing the two-minute school run in a monstrous four-by-four, a school which, incidentally, is costing her twelve grand a year and where said best friend is the daughter of a Nigerian prince.’
‘Doesn’t your son go to a ridiculously expensive private school?’
‘I never said I was perfect, Murphy. Though feel free to shoot me if you ever see me in a Chelsea tractor. I just have a hell of a lot more respect for someone who owns who they are. It’s the self-righteous performance of virtuosity I can’t stand.’
‘Come on, Jack. I’m not keen on spending an evening with these guys either, but they’re our first guests. I need this to go well.’
He looks up from his screen and stares at me as he settles back in his chair.
‘What do I get for helping you out?’ he says teasingly.
‘Please, Jack?’ I plead, refusing to submit to the flirtation (if that’s what he’s doing. I can never tell. The last time I was flirted with, Saddam Hussein was still alive and bootcut jeans were in fashion). ‘I really need your help.’
‘What was that I heard?’ He crosses his arms, a satisfied grin on his face. ‘Was that Fiadh Murphy admitting she needs me?’
I roll my eyes. I will not play this game with him.
‘Fine, I say, I’ll do it myself.’
‘Hang on,’ he says as I turn to walk off. ‘I’ll help you.’
‘Yes! Thank you.’ I fist bump the air.
‘On one condition.’
I frown. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’m doing the cooking.’
~
I rope Jack into helping me make up the Kellaways’ rooms and am impressed by his efficiency. He is not impressed by my bed-making skills.
‘Jesus, Murphy, has no one ever shown you how to turn down a corner? Here, let me do it.’
‘I’m shocked you know how to make a bed yourself,’ I say. ‘Don’t you have staff to do that for you?’
‘I’ve always made my own bed. My dad used to say if you start the day with good intentions it has a ripple effect.’
There’s something about the care Jack takes smoothing the sheets, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the imprint of his fingers in the pillowcases as he plumps them. It’s a giant turn-on. Suddenly, it occurs to me that it’s been almost four years since I last had sex. Flustered, I tell Jack I’ll finish the rooms while he preps dinner. He’s doing duck confit and gratin potatoes, followed by a plum tarte tatin . I come back from the supermarket to find him in the kitchen, apron on, chopping shallots on a spotless worktop.
‘How is this place so clean? You’re cooking for nine people.’
‘It’s called tidying up as you go. You should try it sometime. Glass of wine?’
‘Thanks. I have to get outside set up first. Save me one, though. I’ll need it to get through this evening.’
He flashes me a knowing smile. I’d forgotten what it was like, having someone to swap knowing smiles with, those conspiratorial glances that confirm you’re part of something. Cillian and I used to throw dinner parties for his school friends, course mates, groupies he’d picked up from various talks and workshops. I’d do the shopping, prepping, cooking and drink refills, while Cillian provided the entertainment, usually a personal growth exercise he wanted to road test. ‘Describe the person to the left of you in three words’, for example. It didn’t matter if you hadn’t set eyes on the person to the left of you before that evening. The game was a great opportunity for you to see what energy you were giving off to strangers. ‘Set your word for the year ahead’ – that was another favourite, a way of manifesting what you desired from the universe over the next 365 days. At a New Year’s Eve party a few years ago, Cillian’s word for 2016 (the year of Brexit and Donald Trump) was ‘truth’. At the end of those evenings, when everyone had gone, I’d kick off my shoes and lie my feet across Cillian’s lap, and we’d toast a successful evening, pretending that the effort put in was equal, that his friends were my friends too. Sometimes, I miss having someone to pretend with.
~
It’s a gorgeous evening for dining outside, Cordes dominating the dusky pink skyline. I push together a couple of tables and dress them with mismatched linens and tiny jars of cyclamen. Leonard and Sabrina arrive as Jack, who has changed shirts and gelled his hair into place, comes out with a tray of saucisson, olives and mini toasts with a homemade artichoke tapenade. I wanted to give the Kellaways the impression of a full guesthouse, so I called in backup. I was touched Sabrina agreed to the rouse. She’s mellowed since Ari went missing. I even got a free croissant the other day. It was stale as anything, but I’ll take what I can get.
Sabrina raises an eyebrow when she sees Jack standing beside me, a vague smile on her lips. She looks great in a mustard-coloured maxi dress and a multitude of bangles that jingle every time she reaches for an olive. Leonard has brushed his hair back into a ponytail and is wearing a black waistcoat over a bare chest. I’m getting serious Bono circa 1987 vibes, but he pulls it off. Myriam is the last to appear. I note a fresh application of eyeliner and appreciate the effort made. I feel warm inside. It could be the first glass of wine kicking in or the early stages of sunstroke. Or it could be something like pride in this unlikely gathering of people. They scrub up well, and they’ve shown up for me. And that means something.
Kate and her daughters arrive, all three on their phones.
‘Audrey, I’m not accusing you of anything,’ says Kate, ‘but we’ve been billed for renting The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and I know how much you enjoyed the first one at Easter. Are you sure you’ve signed out of our Amazon Prime account?’
Kate mouths, ‘Mother-in-laws’ at me, with a stoic expression on her face, like, The things I have to endure . I nod sympathetically, like, God, tell me about it. Taking liberties with someone else’s streaming service is the literal worst.
I head into the kitchen to grab a couple of bottles of chilled wine from the fridge, bumping into Kate’s husband en route.
‘ Mike Kellaway,’ he says, pumping my hand. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’
Like his wife, Mike Kellaway is small and slight in stature. He’s about ten years older than her and has one of those full beards that seem to be popular among middle-aged men now. Serious facial hair, cultivated to convey a sense of reliability and introspection.
When I return with the wine, Mike is telling Jack about his role as a senior executive of a private healthcare company. They’ve just introduced a new charge for people using trolleys to go between rooms, which has led to a significant boost in profits. It was all Mike’s idea, too.
‘Of course, this doesn’t mean we’re not big supporters of the NHS,’ says Kate. ‘We clapped for our key workers every Thursday during lockdown, isn’t that right, girls?’
‘I hear you’re writing a memoir, Hamilton,’ says Mike, sitting down and spreading his compact limbs expansively.
‘That I am, Mike,’ says Jack.
‘Bet they’re paying you well.’
‘Can’t complain.’
‘I’m interested to read your take on the culture wars. You’ll have to send me a copy when it’s out.’
‘Or you could buy one,’ I say, defensively, although I’m not sure why I feel the need to help Jack line his already generously filled pockets.
‘I’m surprised you’re allowed to publish your views,’ Mike continues, ignoring the interruption. ‘You can’t say anything these days without causing offence.’
Mindful of the last time Jack and I got into a conversation about cancel culture, I attempt to pivot the conversation to something less inflammatory.
‘Has anyone seen Cobra Kai ?’ I say. ‘It’s a spin-off of The Karate Kid .’
‘When I was a girl, I wanted to learn the karate,’ says Sabrina wistfully, reaching for her wine. ‘But I never got round to it. C’est dommage . I am very supple.’
‘I can teach you a few moves,’ says Leonard. I ran a dojo for a while when I was living in Portland.’
Mike turns to Jack. ‘A colleague was put on probation recently for saying the Chinese caused Covid by eating bats. He was Korean, so if he can’t say it, who can? Free speech is over, my friend.’
‘Koreans aren’t immune to anti-China sentiment,’ says Jack.
Ari, who’s been inside watching a movie, shuffles up to me with his trousers down. ‘I’ve pooed, Mummy. Can you wipe my bottom please?’
It’s a welcome intervention and I seize the opportunity to invite everyone to take a seat at the table, while Jack and I plate up dinner.
‘You owe me,’ he says when we’re out of earshot. He’s whisking a vinaigrette for the salad with an impressive dexterity of the wrist.
‘I already agreed to let you cook,’ I say, lobbing slices of baguette into a bread basket. ‘What else do you want from me?’
‘I’ll think of something,’ he says, fixing his gaze on me. My stomach flips.
Back outside, Kate waves at Jack from the table and gestures at the empty seat next to her.
‘God speed,’ I murmur, slapping him on the back.
The duck confit is a hit. Crispy on the outside, the meat melting in the mouth. How did Jack learn to cook like this? I take a moment to savour it – the food, the wine, the flicker of candlelight illuminating satisfied faces – and allow the conversation to wash over me. Mike is sharing an anecdote with Sabrina about a groin injury he sustained while running the Marathon des Sables a few years ago. He finished the race, though, beating his PB in the process. One of the daughters, her phone face down on the table at Kate’s insistence, tells Myriam her t-shirt is ‘snatched’. It seems to be a compliment, as Myriam thanks her. Kate is lamenting her neighbour’s objection to their plans to build a prep kitchen beside their existing kitchen. Leonard asks her what she does in her regular kitchen if she requires an additional space for food prep.
‘Thank goodness it’s getting cooler,’ says Sabrina, grabbing her pashmina off the back of her chair and wrapping it around her. ‘I’ve lived here forty years and have never experienced heat like this.’
‘Get used to it,’ says Jack. ‘This will be the coldest summer for the rest of our lives.’
‘Isn’t climate change awful ?’ says Kate. ‘Who would want to bring children into this world? It’s very likely I won’t have grandkids. Tell me, Jack, are you and Lauren Jenkins dating?’
‘I suppose you don’t believe in climate change, Hamilton?’ Mike says.
‘I don’t think climate change denial is a credible viewpoint these days.’
‘True. But I mean, how bad can it get for us in the West?’
‘At two degrees warming, 150 million people will die from air pollution alone,’ says Myriam.
It’s the first time she’s spoken more than two words all evening.
‘Yeah, but that’s out of, what, eight billion people?’ Mike retorts, taking a giant bite out of a duck leg. I’m struck by the cavernous size of his mouth given his miniature proportions. ‘We’re not talking about the extinction of the human race here.’
Myriam glares at him. ‘That’s the equivalent of twenty-five Holocausts.’
‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to say “Holocaust” at the dinner table,’ says Kate.
‘Okay, it’s not an ideal scenario, but what can you do when the Chinese insist on building a new power station every two weeks?’ says Mike. ‘Greenhouse gas emissions in the UK, on the other hand, are tumbling.’ He looks pleased with himself, as though he were single-handedly responsible for this substantial feat.
‘In a large part thanks to China making your fake lawns and mobile phones,’ says Myriam, unimpressed. ‘It’s a con. The West has simply outsourced its emissions and it’s the poor that are taking the hit.’
‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ pouts Kate. ‘Governments are responding to the problem. Like with the ban on plastic straws. And practically everyone I know is stepping up, doing their bit. We never leave the house without our tote bags, isn’t that right, girls?’
‘No offence,’ says Jack, ‘but that’s micro-consumerist nonsense. Tote bags aren’t going to solve the climate crisis.’
‘Agreed,’ says Mike. ‘It’s a systemic issue. There’s bugger all the individual can do. What was the stat I read in the FT recently? A hundred companies are responsible for around 70 per cent of all emissions?’
‘Something like that,’ says Jack. ‘Did you know that the concept of the carbon footprint was created by BP? The company came up with this multibillion dollar campaign to make individuals feel responsible for the climate crisis. By focusing our attention on bolloxology actions, like ditching plastic straws and taking fewer showers, we’d be distracted from seeing what they’ve been covering up all along – that burning fossil fuels is the cause of ecological breakdown.
‘Of course, now we all know this and everyone thinks there’s nothing we can do about it and that the world’s fucked. Big oil has won. People don’t realise the power they have. That acting collectively could get us out of this mess.’
‘I didn’t have you down as a sandal wearer, Hamilton,’ says Mike.
‘I’m just a fan of science and not wanting to burn down my house, Mike.’
‘Speaking of burning, what’s that smell?’ says Leonard.
Fuck, the tarte tatin!
I jump up from the table.
Jack groans. ‘You had one job, Murphy.’
I run into the kitchen to rescue the tart from the smoking oven. Scraping the most offensive singed bits off the bottom, I smother the slices with crème fra?che. Back outside, everyone has moved on from talking about the Apocalypse. Mike is telling Leonard that America is heading for another civil war. Sabrina is asking Myriam what her plans are post-studies. Kate is showing Jack photos on her phone from the family’s half-term trip to the Seychelles. Most of them are of Kate in a bikini. The teenagers have reclaimed their phones. The tarte tatin tastes like it’s been baked in the fiery pits of Mordor. Everyone pretends not to notice.