Chapter 12
Damian | Edinburgh, present day
‘It’s fine, dear,’ says Mum when I arrive for lunch and tell her I’ve invited Florence. ‘If she’s someone you like, then of course we want to meet her.’
‘We usually cook extra anyway. For Bitsy,’ Dad chips in.
Mum glances at the empty pillow on the couch, and I cringe, feeling guilty.
It’s an exceptional circumstance for Bitsy not to be at the family Sunday lunch.
She roams around under the table and is slyly slipped bits of roast beef.
It’s how she got her name. Not only have I disrupted the status quo by inviting a date, but Bitsy has been relegated to the laundry, where she can’t do any damage with her tiny teeth.
It is a little strange for Florence to be afraid of a Bichon Frisé, but who am I to judge? I’m deathly afraid of spiders—all spiders, even ones that are miniscule.
‘Yes, everyone’s keen to meet Florence,’ remarks my older brother, Andrew. He’s ensconced on the couch with his arm around his girlfriend, Amber. They’ve just moved in together and are basking in a smug, loved-up glow that sets my teeth on edge.
‘How did you guys meet?’ Andrew shoots me a curious stare, and I know if I say she’s a patient, I’m never going to hear the end of it.
‘Online,’ I reply shiftily.
Andrew winks at me. ‘Nice work, bro.’
I ignore him and glance at my watch. It’s just gone twelve, and my anxiety is kicking in. What if she doesn’t show? It’s going to be excruciating.
The doorbell rings, and my anxiety eases off slightly. Thank God.
‘I’ll just go and ...’ I make a hasty escape to the hallway, pausing to check my hair in the mirror.
I quite like the purple streaks left over from the Halloween party I went to with a mate last week.
I think it makes me look less boring and slightly alternative.
Florence didn’t comment, but I saw her eyes flicking to it a few times in the bar.
Again, I try to recall what happened after our date but it’s still a blank.
From Andrew’s wink and remark, he’s assumed that I’ve slept with her, but we haven’t actually hooked up.
A date at a bar, then Sunday lunch at my parents is like going from zero to a hundred in the relationship timeline.
But there’s no time to analyse my decision-making. She’s here.
I fling open the door.
Florence is wearing big sunglasses and is rocking the Victorian goth vibe to the max.
She’s wearing a long flowing jacket with tails, a black ruffled dress, and lace-up boots.
Her skin is translucent. Deep-purple lips.
My conservative, strait-laced brother in his Lacoste polo shirt is going to lose it. The thought is quite satisfying.
‘Hi, you made it. Come in!’
Florence hesitates for the barest second, then steps inside. As she passes by, I smell her signature floral scent, and I breathe it in deeply.
She still hasn’t spoken or taken off her sunglasses and seems mesmerised by the black-and-white photo of Edinburgh that my dad took for his photography class.
‘Everyone’s in the lounge, so let’s go through,’ I prompt gently.
She starts at the sound of my voice and removes her sunglasses. Is she hungover? Did she go on a date with another guy last night and order Bloody Marys?
‘Damian.’ She touches my shoulder, and I gaze into her big violet eyes fringed with jet-black lashes (natural, not stuck on). God, she’s gorgeous.
‘Thanks for the invite,’ she says.
‘You’re very welcome. I’m glad you’re here.’
She licks her lips, and I feel a strong compulsion to take her in my arms right here in the hallway and kiss her senseless. But that’s probably not a good idea. I haven’t even held her hand yet. Maybe I should do that. What if she pulls away?
‘Are you nervous?’ I ask softly.
‘A little,’ she says, and her small frown pinches my heart. ‘I haven’t been to a Sunday lunch in ages.’
She looks at me like she needs reassurance. This is my cue. Oh god.
I slide my hand into hers; it’s as cold as ice! She must really be freaking out. Giving it a squeeze, I sense her relax slightly. Yes! It was the right thing to do. To my elation, she doesn’t pull her hand out of mine. Now we’re getting somewhere.
‘It’s OK, they don’t bite,’ I say, making her chuckle. ‘You have nothing to worry about. They’ll love you. And you look beautiful, by the way.’
Time to shut up now, Damian. But I can’t help it, I like her. I’m sure it’s written all over my face anyway. Juliana always said I wore my heart on my sleeve. But I don’t want to think about her now; this is me moving on ...
Florence and I walk into the lounge hand in hand to greet my family. Hopefully, this will be our first Sunday lunch of many.
***
The dining table seats six, so there’s usually an empty chair beside me, but not today.
Florence deciding to come for lunch is part of the reason why I’m so into her.
She didn’t have to. She could have made some lame excuse to get out of it.
But whether she agreed to it because she felt obligated or because she likes me, I can’t tell.
She’s one of those inscrutable types. Yet she did hold my hand and only dropped it when Mum shooed us through to the dining room, so I’m encouraged by that.
Andrew is being smarmily polite to Florence but openly gawking at her, which is making me want to laugh.
Amber isn’t any better—steadily eating her meal and half listening to Andrew’s prattle in her right ear, but with her eyes roving over Florence.
Dad, at the head of the table, is on his best behaviour (namely not burping).
To give Florence credit, she’s handling it well.
Either she’s blithely unaware of the attention, or she’s used to it and chooses to ignore it.
Mum is the only one who’s acting passably normal.
She’s asking the usual sorts of questions you’d expect from a stranger, and I’m finding out things without having to pry.
Excellent. So far, Mum has discovered where Florence lives (Ramsay Garden in the Old Town), her flatmates’ names (Sadie and Hester), and that she’s writing a book.
‘What’s that about?’ I ask curiously, wondering why Florence didn’t mention it at the bar.
Perhaps I didn’t ask the right questions.
Then again, my mum is quite astute. She’s an anthropology professor who lectures at Edinburgh University and is used to analysing whole societies based on the barest of evidence.
‘It’s a memoir,’ says Florence after a reluctant pause.
‘Aren’t you a little young to write a memoir?’ Amber says, sounding amused.
‘I’m an old soul,’ replies Florence. There’s a flinty edge to her tone, and I glance up from my meal to see Amber isn’t smiling anymore.
‘You don’t have to be old in years to have life experience,’ I tell her. ‘Some people pack a lot in before they’re even 30.’
‘Exactly,’ says Florence. But she doesn’t elaborate on what her life experiences are or explain why they would merit writing a book.
‘Are you going to try and get a publisher for it?’ asks Mum. ‘That would be exciting.’
‘Maybe. When it’s finished.’ I can tell by her flat tone that she’s sorry she mentioned it.
‘What’s your surname, Florence?’ asks Dad, studying her.
‘Hughes,’ she replies steadily.
He flattens his lips and frowns. ‘You look really familiar to me, but I can’t put my finger on it. You’re not an actor, are you? Theatre?’
Florence shakes her head and laughs a little. ‘No, that’s my flatmate Hester’s side gig. She’s into amateur dramatics.’
Dad! For God’s sake, leave her alone. I scowl and shake my head at him.
‘Oh well, I’m sure it will come to me. I’ve got a good memory for faces.’
‘It’s all those sudokus, darling,’ says Mum fondly.
He drops it, thank goodness as it’s getting embarrassing. But Florence doesn’t seem to mind, outwardly anyway.
‘Does anyone want any more? There’s some beef left. Florence? You haven’t eaten much.’
Mum hands her the plate before she can say no. ‘OK, thank you.’
Florence takes a slice. I notice she’s pushed what few vegetables she had to the side. Then again, so have my dad and I as it’s Brussels sprouts, and we hate them.
Looks like Bitsy’s going to be getting a vegetarian supper, I think.
Speaking of which, I can hear distant whining and growling. She emits a volley of sharp barks, and Florence jerks next to me.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘She’s in the laundry. I put her there myself.’
Florence gives me a grateful smile.
Bitsy yaps again, and Mum says, ‘Strange, she never usually barks. She must be hungry.’
Mum loads some scraps of beef onto a small plate and goes off to feed her. But a few moments later, there’s the sound of scampering paws, and there she is in the doorway: a tiny ball of white fluff with black beady eyes—Mum’s third child. She must have evaded her and run out to see everyone.
‘Hello, Bitsy. Oh, you’re so cute! I definitely think we should get a Bichon Frisé, Andy,’ says Amber.
‘Over my dead body,’ mutters my brother.
‘But what’s wrong with her?’
Amber’s right—Bitsy is acting strangely, standing stock-still and trembling. She takes a step forward, plants her little feet, and lets out a volley of short sharp barks, then runs backwards and forwards in the doorway, growling menacingly, which is quite a feat for a Bichon Frisé.
We all stare in fascination, apart from Florence, who is cowering against me. I put my arm around her. ‘It’s OK, she sometimes goes a little nuts after she’s been shut away.’
Mum comes running in.
‘Bitsy! Stop that!’
She tries to grab her, but Bitsy scoots under the table. Seconds later, Florence lets out a piercing scream. I look down and can’t believe my eyes. Bitsy, who would never hurt a fly, has sunk her teeth into Florence’s leg and is snarling like a savage beast.