Chapter 29
Hunter
I feel like I’m in a Jane Austen novel. I don’t mean because of the house, though there is that.
It’s the fact that I’m here at all. My husband is downstairs doing something important and work-related, and I’m supposed to – what?
There are hours until I’m needed at drinks this evening, and I don’t want to spend the whole time thinking about my Hamlet audition.
I wander downstairs and find my way to what’s called the smoking lounge.
I jump as I realize I’m not alone. Flora is seated in an armchair by the window.
‘Bloody ridiculous, isn’t it?’ she says.
‘This place?’
‘Well yeah, but I meant the fact that we’re here.’
I smile ruefully. ‘It’s definitely a new one.’
‘It happens,’ says Flora. ‘My dad was a boarding school headmaster, and my mum was the headmaster’s wife. It was all very official. She got a little stipend and everything. Hosted events. But I mean, that was what she did. Whereas I . . .’
She trails off, unwilling to finish that thought, but I know what she’s saying. She’s the brilliant Flora Forbes, as Max likes to call her.
‘I get it,’ I say. ‘Not that I’m complaining. There are worse places to spend a weekend.’
‘True,’ says Flora.
‘Hey, do you want to go for a stroll?’ I ask.
Flora looks out the window. ‘We definitely could,’ she says. ‘Or we could just get drunk.’
Twenty minutes later, we’re seated in the sunken garden surrounded by beds of tulips and daffodils and drinking a stolen bottle of Chablis.
Flora is telling a story about how they had to remove all the door knobs in the dorm of the private school she attended because the girls wouldn’t stop using them to masturbate.
It’s left me slightly speechless, but I’m not sure if it’s the anecdote or the fact that Flora is happily telling it at 11 a.m. as we drink wine straight from the bottle.
We did originally plan to bring glasses out with us, but somehow that felt even more criminal.
I’ve had almost half a bottle myself, so I counter with stories from my own youth – episodes I haven’t thought about in years.
The time the teacher had to call in my parents because she was so disturbed by a story I wrote about being the only living person in a town full of ghosts.
When I was cast as Rolf in a college production of The Sound of Music, and a reviewer claimed I was so charismatic that it amounted to promoting fascism.
Flora and I both laugh so hard we cry. It’s only when we return to the topic of what we’re doing here that her mood sours.
‘How do you think they’re getting on?’ I ask.
Flora lets out a derisive snort.
I frown. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I think it’s about time my little laddie grew up and fended for himself.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing – or what she’s implying. ‘Now?’ I ask. ‘With the prize in sight?’
‘Prize?’ scoffs Flora. ‘Hosting a party for the fourth night in a row while some foreign politician tries to feel me up as I offer him a canapé? Yeah, can’t wait.’
I’m in shock that this version of the brilliant Flora Forbes exists, let alone is revealing herself to me so freely.
‘I hate who I turn into at these events,’ says Flora. ‘You’ve seen me.’
I smile at her. ‘Whose idea was the cheese?’
‘Quentin’s. Obviously. But I go along with it all. God knows why.’
My eyes widen. ‘So you’re not keen to move to Athens?’
‘Is that really so surprising?’
‘I mean . . . I just thought that was the plan.’
Flora shakes her head bitterly. ‘Do you realise where I’d be as a lawyer if I’d really put in the work? If it was Quentin accompanying me to functions every week?’
I look at her in surprise. ‘Have you not had that conversation with him?’
Flora sighs. ‘I don’t know if there’s any point. It’s not like being a lawyer was ever my dream.’
She turns to me, heartfelt. ‘I envy you so much. I always loved musical theater, but my parents would never have let me pursue it.’
I’m taken aback by her candour. ‘It’s not too late.’
Flora smiles. ‘I don’t think that’s my calling. Not as a performer, at least.’
She finishes the last of the wine. ‘Did you always want to be an actor?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Still do.’
Flora frowns in confusion. ‘I haven’t done any acting since I moved here,’ I explain. ‘It’s so difficult to find work, let alone work that’s actually meaningful.’
‘Isn’t that your agent’s job?’
‘Kind of. She does her best. But there are so many factors out of her control.’
‘Isn’t that part of the fun though?’ says Flora. ‘Being strategic. Trying to beat the odds. Sounds like fun to me.’
She looks wistful, the specific kind of wistful that is brought on by getting unexpectedly drunk in the middle of the day. That kind of drunk that makes you feel qualified to offer advice to people you barely know.
‘You’ll find your place,’ I say. ‘The way I see it, all the people in the world are billions of little cogs. And you shouldn’t worry about what type of cog you are, because we need all sorts to make the world go round. It’s just about finding where you fit.’
Flora thinks it over. ‘But don’t you feel like, if you fall back on the orthodontics, you’ll have failed somehow?’
I look away to hide my guilt. We’ve really been bonding. She’s revealed her whole self to me. And here she is, still thinking that I’m Edwin with my sensible back-up career. I pause to consider how I can answer as truthfully as possible.
‘I think anyone who defines themselves by what they do for a living is making a mistake.’
‘Then what are we doing with Max and Quentin? They’re both completely work obsessed. When are they going to realize there’s more to life?’
Again, I have to pause and think. Not because I’m not sure how to lie but because I’m not sure what the truth is.
Yes, it’s clear how much Max wants this job, but I don’t think I’ve ever truly understood why.
Maybe he doesn’t either. But while Flora might feel stuck with Quentin, that’s not how I feel about where Max is at.
I look at her sincerely.
‘I can’t speak for Quentin, but Max . . . he’s still figuring himself out.’