Chapter 5 George
George
George sets a magnum of champagne on the step and rings the doorbell to the Deverills’ place.
He’s glad to be back; it’s nearly a year since he was last here, but he’s always been made welcome by Miles’s family.
Their home is a five-storey townhouse facing the park, in one of those terraces built when developers still cared what housing looked like, and whoever built this one gave it the full beans: limestone front, multiple balconies, tall sash windows – the works.
He expected a media scrum outside, but it’s all quiet.
Maybe now they’re finally getting left alone.
Down the street, to the west, the sun is setting, and the sky is peach and mauve above ragged rooftops and a cathedral spire.
Miles closes the door, and George stoops to pick up the champagne. ‘A gift from Ma and Pa,’ George says. ‘From my family to yours.’
Miles accepts it with a small smile. His whole aura seems diminished by his ordeal; it’s robbed the colour from his cheeks and the zest from his movements. ‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘Although, I don’t think it’s going to be that kind of night.’
George raises one eyebrow. ‘You’re a free man again.
You’ve got your life back. If that’s not worth a glass of Bolly, I don’t what is.
’ He slaps his friend on the back and follows him into the hallway.
It’s immediately warm and familiar: the oak parquet floor solid under his feet, the elaborate cornice work, the sweeping balustrade staircase.
Home from home. They go to the rear ground floor, where a slow chatter echoes out of the kitchen.
There are eight people in there: Miles’s parents and sister, a few people from his legal team, and Miles’s actor friend, Elis.
There’s a pleasant smell of baking, but the vibe is more solemn than he expected.
It’s not gloomy, just a little restrained, the wine and finger food being consumed almost apologetically, like at the beginning of a wake.
It’s strange, how some people can take an occasion as happy as this and still manage to suck the spirit out of it.
Miles is lucky to have a friend like him, who can cheer the mood up a bit.
But, even so, he’s got his work cut out trying to spark joy in the miserable lot gathered in front of him right now.
As if the embodiment of a tough crowd, Miles’s sister is staring at George, her arms folded. ‘Congratulations, George, you’re famous,’ she says, and adds something under her breath. George didn’t hear it but has no doubt it wasn’t complimentary – Polly never has minced her words.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You haven’t checked the news, then?’
George takes his phone out of his pocket and opens the Tribune app.
He can feel the group watching for his reaction.
His eyes widen. The top image shows George with his arm around his friend; Miles’s face is creased by the breadth of his grin, and George’s head is cocked back in an open smile.
Under the picture is a headline with a gleeful tone to match.
Smiles for Miles: Young actor’s relief after being found Not Guilty of murder.
George reads a couple of lines of the story then slips his phone back into his pocket. He shrugs. ‘So what?’
Miles purses his lips. ‘It looks a bit more celebratory than we’d have liked.’
George snakes his left arm around Miles, locking his head tight in the crook of his elbow exactly as in the photo. ‘We should be celebrating. We are celebrating. Forget about it – this will be old news before you know it.’
‘George is right,’ Carl says, ‘this will all be forgotten about in a few weeks. You can’t let this ruin your life for a minute longer.’
George crams a puff pastry tart into his mouth and speaks as he chews, the tang of red onion on his tongue. ‘Cheer up everyone, it’s like a bloody morgue in here.’
His eye lands on Elis and catches his reaction: a slight eye-roll – barely detectable.
He’s caught him doing that before. But if Elis has got a problem with George, then he’s going to have to get used to him, because Miles is his best friend, and George was here long before Elis started following him about.
‘So, where are we going tonight?’ George asks, looking expectantly at Miles.
David, Miles’s solicitor, unperches himself from a stool and sets his wine glass down on the island of white marble. ‘Miles isn’t going anywhere. Not tonight.’
‘What’s the plan, then?’
‘Just a couple of drinks here,’ Miles says. ‘Reubyn will be here soon – we can finish planning our trip.’
Elis takes his phone out of his pocket. ‘Actually, I’ve been doing some research for the trip, I’ve got loads of—’
‘Elis, I didn’t know you were coming?’
Elis looks at George and raises his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t Miles mention it?’
‘I thought I did,’ Miles says.
‘Anyway, I’ve been looking at accommodation options for Fiordland,’ Elis says. ‘It’s supposed to be one of the most stunning places on Earth. Look, I found these.’
George sighs inwardly as Elis swipes through pictures of log cabins in the middle of nowhere.
Fiordland. They could save a fortune by going to Norway if they want to look at fjords.
George waves at Polly and ushers her over, sensing he needs an ally.
The trip is meant to be a break for Miles, a bit of light relief.
He needs to be spending a lot more time in a jacuzzi than a pair of hiking boots.
‘Pol, come here. What do you think of this?’
Polly strolls over and eyes Elis’s phone with the look of reluctance George was hoping for. ‘Yeah, I don’t think now is a great time to be planning a holiday, do you? Miles probably wants to chill out for a bit.’
They turn to Miles, who shrugs. ‘It’s fine. I want to. The sooner the better.’
Polly gives Miles a look that George finds difficult to read. She has changed clothes since they were in court, into a loose-fitting black shirt that accentuates her dark features, the messy fringe and long, wet-looking eyelashes.
‘And where do you want to go?’ George askes Miles.
‘Polly and I talked about starting in Queenstown. It’s got the scenery that he wants’ – pointing a finger at Elis – ‘and enough fancy wine bars and vineyards to drain even your bank account, George.’
George smiles and makes brief eye-contact with Elis.
‘Sounds lovely.’ He’s not entirely convinced by the plan, but Miles needs him to be positive right now, and besides, what he’s suggesting makes a lot more sense than whatever Elis has in mind; if he wants to do climbing or orienteering or any other Duke of Edinburgh Award nonsense, he’s picked the wrong group of people.
Polly, for one, wouldn’t be seen dead in a set of crampons.
As for Reubyn, he would get out of breath just lacing up a pair of boots.
George raises his free hand to excuse himself.
‘I’ll be back in a sec.’ He sidles over to the long kitchen counter, Bluetooths his phone to the Deverills’ speaker set-up, and begins queuing up songs on Spotify.
What’s needed here is uplifting music, stuff that marks the occasion for what it is – the night when Miles gets his freedom back.
He picks ‘Drop It Like It’s Hot’ by Snoop Dogg, and ‘Celebration’ by Kool & The Gang to kick things off, then goes in search of titles that fit the context of what’s just happened.
There’s a playlist called ‘Freedom’ created at the time of the Brexit referendum, and the top song is called ‘Free Bird’ by someone named Lynyrd Skynyrd.
George doesn’t know what it is, but, thematically, it sounds ideal, so it gets added to the queue.
He picks a dozen or so more, then presses play on his newly curated Spotify list and smiles at the slow beat clopping out of the speakers: the first song is perfect.
For a club tune it’s tastefully down-tempo, and will warm people up nicely.
The volume can go up in a few minutes when everyone has settled into the groove.
George scans the room and can’t see Miles. He leaves the kitchen, swaggering to Snoop Dogg, and finds his friend in the hallway, staring at his phone. George peers over his shoulder. On the screen is the Tribune article he was looking at earlier.
‘Why are you still reading that story?’
‘I don’t know. Some of the comments on it are a bit rough.’
George puts an arm around Miles’s shoulders, speaks loudly into his ear. ‘You can’t pay any attention to it, mate. The people who write the comments are complete morons. Don’t even look at them.’
‘Yeah, I know, but it’s hard not to.’
George is opening his mouth to reply when the doorbell goes – a heavy trill, like an old telephone. He raises one eyebrow. ‘Want me to get it?’
‘Nah,’ Miles says. ‘It’s just Reubyn.’
George shrugs. ‘All right, you let that hamster in, and I’ll go crack open that champagne.’ He slaps him on the shoulder and strides off towards the kitchen, matching his steps to the beat, and leaving Miles to answer the door.