The Friends We Keep(7)

Her parents were happy, and loving, and a world away from Evvie’s. Maggie’s upbringing had consisted of horses, gymkhanas, and dogs, graduating to parties thrown by young farmers’ organizations that ended with various apple-cheeked girls snogging drunken well-heeled young men on hay bales in barns from Cornwall to Scotland. During the sixth form there were balls, which drew from public schools across the country. Maggie had a selection of silk taffeta ball gowns and had even—oh the joy!—appeared in the society pages of Tatler magazine, a magazine Evvie had never heard of.

Evvie told Maggie about her own family, about her street-smart, elegant, beautiful mother who had been brought up first in Kingston, Jamaica, before emigrating to London and meeting Evvie’s Waspy, preppy white father while on vacation in New York. She got pregnant, had stayed. Even though they were cut off from her father’s wealthy family, he had a series of jobs, one after another. He had been doing fine until his drinking got out of control and he’d been “let go,” only for his family name to open yet another door at yet another banking firm.

She didn’t tell Maggie about the rages. She didn’t tell her what it was like when she was a child, to hear her father come in late, slamming the door. Or what it was like to hear her mother chiding him while Evvie lay in bed, knowing that something terrible would happen, for however loving and affectionate her father was when sober, when he drank, something changed, and a temper emerged. She’d seen it lead to him losing so many of the people he loved—including, eventually, Evvie and her mother.

He was always contrite the next day—when sober. Sometimes Evvie would come downstairs and find her father on his knees, sobbing, clutching her mother’s legs as he begged for forgiveness. She always forgave him, and Evvie prayed it wouldn’t happen again.

But one day, he hurt her mother so badly, she stopped forgiving him. She had had enough. There was no room for begging, for forgiveness. They were on a plane, Evvie’s mother’s lips pressed tightly shut the entire journey so no one would see the missing teeth that had flown out when he hit her in the mouth. Evvie told Maggie none of this.

Instead she told her about being “half-caste,” how she grew up in Brooklyn, going to a privileged performing arts school that was totally mixed, where none of the kids focused on whether they were black or white. And then moving to Stockwell, where her grandmother’s community was entirely black, and her light skin made it both easier, and harder, to know where to fit in. Evvie felt Jamaican, American, and English. She liked ackee and saltfish for breakfast, and roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for dinner, and as much as she adored her mother, she was terrified of getting on her bad side.

“So where do you fit in?” said Maggie.

“Wherever I feel at home,” Evvie said simply.



* * *



? ? ?

Habitat was empty. They wandered around the ground floor for a while, lusting after furniture and fantasizing about the kinds of houses they would have when they finally left college, before heading upstairs to the bedding department.

Wandering past the futons, they came upon a bedroom set in a bright sunshine yellow. And there, in the middle of an enormous king-sized bed, was a good-looking young man, his oxfords off and placed neatly together by the side of the bed, his legs crossed comfortably as he lay against the pillows, engrossed in a copy of Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love, with a worn and well-loved teddy bear tucked under one arm.

“Are you serious?” Evvie held Maggie back, whispering as she pointed him out. “Is that a mannequin?”

“No. I don’t think so. I think he’s real.” Maggie stepped toward the bed, quietly. “I think I saw his eyes move.”

“His eyes are now closing,” said the mannequin boy on the bed, putting the book down and closing his eyes, before opening them immediately and grinning at them. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“You’re American!” said Evvie in delight.

His face fell. “Can you tell? Damn. I’ve been working on my English accent for months. I’m attempting to channel Sebastian Flyte, but clearly it’s not working.”

“The teddy bear is an excellent touch.”

“Don’t you think?” said the boy, propping himself up against the pillows before looking at Evvie. “Speaking of Americans, you’re American. Who are you and where are you from?”

“Evvie Thompson, originally from New York, although more recently from Stockwell in London, via Brooklyn. It’s complicated.”

“Evvie Thompson?” He squinted at her. “You look very familiar. Is that your real name?”

“It’s my mom’s name. When I was a child I was Evvie Hamilton.”

“I knew it! I knew I recognized you. You were Yolanda Campbell on The Perfect Family.”

“How do you remember that?”

“I’m going to be an actor. It’s my job to study actors and actresses. I know everything about acting, and movies. Go on. Test me.”

“Quote from The Breakfast Club.”

“‘You ought to spend a little more time trying to make something of yourself and a little less time trying to impress people.’”

“Nice.”

“Too easy,” he said, pouting. “Try something harder.”

“What’s the name of Rosanna Arquette’s character in Desperately Seeking Susan?”