Just Last Night(74)

“Divorce is a shitshow of competing interests,” Finley says, “Kids often end up being the brokers.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It must’ve felt like every single member of your family deserted you, one after another,” Finlay says. “Including your mum. Into that marriage.”

I stare at him, for a second, stunned. “Yes. Yes. That’s exactly how it felt . . . I’m no longer surprised at you being an in-demand psychologist not psychiatrist.”

Finlay smiles and runs his hand through his hair. How many women fall in a version of God-worship doctor love with him, after he fixes their feelings? Or feel their feelings, however this works.

“That was just basic empathy,” he says. “It’s a helluva tale.”

I nod. “Thanks, I’ve not told it for a while. I’d kind of forgotten that it was. I’m allowed to be a damaged loser.”

Fin smiles, but ignores this. “How do you think it’s affected you? I will admit that’s a bit of a therapy session question. No charge, however. Except another one of these.” He points at our drinks and my spirits lift, as I’d been hoping we’d stay.

“Deal! Hmmm, how’s it affected me.” I’d actually never asked myself this. “I think . . .” I pause, as a pain has appeared under my ribs, without warning. “I think I stopped expecting good things to happen to me, after all that.”

Finlay looks at me intently. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Do you?”

We exchange a look.

“Let’s have more beer. Damn, that Uber was a good call,” Fin says, and the moment is broken.

Over second drinks, we chat pop-culture trivia, and I’m relieved.

As we leave, Fin shows a photo of his father to the bar staff. The man pulling the pumps peers, shakes his head, calls his wife over to double-check.

She takes the photo from Fin, between finger and thumb. Yes, he was in, yesterday! He’d wanted to describe to her at some length how it looked when he used to live here. He had a cup of Earl Grey and a slice of walnut-coffee gateaux. No, he never said where he was staying.

We leave, buoyed by the trail going hot, but, once the thrill fades, twitchy on the drive back.

If Mr. Hart’s definitely here, then we’re definitely failing at this task.





30


“By the way, if you’ve got the energy, I’ve booked a place called Café St. Honoré for a meal tonight. It’s been there years, we went there every time we visited, back in the day. Possible my dad will be there, tucking into Stornoway black pudding, telling the waiters what’s what about Scottish independence. I thought it was easiest to combine a visit with eating, given we need to eat.”

Invites to dinner have been warmer, but I agree.

“See you in the lobby to leave at half seven?” Fin says, as we prepare to part in the lift of The Waldorf.

“Is it super posh?” I say, warily.

“No, more of a buzzy bistro kind of thing.”

“Nice. This is turning into O.J. Simpson’s hunt for his wife’s killer, isn’t it?” I say. “I will leave no golf course or beach resort uncombed!”

Fin boggles at me and then bursts out laughing.

“Oh my God,” he says, as he recovers.

“What?”

“You’re . . .” Fin shakes his head. “You’re so constantly outrageous, and yet somehow get away with it. If I said half the things you did, I’d be in prison.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“It’s not exactly a compliment,” Fin says, as the lift doors roll closed, and I say: “I know.”

In my room, I pull out the one vaguely smart dress I packed, unsure why. It’s black—of course—fitted around what you’d call the bodice, requires a balcony bra, and has a flared skirt. The last time I wore it, Justin accused me of planning to “marry his dad and steal his inheritance.”

I remember my suspicions about Fin, who’s since turned out to be a man of means. That makes him chasing any change to his dad’s will less likely, surely?

By some sort of cosmic ordering, after I pull the dress on and drag the hard-to-reach low zip up my back with some effortful pushing and pulling, my phone rings with a call from Justin.

“Hello, Ed says you’ve been kidnapped and sex-trafficked. Is this true, and if so, can you ask Finlay Hart if he’ll sex-traffic me?”

I honk.

“Hello! It’s good to hear your voice. Nothing of that nature, sorry. God, what is Ed like?”

“He’s going to become a Tory MP by forty, at this rate. Will start booming about degeneracy and scroungers and how tanga briefs aren’t proper underwear,” Justin says. “Seriously, I think he’s hyper and ragged in the way we all are. But yes, he is fretting.”

I describe the situation in Edinburgh and Justin sighs. “I know this sounds inappropriate—but then I am inappropriate, so that’s what’s going to happen—but I envy you.”

“Why?”

“Being in a different place with no memories attached to it sounds so good. I keep thinking, oh I’ll tell Suze this, oh I’ll see the gang at the quiz, I’ll WhatsApp her. Oh wait, hang on, no, I won’t. Life now is horrific. I keep wanting to go back to those minutes before I got that call from Ed.”