Just Last Night(76)

Finlay shoots a look at me. “Susie would’ve told you that.”

“She did.”

“Then why ask?” he says, evenly.

“Because”—I feel myself becoming less afraid of Finlay; how much of that is familiarity, and how much is C?tes du Rh?ne, I don’t know—“the polite way is to ask. Not confront someone with something you already know, which obliges them to tell you.”

“That’s merely a longer way around to the same destination. I think we call it fishing.”

“God’s sake!” I say, in exasperation. “I’m making conversation. Whatever you told me the answer was, I’d accept. Including ‘It’s none of your business.’ You act as if there’s landmines and tripwires everywhere, when there aren’t.”

Fin sits back, fiddling with his wineglass stem and surveying me, and seems to come to a decision.

“I’m sorry. I’ve had so much shit when I’m here, I come into the ring with my boxing gloves up. I don’t always know when to lower them.”

“OK.”

“I got model-scouted in London and taken onto the books of a place that also had New York offices. I only did it for a couple of years, I hated it, but I made enough money to pay me through my degree. I find it hideously embarrassing.” He shrugs.

“Why?! If I’d ever been a model, you’d not shut me up about it. Even when my grandkids were like: seriously, Granny, because you look like a warthog.”

“I had to stand there as if I didn’t exist, while people discussed if my arms were too thin, or my profile photographed as well from the left-hand side.” Fin tilts his face accordingly and my stomach flexes, as all I see is slightly bristled jaw by candlelight. Pretty sure I could take a good photograph of it.

“. . . Or if my look was too ‘catalogue generic’ et cetera. My only talents being utilized were the ability to stand still, or walk down a ramp. It was the very opposite of an ego pump.”

“Wowee. Who knew?”

“If you want to be told how good-looking you are, pay for someone’s drinks all night at a bar. Model bookers and clients will tell you how good-looking you aren’t. I would honestly flip burgers before I’d go back to it. Not that they’d have Dumbledore here, aged thirty-six.”

“What did your family say, that made you bite my head off?” I ask, with a smile for safety.

“You spoke to Susie, right?”

“Yes. She said you were very oversensitive about it.”

“Hahaha. If you want a perfect nutshell of how they turned the effects of their behavior into my problem, you couldn’t do much better than that. My dad thought it was synonymous with me coming out as gay, my mother and sister thought it proof of preening vanity. ‘You? A model?!’ So yes, I was ‘sensitive.’ The same way someone makes a noise if you hammer a nail into them.” He pauses. “Do you know why Spanish flu was called Spanish flu?”

“Because it started in Spain?”

“That’s what everyone assumes. In fact, to protect the morale of troops in the First World War, they underreported people dying of it here. Spain was neutral and free to broadcast it, leading to a belief that Spain was worse affected than everywhere else. Hence the name. They found themselves landed with the rep for being the flu hotbed, purely for being more honest. That’s me in the Hart family. I was the one who complained, and so I got blamed as being the source. The Finlay flu.”

“What did you complain about?”

“Long story,” Fin says, after a pause, in a way that says not now.

I don’t know what else to say.

“Sorry, you did ask about the Zoolander years, and here we are. This is why I usually don’t want to talk about myself,” he says, face drawn again.

The starters arrive.

For the first time I wonder properly if the ballad of Finlay Hart is a story of his being done wrong. It’s seductive, especially when he’s sitting opposite with rolled-up sleeves and those forearms in this lighting, but my instincts still rebel against it. It was three votes against his one, and I’ve seen for myself how icy he can be.

“Fair enough. Susie always said you were a lot, when you were younger.” I say this in a throwaway, rather than accusatory way. “That’s all. But I’m ignorant on this, compared to you, obviously. I only had her side.”

“I was a lot,” Fin says, dully, spearing a cornichon with his fork. “Or I got that way. She wasn’t making everything up. It was more what she left out. How’s your terrine, is it good?”

I have a mouthful of it so have to do a one-handed thumbs-up.

“What did she leave out?” I say, after swallowing.

“Can I ask you something?” Fin says, as if he hasn’t heard me. “You knew my sister very well? The best of all, I think it’s fair to say.”

I nod.

“How do you think she’d have acted, had I died? How do you think—if she’d flown to Manhattan to sort the funeral and walked into a room of my friends who, if not hostile, had negative preconceptions of her, given the bad terms we were on—she’d have handled it?”

“Uhm . . .” I’m glad of the wine. I take a stiffening swig. “She would’ve . . . she’d have been Susie, I guess. Irreverent and tough. She’d have . . .” Oh, this is tricky, wanting to honor truthfulness while not being offensive. “She’d have probably said it would’ve felt different if you two were closer.”