Just Last Night(87)

“Is she?” I say, turning to Fin, nerves breaking the surface. “What was that stuff about your mum?”

“Bollocks?”

“I don’t know anyone else that’s followed around by so much bollocks.”

“Lucky them.”

“Or accused by their nearest and dearest too.”

“She’s not near or a dear.”

“Who is a loved one?”

Who gets through thirty-six years of life without a single good character reference?

Fin’s jaw flexes.

“As I said. In my family, I’m the Spanish flu.”

“Here’s the thing about the Spanish flu, Fin—it still killed millions of people.”

“Let me get this straight, did the woman we met there strike you as a reliable narrator? Is she someone you’d ever pick to testify in your defense?”

“No, obviously. But . . .”

“But, what?”

“She warned me against being around you, in the direst terms.”

“You’re not going to be for much longer.”

Finlay looks back out the windshield and I have an odd sense that I’ve hurt his feelings. I expected anger, or contempt, or even threat—not to wound him. I didn’t think he could be wounded. Or, is this an act?

There’s a loud rap on the driver’s side window that makes us both jump out of our skin.

It’s Aunt Trish. Fin electronically lowers the glass with a zeeeeeep.

“The Waldorf,” she says. “It’s come back to me. The Waldorf, up on Princes Street.”

“Thank you,” Fin says, but Tricia’s already turned to walk back into the house.





35


At least wondering about how on earth Mr. Hart was staying at the same hotel as us is a diversion from dwelling on Auntie Tricia’s verbal IEDs.

I don’t know quite why she’s frightened me so much, when it’s nothing Susie didn’t say already, using more expletives, over pints in The Gladdy. I think it must be due to growing closer to Fin. Before, he was a folklore take, a changeling, the goblin swapped for the real baby son in the crib, who they then raised by mistake. Not the man at the wheel of a rented Mercedes at this very second, a man who I might have been stupidly growing fond of, and yes, even crushing on. I had predicted that when the old version of Finlay resurfaced it would be jarring. Is that this?

But, Aunt Tricia was so sure. No one would be that excoriating of a nephew without cause, would they? Was it true his mother didn’t tell him she was dying, and Susie didn’t contact him either? That’s such a huge accusation and the women who could contradict or explain it are dead. His father is incapable.

I scour my memory banks for a Susie reference to Tricia, and can only recall something about “a right pterodactyl,” but her aunt had fallen out with her father too so it’s not necessarily an endorsement of Fin’s opinion.

“If my dad is staying at The Waldorf, of course,” Fin is saying as I zone back in, checking his mirror at the lights, “he may have been shaky on the detail.”

“His sense of direction seems completely sound though.”

“True.”

“My man on reception was going to warn me if he appeared!” I say, for the sake of something to say.

“Except your friend was one of at least five working the desk, on that shift alone. We had a one-in-five chance. Depending on the shift.”

“True.”

We pull up and Fin hands the keys over and he nods at the revolving door to indicate you first. For the first time in this trip, the tension feels as if it’s between us, no longer about its objective.

“Where should we start?” I say to Fin, as we survey the lobby, and Fin says, “Right there.”

Mr. Hart is ten paces away in his coat, packed bag at his feet.

There’s no time to wonder if and how to introduce myself, as his face breaks into the warmth of instant recognition.

“Eve?! Goodness, what are you doing here?” he says, face wreathed in smiles.

It’s a sad irony that he’s losing his mind but physically he’s worn so well. He’s so little changed from the Central Casting, tall, responsible Mary Poppins father of my childhood memories. “And your young fellow,” he says, acknowledging a mute Finlay.

“Uhm . . . I’m Christmas shopping!” I say, off the top of my head. “You?”

“Came for a trip to see family, but I’m checking out now.”

“You saw your brother?” I ask, stupidly.

“Yes, my brother and my sister are here. Couldn’t raise my brother at all, he seems to be away.”

“Ah . . . How was your sister?”

“Oh, same old, same old. What was that line from Frasier? You’d get more warmth from a wedding buffet’s ice sculpture. Patricia could certainly keep the shrimp cold.”

I laugh, as much in surprise as mirth—his having Tricia’s number and remembering lines from old sitcoms. This is also the Mr. Hart I remember—shaking out his paper and making affectionately acerbic remarks to Susie and me as we disappeared out the door, up to no good.

“Now you’re back down to Nottingham?” I say.

“Yes, yes, I am . . .” He checks his watch. “If I get a clear run I think I’ll be back by tea time.”