Just Last Night(91)

“He was . . . fine, actually. I ended up quite liking him. I think he was on the defensive when we met him, because he knew we’d have a low opinion of him.”

“We had a low opinion of him because Susie told us he was a total turboshit. Checkmate.”

“Who do you think you’re checkmating, me?” I say to Ed.

“Him, mainly.”

“Well, I know him better.”

“What, on the basis of a few days of going up Arthur’s Seat, you’re saying you know him better than his own sister did?” Ed scoffs.

“Maybe, in a way, yes, I do,” I say, watching Ed’s scowl of incredulity deepen.

“What?!” he spits.

“Do you know him better in the sense Susie never slept with him?” Justin says to me, pressing his hands together in prayer. “Did you, in fact, ‘go up Arthur’s Seat’? Please say you did, and bring me news from the wild erotic frontier. My love life is up on bricks, here.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but no,” I say, and avoid looking at Ed, and thus gauging his response or relief. This is a shift. I don’t care if Ed cares? Ed caring has been my lode star for a long time. I test my feelings on this matter again . . . he’s jealous, don’t you care? Nope, nothing.

“Hahaha, she wouldn’t tell us if she had, Justin,” Hester says.

I look over at Hester and she’s twirling a piece of golden hair by her ear, shapely legs crossed in black skinny jeans, her vivid mouth painted with her favorite Mac Lady Danger lipstick. Hester is so damn decorative.

In the sarcastic twitch of her crimson mouth, I can perfectly easily see that Hester hasn’t forgiven me for the spat at Susie’s wake, and instead a different level of enmity has been unlocked. Challenge accepted. In female fights, never trust the wishful interpretations of men.

Ed is frowning, knocking back wine.

“I would tell you. Why wouldn’t I?” I say.

“Because everyone thinks he’s awful.” Hester shrugs a cable-knitted shoulder, unwinds, and sloshes some more wine into her glass.

“If I wanted to sleep with him I wouldn’t care if you thought he was awful,” I say, and as I speak, I can hear that the mood has plummeted from carefree chatter to loaded subtext, flying in every direction.

“If you say so,” Hester mutters, plumping the sofa cushions with one hand before rearranging herself against them.

“Yes, I do say so,” I say. “Given I know my decision-making process better than you do.”

“You got that right,” Hester mumbles, under her breath.

Justin looks disconcerted at this immediate descent into warfare.

Ed’s still staring furiously ahead at the fire, chinning his wine down. I don’t think he thinks I slept with Finlay, which must mean he’s this mad at me merely approving of him. How much control of me does he think he’s owed?

“Susie despised him,” Ed says.

“You asked me for my opinion of him, not hers,” I say, tone sharp as a dagger.

“Why would you think she’d got him wrong?”

“She wasn’t right about everything,” I say, staring levelly at Ed, and he senses danger, and says nothing in reply.

“Didn’t she say he used to model?” Justin says, hastily, desperately.

“I thought he was a psychiatrist?” Hester says.

“He was a what?!” Ed says, delighted at being given a new line of attack, eyes dancing with a Satanic pleasure. “He’s a model-slash-shrink. Tell me about your relationship with your . . .” Ed turns his head away, then snaps back with an exaggerated pout. “. . . father.”

“He’s a psychologist, and to be fair, seems like he’s done brilliantly at it. He’s not short of a few quid,” I say, relinquishing my empty plate to Justin. “He treats some really famous people, so famous he couldn’t tell me who they are.”

“Convenient. Rich kids always prosper.”

“By that logic, Susie was a rich kid.”

“She was, but I don’t think she denied it,” Ed says.

“How has Finlay denied it?”

“He’s going to be richer still when Dad goes. Ever find out whether there were shenanigans going on with changing his will?” Justin asks me.

“No,” I say. I’m agnostic on that. I can’t imagine Fin standing over dotty Mr. Hart, encouraging him to write his name on a dotted line, but equally a lot of things that have happened are things I couldn’t have imagined.

“God, that poor old man,” Ed says. “Lost his wife and daughter and his marbles, and the decision whether to switch off his machines one day will be made by that bloke.”

“Dessert, Eve?” Justin says, in a let’s lighten the mood shall we perky housewife voice. “It’s spotted dick with pink custard.”

“Are you kidding?” I say.

Leonard jumps down from his chair and starts barking.

“I’m not joking and nor is my greedy son.”

ED AND HESTER turn in first, to the master bedroom with the en suite at the front of the cottage, enough of a distance we don’t fear disturbing them by staying up.

Justin has carried a storm lantern to a picnic table outside in the freezing dark, where he can have a cigarette. He encouraged me to bundle in a coat and refilled my glass. “Ten minutes, max. It’s my birthday weekend.”