The Family Remains(47)

I take it from his outstretched hand. ‘Thank you.’

‘And if there’s anything else you need while you’re in town, just message me. Yes?’

‘Thank you,’ I say again. ‘Thank you. You’re too kind.’ And then I go in for the main event, my voice finely poised at precisely the right tone. ‘Oh, by the way, did you ever hear from the friend you were telling me about when we were by the lake? The British guy called Finn?’

‘No. Not yet. Still trying to track him down. But my friend thinks his Airbnb might be somewhere near here actually.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Just think, you and he might even cross paths! Fellow Brits! You tend to kind of attract each other, I’ve noticed.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, we do.’

I stare at my face in the mirror on the dressing table in my room. I try to superimpose the face of old Henry over the top. The Henry before he had that little jawbone shave, the cheek implants, the eye lift, the hair transplant, the two hours a day at the gym. Not the Henry who styled his expensively highlighted hair into a foppish cowlick over his forehead and wore perfectly chosen designer clothes with impeccable attention to collar angles and trouser length and buttons and linings, but the Henry who wore plimsolls and prissy corduroys, whose hair would never sit right, whose knees stuck out like potatoes, who had no idea what to do with himself. But I can’t get that person to overwrite the person in the mirror. The new improved Henry is just too strong. Would Phin, I wonder – would he even recognise me? If, for example, I were to stand face-to-face with him in the vegan food aisle in the organic supermarket up the street, if I were to say, ‘Have you tried these plant-based fake chicken tenders? Are they any good?’ then smile and say thank you as I tucked them into my basket and wished him a good day. Would he know it was me? Or would he just think I was a slightly odd-looking, slightly camp, early middle-aged man with a British accent whose teeth were too white, whose highlights were too obvious, whose clothes were too, too just so? And the answer hits me like a truck.

Of course he would.

He would recognise me immediately. He would recognise me dressed as a pantomime horse because, I strongly suspect, I have haunted his dreams for the last twenty-six years, ever since we all escaped from the house of horrors, ever since I did what I did to him. I am Phin’s living, breathing nightmare and he hates me. And when you hate someone, it leaves deeper scars on your psyche than loving someone ever can.

But still, I think, I should make an effort. Maybe a hat would help. I put on a baseball cap and eye myself in the mirror. Then sunglasses. It will have to do. I forgot to pack a false moustache.

The nice waitress at the bar opposite Phin’s apartment block is there again. I say something about ‘Do you actually get to go home ever?’ and she laughs obligingly. I order a coffee, my third of the day and probably a bad idea in the circumstances, but since everything I’m currently doing is a bad idea in the circumstances, I can’t really get stressed about an extra shot of caffeine. I glance up at Phin’s building, which is bustling with movement. The front door opens and I watch a young male couple walk out, each carrying a French bulldog puppy. A moment later an elderly couple exit. Her bag slips from her shoulder, he pushes it back up for her and she scowls at him. A mother and her teenage son are the next to leave, then an older father and two small girls.

My coffee arrives and I thank my waitress profusely. While I wait, I go on to the Airbnb app and look for places near me. I find a one-bed apartment with leaded bay windows. It is in the same building and it is booked up for the next ten days. So now I can picture Phin even more clearly, with the background details of cushions with Frida Kahlo’s face embroidered on them, a six-foot cactus, a ceiling light shade woven from raffia, a white tiled bathroom with black taps and handles, a grey kitchen, jazzy tea towels, a bar of lime green soap tied with string to a sprig of lavender on a vintage tea saucer.

In the photos I look for clues to where in the building the apartment might be located and I notice the outline of trees in the bedroom window. There are only two trees on the avenue outside the building and only four windows that would have a view of them. I go back to the search results and find another apartment in the same block. This one, unlike Phin’s, is currently available. It is not as nice as Phin’s but it’s perfectly pleasant. I send a booking request. Twenty-five minutes later I have paid for it and have the access instructions. No key, but a code. I can let myself in any time after midday. It is currently 9.10 a.m.

I am getting close now, so close that I can smell it.





38





‘Why did Dad choose us such lame names?’ says Marco, staring at his passport disdainfully.

‘He didn’t choose the names. We got what we were given.’

‘So shit. Antoine. I mean, do I look like a fucking Antoine?’

The evening before, Marco and Alf had told Lucy that they’d tracked Henry down. Apparently someone in a Tripadvisor chatroom had told Henry that Phin might be in Chicago. And a guy who ran a tour company said he was about to pick up a British guy from a hotel called the Dayville. She’d made one last attempt to contact Henry, this time using Alf’s phone, but when Henry blocked Alf’s number two minutes later, she’d known immediately what she had to do.

Libby had lost her adoptive father when she was a child and the thought that something might now happen to her birth father, before Libby had even had a chance to meet him, was too much for Lucy to take. So she drove Fitz to Libby’s, asked Oscar the building porter to feed Henry’s cats, emailed Stella’s and Marco’s schools to say they would not be in for a few days and then booked three one-way flights to Chicago.