The Things We Do to Our Friends(38)

“We’ve invested more and more over the years, especially when the house started to work for us as a set. It seemed like the right thing to do. People come, and they all say the same thing—they walk in and they can’t believe it. Everyone thinks we’re sitting on this massive pile of money, and it just isn’t true. There isn’t much else. This is our only asset.”

“That makes total sense.”

“It doesn’t. None of this does. But I want to know what he would do.”

“Absolutely,” Tabitha said.

“That’s the top priority,” Mrs. Landore continued. “Then the second is the house. I need to think about the house.” Her voice, which had been so level, had taken on a shrillness, a new side to her. I could picture her screeching at someone for placing something on the clean countertops or traipsing over the marble floor in muddy boots. I almost felt sorry for the occupants, living in this glass cage.

“I understand completely,” Tabitha said.

But how could she?

Ava piped up. “Mrs. Landore, this has been so instructive. Now, I know you and I have discussed the details, so you understand what we can do for you. We don’t need to go into all that unless you have any questions.” Ava sounded like the lawyer she was training to become.

Eve Landore shook her head. “I don’t.” And after staring at Tabitha the whole time, she ripped her gaze away to look reluctantly at me.

“You, I think.”

Me.

I could feel Tabitha willing me not to speak and I just tried the smile I’d seen her do many times—gracious and open. It came out as more of a grimace and Mrs. Landore turned away from me as if she suddenly found me disgusting.

“Thank you,” said Tabitha. “I don’t think there’s anything further to talk about. We’ll leave you to enjoy your day. It was very nice to meet you.”

Tabitha was so excruciatingly formal with her.

Walking back up the driveway, she was ecstatic. “It’s ideal. We need to suss out Tom, but, Clare, you were fantastic.” She beamed at me and did a little girlish jump. Ava quickly pulled at her arm to stop her, as it was likely Mrs. Landore could still see us from inside.

“I didn’t do anything!” I said.

“I know, and it went exactly how I imagined it would go. Just do the same next time.”

The whole thing had seemed clumsy and awkward to me.

“I have all the material,” said Ava.

“Material?” I asked.

“Yup, and as you’ll be doing it, Imogen will discuss how we’ll run it with you both.”

“It’ll be fine!” Tabitha trilled.

I soon learned that would always be her mantra, smoothing over our worries.

The Landores were where it all began, and in that first meeting, if I repelled Mrs. Landore, then there was also something about her that made me recoil too. As if her frosty sadness was contagious and would brand me in some painful and permanent way.





29


To go back, though. Back to before we met Mrs. Landore, before we’d looked out of the window for dolphins that weren’t there and communicated with clunky eye contact as we tried not to speak over each other and been our most sincere and businesslike, before all of that, we’d had months of preparation. Starting in May when exams tailed off, we decided we’d stay in Edinburgh. Ava, Tabitha, and me.

I moved between Finn’s tiny studio flat—where I was a partially welcome guest, as long as I didn’t talk about the group too much and focused on him—and Tabitha’s grand flat. Georgia and Ashley were keen for me to move in with them that coming September, which felt like an easy option, as there was no room for me with The Shiver, but for the time being, before the new term, I was happy to crash on Tabitha’s sofa in the drawing room, where we never closed the curtains, so the light flooded in each morning, waking me up.

I’d potter around before everyone got up and dream of living there with them.

Imogen was always in and out. She maintained a lot of hobbies that kept her busy, like the recorder (I’d yet to meet any other willing recorder players over the age of ten) and hockey, which she did, but rarely mentioned. I knew why: Tabitha was ever so scathing of anything that didn’t directly impact the plans.

“Imogen craves a distraction,” Tabitha said coldly of it all. And I think she was right. It suited Imogen to stay involved and leech moodily off the excitement, but she also seemed to be hedging her bets with other things to fill her time. Which made sense, as she was never quite able to ascend the ranks.

Samuel went back to London often, to a flurry of balls and parties and excursions that we knew very little of. That was fine; it was permitted because it was networking, and it all helped the grand cause. He wrote the most excruciating copy for Perfect Pieces, reading the descriptions out to us in the evenings and making Imogen in particular wince (she winced but didn’t move away—she’d never forfeit an opportunity to listen to Samuel), but I could tell he was enjoying his position managing it.

“You’ll come down?” he’d suggested to me hopefully one night before he left. I shook my head. I didn’t offer an excuse, and he didn’t push any further or take offense. I wondered if he might come back with a girlfriend after that long summer—a London summer with real heat for weeks, and warm flesh on the Tube. When I imagined it, I always based it on memories that I didn’t have—I’d hardly been to London—but in my head he was alongside all his friends from school: days at the races, long evenings in tuxes with too much to drink, too many drugs, and a girl kissing him. A girl with no face—I couldn’t picture what she’d be like. I also wondered how I’d feel if that happened. Would I be jealous?