The Things We Do to Our Friends(9)
“Tonight. Is that too soon? You’re not working, are you?” She treated the job at the bar with an over-the-top respect.
I shook my head. A wrong move could lead to her taking the invitation back.
“Great, we’ll see you there at seven,” she said.
“Okay, will it just be us three?”
“Oh God, no,” Tabitha squawked. “You must be sick of the sight of us, especially Imogen—she’s such a fucking downer. Samuel will be there too, and Ava.”
Imogen rolled her eyes. Something she did so frequently, it meant very little.
It was the first I’d heard of Ava or Samuel. There had been no further mention of the two boys from the bar, who I guessed were minor players. Still, I was glad the group was larger. That would work better for me.
“Imogen’s a great cook,” Tabitha said, throwing her a tidbit, and Imogen nodded semi-modestly. Placated.
We didn’t discuss it any further, and I went back to annotating slides and listening to our professor talk about the genesis of Fauvism.
Tabitha ignored him and doodled a love heart on her notepad next to her hacked Rembrandt. This sketch was not to be—his face had dissolved in a nest of pen scrawl. She speared it with an arrow and spent the rest of the lecture gouging a dark rain shower on either side, stabbing her pen so hard at the paper that the ink stained through to the desk.
7
My stomach heaved as I waited, a sick feeling that wasn’t unpleasant. There was no unmarked doorbell like most of the other student flats; instead, there was an engraved plaque with her surname, so I knew where to ring. She buzzed me in, and I found myself in a tiled entrance, the floor patterned with colors from an auction room—deep ruby reds and snooker-table greens. A circular staircase curved up away from me.
We were right in the center of the New Town, just off Dundas Street. I knew the area because, during my first weekends in Edinburgh, I had walked those streets often in the evenings if I had an hour or two to spare between lectures and work. It was nothing like the Old Town, where swarms of tourists blocked the roads and the buildings looked as if they might, at any point, topple into the crowded streets like creaking old dominos. Where Tabitha lived seemed a world away. This part of the city was so quiet. Similarly hilly, but much more orderly, with spacious, tree-lined streets. So many sweeping crescents framed by lengths of spindly wrought-iron fences that protected gated gardens—always locked to keep out the public. At twilight, drawing rooms were lit up for display with barely a soul in them; instead, the glowing lamps were a statement of wealth projected outwards—a show of shallow benevolence for the masses. Later, the monied owners pulled across the tall shutters and quietly closed off their homes to the world as night drew in.
I climbed the stairs, up to the highest flat in the building, where Tabitha opened the door, her cheeks flushed. Warm heat rushed out and hit me in the face. I handed her a bunch of lilies dyed orange and a bottle of Pinot Noir—a far more expensive bottle than I’d usually buy.
“Come in, come in,” Tabitha said, grinning. “It’s a total madhouse here, so forgive us!” She sounded unapologetic as she ditched the wine and the flowers on the table—a rustic oak affair sitting center stage in a large kitchen with gleaming silver appliances.
I regretted my decision—I could see the flowers would look garish, like the slash of a child’s crayon drawing, against the russet carpet. Later, I would discover that the present guaranteed to make Tabitha’s eyes light up was far easier and cheaper to procure—a simple scratch card was the way to her heart.
“I’m so excited for you to meet everyone. I’ll give you a tour of the flat.” Her hands firmly on my arm.
We made our way down the corridor, and she spoke as we walked. “So Immy is here. And Ava, who lives with us. She’s lovely, but she won’t show it, so don’t worry about her. Samuel’s here too, of course, but he’s probably hiding—he’s an absolute sweetheart as well. He’ll like you—you’ll see.”
To the end of the hall where there were three doors for three bedrooms, each closed. She didn’t offer to show me them and they didn’t seem part of the tour; instead, she pulled me into the drawing room.
The space almost perfectly matched my romantic dream of what a drawing room should look like. This was the jewel of a Georgian tenement building, with bay windows set in severe symmetry and brocade curtains opened onto the glittering streetlamps below.
It was the lighting that got to me. In my flat, there was one glaring overhead bulb that was always on, bright and ruthless and buzzing. Here, there was no central light but lamps of varying sizes; candles and uplighters on the portraits gave the room a fuzzy radiance. And a fire, an actual fire! I stopped myself from running up and warming my hands. I noted there was no TV, which didn’t surprise me at all. There were pictures everywhere, though, framed paintings and photographs, so I hardly got a chance to look closely, but there was one that caught my eye. A much younger Tabitha, gap-toothed and standing outside a big house that looked like it was somewhere hot, all blue skies, long grasses around her ankles.
“Here’s Samuel,” Tabitha said.
He sat at the window with his laptop open, focused intently on the screen. As I entered, he slammed it shut and rose to greet me. I saw how broad he was. More man than boy.