—
Max drives us to Shoreley, breaking every rule of the road, plus a few extra ones. The whole way, I can barely think, the guilt like a swarm of bees in my brain.
“It’ll be okay,” he keeps saying. He’s had his hand on my leg since we left London, moving it only to change gear or navigate a roundabout. Zara and Max’s boss Tim, both gave us today off when we explained about the fire. But a small, selfish part of me is so scared of what we’re about to discover that I almost wish they’d said no.
Mum had asked me to house-sit for the weekend. She and Dad were going away—three nights in Sussex—and they’re always so paranoid about burglars, and their cat, Macavity, starving to death. Tash and Simon were in Bristol with Dylan, visiting Simon’s brother, so I said we would, but on Friday night it was impossible to get out of London. The A2 was gridlocked—a seven-car pileup, apparently—so we turned the car around. Both Mum’s and Dad’s phones were switched off (I tried not to think too hard about why) so eventually I rang their neighbor, Paula. She’d been away all week herself, which I guess is why Mum didn’t ask her.
Straightaway, Paula suggested we stay in London, save ourselves the trip altogether. Everything would be perfectly safe until Monday,she said, and she’d be sure to pop in on Macavity. She promised to contact Mum and Dad to let them know.
I had her on speaker at the time, and Max was kissing my neck, his fingers slipping in between the buttons on my shirt.Say yes, he mouthed, and I very nearly groaned out loud on the phone.
We’d both been working long hours all week and were exhausted. What we really needed to do was spend the weekend between the bed and the shower and the sofa, eating proper food. Not that it worked out that way in the end, but our intentions were good, if slightly lust-fueled.
So I said yes to Paula, made a note in my iCal to send her some thank-you flowers, then promptly forgot about the whole thing.
And now, it seems, that split-second decision has cost my parents everything.
—
I shouldn’t have let Max come. It’s always so awkward now when he’s with my family: he and Tash studiously avoid eye contact, and my parents deal with the discomfort by pretending he’s not there. All of which only draws attention to the one thing we’d all rather forget.
We’re wrapped up in our coats, standing on the pavement across the road from the cottage, like mourners watching a funeral cortège. Above our heads, seagulls are sailing briskly on the breeze, like it’s an ordinary winter’s day. But it’s not, of course, because the fire service is still working on the slowly smoking wreckage of the cottage. The air smells noxious. Only the lower floor is still intact, and what’s left is ragged and charred, like blackened tree trunks in the aftermath of a wildfire. The ugly remains of it alter how the whole street looks, and passersby are stopping to stare. For a moment it feels as though this can’t be real—like we’re on the set of a film about our life, gaping at the plot twist they’ve seen fit to throw in.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, my stomach grinding with guilt. I feel horrible not only about the fire but about the fact this is the first time I’ve visited Shoreley in three months. I’ve been so busy and loved-up, but that’s no excuse. Aside from anything else, I haven’t seen my nephew since his birthday.
Next to me, Max squeezes my hand. I know he’s desperate to reassure me, tell me none of this is my fault, but he probably feels he can’t—not out loud, anyway.
On my other side, I feel Tash glance at me, and for a moment I think she’s going to lecture me about how selfish I am, how I need to sort my life out, that I’m a terrible person and look what I’ve done. But she doesn’t. She just slips an arm around me, hugging me so close I can smell her shampoo.
—
By the time we’ve talked to Paula and the authorities and the insurance people, it’s midafternoon, so Max and I head back to Tash’s with Simon while Tash goes to pick Dylan up from school. Bizarrely, Mum and Dad took an unscheduled diversion to a coffee shop at lunchtime, and have been there ever since. Simon said we should leave them to it, as they’re obviously in shock. We figure they’ll join us back at the house when they’re ready, along with Macavity, who’s thankfully safe and currently gorging on copious quantities of tinned tuna at Paula’s.
“You can go if you want to,” I tell Max in the car, en route to Tash’s. “I can get the train home later.” We’re following Simon, who drives surprisingly slowly, like he’s about five decades older than he actually is. Either that, or he’s got six points on his license. He keeps stopping at roundabouts like they’re T-junctions, and I can tell Max is starting to find it quite funny.
“Go where?”
“Back to London.”
“Are you saying that because you think this is going to be awkward?”
I run my tongue over my teeth. I feel strung out and a little wired, like I’ve drunk too much coffee, even though I’ve only had a single cup today. I shake my head. “Just thought you might want to get off.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Ahead of us, Simon dithers at a slip road. “You could be right about that,” I say, and Max laughs.
Simon inches into fourth gear on the dual carriageway, and finally we leave Shoreley in our wake. Everything I can see is the color of charcoal—the road, the sky, the fume-stained bark of the leafless trees.
I turn my head toward Max, taking in the sight of his hands on the steering wheel, the quick flick of his eyes between lanes and signs and slip roads and traffic, his freshly shaved jaw, the dark neckline of his jumper against his collarbone.
I switch my gaze to the road again. “I have no idea how I’m going to come back from this, you know. I’m not sure they’ll ever be able to forgive me.”
“Nobody in their right minds would blame you for this, Luce. It was an overloaded socket. Even if we’d been there, there was nothing we could have done.”
I frown, look down at my hands. I got a manicure yesterday afternoon, in a color calledsiren red, which not only seems now like the height of self-absorption but also cruelly ironic.
Max puts a hand on my leg, making me good-shiver, despite the somber mood. “Don’t you think it’s lucky we weren’t there? The fire service said your parents’ smoke alarm wasn’t working. What if we’d been asleep and not realized?”
