“I still let them down.”
“No,” Max insists, his voice firmer now. He taps the brakes as, upahead, Simon does the same for no reason. “I think saying yes to Paula on Friday might have been the best thing you ever did.”
I smile, faintly. “I’m not going to win this one, am I?”
“Afraid not. I won’t let you punish yourself for what’s happened.” He flicks on his indicator, moves into the outside lane. The car surges forward. “Right, are you holding on? I’m about to top forty.”
—
As it turns out, trying to buy children’s affection with expensive birthday gifts doesn’t work, because when Dylan gets home with Tash, he frowns when he sees us.
I smile. “Hi, Dylan. Remember my friend Max?” I stop short of sayingUncle Max.
He might not, I suppose. Max has only met him once.
Dylan is so sweet in his oversized St. Edmund’s blazer, his blond hair neatly combed into a side parting. He reminds me of Prince George that time he met Obama in his dressing gown.
But Dylan’s frown deepens now, and he looks up at Max. “My mum doesn’t like you.”
Simon’s still not home, which is what doing thirty on the bypass does for you, but Tash has been hovering in the hall with their coats and Dylan’s book bag. She pretends she hasn’t heard, but she must have done, because Tash never misses a thing. “Right, Dylan!” she trills from the doorway, clapping her hands. “Homework time.”
Sorry, I mouth to Max, as Tash ushers Dylan upstairs. I hear her whispering to him as she goes.
Max shakes his head. “No, I’m a fan of straight talkers. He’ll go far.”
“He doesn’t mean it.”
“I think he probably does.”
My stomach swings with apprehension. The situation’s impossible, really: yes, Max did a terrible thing, but he and I have made a choiceto move on. Still, I guess you can’t assume everyone else will come with you. That’s not fair, either.
“This is no more than I deserve, Luce,” Max says, calmly.
“You don’t need to self-flagellate.”
“I know. I’m not.”
“You can honestly head off if—”
“Luce, if I feel a bit awkward for a few hours, it’s fine. I can handle it. I promise.”
—
Mum and Dad arrive an hour or so later, as it’s getting dark, with Macavity in a pet carrier. They’re moving in here with Tash and Simon until the cottage is sorted out.
As Tash makes sure everyone’s warm enough—I notice she’s tactfully avoided lighting the fire—Simon passes round brandies. He misses out me, and Max because he’s driving, making us both a latte from the posh machine instead.
I don’t know why, but as soon as we’re all sitting down, I start to cry—the great, hiccupping, ugly tears I’ve been holding in all day.
Max reaches out to rub my back, Mum and Dad make soothing noises, and Tash pleads with me not to blame myself. I know how this looks: that I’ve turned on the waterworks so no one gives me a hard time. But I feel genuinely awful about messing up.
“It’s juststuff, darling,” Dad says, from the opposite sofa. “The important thing is that you’re safe. God knows what would have happened if you’d been there. We’re glad you weren’t.”
“I keep telling her the same thing, Gus,” says Max.
At the sound of Max’s voice, there’s a pause so uncomfortable it makes my scalp prickle. It’s like they’ve all been pretending so hard he’s not here, they’re genuinely shocked to realize he actually is. Like a mannequin moving in a shop window. I’m unused to feeling this wayaround Max: he’s personable and warm, quick-witted, the kind of person everyone wants to sit with at the pub. Painful silences usually don’t get a look-in.
“So, tell us about your lovely weekend in Sussex,” Tash says to Mum, sipping her brandy. “Something to cheer us all up.”
