Florence and I walk into the lounge hand in hand to greet my family. Hopefully, this will be our first Sunday lunch of many.
***
The dining table seats six, so there’s usually an empty chair beside me, but not today. Florence deciding to come for lunch is part of the reason why I’m so into her. She didn’t have to. She could have made some lame excuse to get out of it. But whether she agreed to it because she felt obligated or because she likes me, I can’t tell. She’s one of those inscrutable types. Yet shedidhold my hand and only dropped it when Mum shooed us through to the dining room, so I’m encouraged by that.
Andrew is being smarmily polite to Florence but openly gawking at her, which is making me want to laugh. Amber isn’t any better—steadily eating her meal and half listening to Andrew’s prattle in her right ear, but with her eyes roving over Florence. Dad, at the head of the table, is on his best behaviour (namely not burping). To give Florence credit, she’s handling it well. Either she’s blithely unaware of the attention, or she’s used to it and chooses to ignore it.
Mum is the only one who’s acting passably normal. She’s asking the usual sorts of questions you’d expect from a stranger, and I’m finding out things without having to pry. Excellent. So far, Mum has discovered where Florence lives (Ramsay Garden in the Old Town), her flatmates’ names (Sadie and Hester), and that she’s writing a book.
‘What’s that about?’ I ask curiously, wondering why Florence didn’t mention it at the bar. Perhaps I didn’t ask the right questions. Then again, my mum is quite astute. She’s an anthropology professor who lectures at Edinburgh University and is used to analysing whole societies based on the barest of evidence.
‘It’s a memoir,’ says Florence after a reluctant pause.
‘Aren’t you a little young to write a memoir?’ Amber says, sounding amused.
‘I’m an old soul,’ replies Florence. There’s a flinty edge to her tone, and I glance up from my meal to see Amber isn’t smiling anymore.
‘You don’t have to be old in years to have life experience,’ I tell her. ‘Some people pack a lot in before they’re even 30.’
‘Exactly,’ says Florence. But she doesn’t elaborate on what her life experiences are or explain why they would merit writing a book.
‘Are you going to try and get a publisher for it?’ asks Mum. ‘That would be exciting.’
‘Maybe. When it’s finished.’ I can tell by her flat tone that she’s sorry she mentioned it.
‘What’s your surname, Florence?’ asks Dad, studying her.
‘Hughes,’ she replies steadily.
He flattens his lips and frowns. ‘You look really familiar to me, but I can’t put my finger on it. You’re not an actor, are you? Theatre?’
Florence shakes her head and laughs a little. ‘No, that’s my flatmate Hester’s side gig. She’s into amateur dramatics.’
Dad! For God’s sake, leave her alone.I scowl and shake my head at him.
‘Oh well, I’m sure it will come to me. I’ve got a good memory for faces.’
‘It’s all those sudokus, darling,’ says Mum fondly.
He drops it, thank goodness as it’s getting embarrassing. But Florence doesn’t seem to mind, outwardly anyway.
‘Does anyone want any more? There’s some beef left. Florence? You haven’t eaten much.’
Mum hands her the plate before she can say no. ‘OK, thank you.’
Florence takes a slice. I notice she’s pushed what few vegetables she had to the side. Then again, so have my dad and I as it’s Brussels sprouts, and we hate them.
Looks like Bitsy’s going to be getting a vegetarian supper,I think.
Speaking of which, I can hear distant whining and growling. She emits a volley of sharp barks, and Florence jerks next to me.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘She’s in the laundry. I put her theremyself.’
Florence gives me a grateful smile.
Bitsy yaps again, and Mum says, ‘Strange, she never usually barks. She must be hungry.’
Mum loads some scraps of beef onto a small plate and goes off to feed her. But a few moments later, there’s the sound of scampering paws, and there she is in the doorway: a tiny ball of white fluff with black beady eyes—Mum’s third child. She must have evaded her and run out to see everyone.
