‘Am I okay?’ he exclaims now. ‘Of course I am. I can’t think of anything better, just being with you.’
‘D’you think it’ll be like Corsica?’ I ask, unable to keep down a smile.
He chuckles. ‘Well, I can’t imagine there’ll be any dog-related emergency this time, so …’
‘Oh, James, this is just what we need, isn’t it? Some time together, just the two of us?’
‘It’s absolutely what we need,’ he says. ‘Thank you. It was so thoughtful – an absolutely genius idea for people like us …’
‘People with lives and baggage,’ I say, laughing now.
‘Exactly,’ James says. ‘And I can’t wait.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ESTHER
‘Esther! It’s Esther Burton!’
She clatters up the tube station steps, ignoring the male voice behind her. She’s late of course, after reading that thing; that gratitude journal of Miles’s. She couldn’t just run straight out and be normal. For ages she sat there rereading what he’d written, imagining all kinds of scenarios – all involving a naked woman called Tabitha.
Tabitha’s tits. What did that mean? That he’d admired them from a distance? That he’d interacted with them? Feeling sick to her stomach, Esther had rummaged through Miles’s stuff for evidence of what he’d been up to. At least, as much as she could manage. He’s a hoarder. He doesn’t call it that, of course; he says he’s acurator.All those (unread) ancient leather-bound books, the dusty antiques and quirky ornaments (‘objets’, he calls them, pronounced the French way) tell the story of his life, he reckons. ‘It’s not clutter,’ Miles says. ‘It’sa living museum of me.’
‘Tosser,’ Esther mutters under her breath. What about the pants he’d thrown in the direction of the linen basket,and which are lying behind it all furred with dust? Are they part of the Miles Museum too?
With her heart racing, Esther had perched on the edge of the bed, still clutching that damn journal.Take a breath, Chrissie would advise,before jumping to conclusions.Had she misread it? Miles’s writing is awful, all jagged and scrawly, the letters lurching forward as if tumbling drunkenly on top of each other, whereas Esther’s is exceptionally neat. They taught them something at least, at Willow Vale. But no, that was definitely what he’d written. Maybe they weren’trealbreasts, attached to an actual woman he’d either slept with or wanted to sleep with, but just some fantasy thing swirling around his murky brain? Or he’d been watching porn (she’s caught him doing that before) and Tabitha was a girl he particularly liked?
While that hadn’t made Esther feel hugely reassured, she was aware that time was rattling on and she really should have set off by now. Her mum can be flaky about lots of things but she hates anyone being late. ‘D’you think your time is more valuable than other people’s?’ she once retorted. But Esther had to try and put her mind at rest. Only then could she go out and put on a smiley, festive face for her family.
So she’d sat for ages googling Tabitha’s tits. Of course it was just load of porn links that came up. None of it reassured her, and she still had a niggling feeling that Miles’s scribblings were probably connected to someone he knew in real life. Esther’s eyes were scratchy, her head thudding dully when she checked the time again. With a jolt she realised they’d all be at the restaurant already, rolling their eyes and complaining about her tardiness. So she quickly stashed the journal back in its box, shoved it back under the bed and rushed out.
‘Esther! Esther! Hey, don’t run away!’ It’s a bunch of boys who are shouting and laughing some way behind her as she reaches street level. She marches along with her head down against the light, steady rain, pretending they’re not there. ‘Hey, Esther! Come and talk to us!’ The boys are closer now. ‘Can we get a picture with you?’
She remembers her dad suggesting that, if she’s stuck for what to say to people, she could switch the focus to them and be nice and chatty, asking questions in order to deflect the attention. But she can’t do that tonight. She doesn’t have it in her to stop and be nice when they’re being jerks and she’s late –solate – already. Luc is probably gnawing a pig’s rectum by now.
‘Stuck-up bitch!’ one of the boys shouts.
‘Leave her alone,’ says another, laughing as if it’s just banter. Esther hates that word. It seems to be used by men as an excuse for being arseholes.It was only a bit of banter! Lighten up!She’s heard that plenty of times.
‘Give us a photo!’ the first one yells again. Something snaps in Esther and she spins around and almost laughs at the gaggle of boys who can only be around seventeen – Charlie’s age, although he’d never behave like this; she’s certain of that.
‘Do your mums know you’re out?’ she snaps.
‘What the fuck?’ the skinny one exclaims.
‘Just leave me alone, would you?’
‘We were shouting at you,’ he clarifies, looking put out.
‘Well, I don’t like being shouted at.’
‘Can we just have a photo?’ asks the heavily built one with a pink baby face and a fuzz of blond hair.
‘Sorry, not now.’ Why is she even apologising?
‘Aw, come on.’ Babyface steps forward and jabs at her wrist. ‘Just one picture, darlin’ …’ His arm flops around her shoulders.
‘Stop it!’ Instinctively, she shrinks away.
