George takes his phone out of his pocket and opens theTribuneapp. He can feel the group watching for his reaction. His eyes widen. The top image shows George with his arm around his friend; Miles’s face is creased by the breadth of his grin, and George’s head is cocked back in an open smile. Under the picture is a headline with a gleeful tone to match.Smiles for Miles: Young actor’s relief after being foundNot Guiltyof murder.George reads a couple of lines of the story then slips his phone back into his pocket. He shrugs. ‘So what?’
Miles purses his lips. ‘It looks a bit more celebratory than we’d have liked.’
George snakes his left arm around Miles, locking his head tight in the crook of his elbow exactly as in the photo. ‘Weshouldbecelebrating. Wearecelebrating. Forget about it – this will be old news before you know it.’
‘George is right,’ Carl says, ‘this will all be forgotten about in a few weeks. You can’t let this ruin your life for a minute longer.’
George crams a puff pastry tart into his mouth and speaks as he chews, the tang of red onion on his tongue. ‘Cheer up everyone, it’s like a bloody morgue in here.’
His eye lands on Elis and catches his reaction: a slight eye-roll – barely detectable. He’s caught him doing that before. But if Elis has got a problem with George, then he’s going to have to get used to him, because Miles is his best friend, and George was here long before Elis started following him about.
‘So, where are we going tonight?’ George asks, looking expectantly at Miles.
David, Miles’s solicitor, unperches himself from a stool and sets his wine glass down on the island of white marble. ‘Miles isn’t goinganywhere. Not tonight.’
‘What’s the plan, then?’
‘Just a couple of drinks here,’ Miles says. ‘Reubyn will be here soon – we can finish planning our trip.’
Elis takes his phone out of his pocket. ‘Actually, I’ve been doing some research for the trip, I’ve got loads of—’
‘Elis, I didn’t know you were coming?’
Elis looks at George and raises his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t Miles mention it?’
‘I thought I did,’ Miles says.
‘Anyway, I’ve been looking at accommodation options for Fiordland,’ Elis says. ‘It’s supposed to be one of the most stunning places on Earth. Look, I found these.’
George sighs inwardly as Elis swipes through pictures of log cabins in the middle of nowhere. Fiordland. They could save a fortune by going to Norway if they want to look at fjords. Georgewaves at Polly and ushers her over, sensing he needs an ally. The trip is meant to be abreakfor Miles, a bit of light relief. He needs to be spending a lot more time in a jacuzzi than a pair of hiking boots. ‘Pol, come here. What do you think of this?’
Polly strolls over and eyes Elis’s phone with the look of reluctance George was hoping for. ‘Yeah, I don’t think now is a great time to be planning a holiday, do you? Miles probably wants to chill out for a bit.’
They turn to Miles, who shrugs. ‘It’s fine. I want to. The sooner the better.’
Polly gives Miles a look that George finds difficult to read. She has changed clothes since they were in court, into a loose-fitting black shirt that accentuates her dark features, the messy fringe and long, wet-looking eyelashes.
‘And where do you want to go?’ George askes Miles.
‘Polly and I talked about starting in Queenstown. It’s got the scenery that he wants’ – pointing a finger at Elis – ‘and enough fancy wine bars and vineyards to drain even your bank account, George.’
George smiles and makes brief eye-contact with Elis. ‘Sounds lovely.’ He’s not entirely convinced by the plan, but Miles needs him to be positive right now, and besides, what he’s suggesting makes a lot more sense than whatever Elis has in mind; if he wants to do climbing or orienteering or any other Duke of Edinburgh Award nonsense, he’s picked the wrong group of people. Polly, for one, wouldn’t be seen dead in a set of crampons. As for Reubyn, he would get out of breath just lacing up a pair of boots.
George raises his free hand to excuse himself. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’ He sidles over to the long kitchen counter, Bluetooths his phone to the Deverills’ speaker set-up, and begins queuing up songs on Spotify. What’s needed here is uplifting music, stuff that marks the occasion for what it is – the night when Miles gets his freedom back. He picks ‘Drop It Like It’s Hot’by Snoop Dogg, and ‘Celebration’by Kool & The Gang to kick things off,then goes in search of titles that fit the context of what’s just happened. There’s a playlist called ‘Freedom’ created at the time of the Brexit referendum, and the top song is called ‘Free Bird’ by someone named Lynyrd Skynyrd. George doesn’t know what it is, but, thematically, it sounds ideal, so it gets added to the queue. He picks a dozen or so more, then presses play on his newly curated Spotify list and smiles at the slow beat clopping out of the speakers: the first song is perfect. For a club tune it’s tastefully down-tempo, and will warm people up nicely. The volume can go up in a few minutes when everyone has settled into the groove.
George scans the room and can’t see Miles. He leaves the kitchen, swaggering to Snoop Dogg, and finds his friend in the hallway, staring at his phone. George peers over his shoulder. On the screen is theTribunearticle he was looking at earlier.
‘Why are you still reading that story?’
‘I don’t know. Some of the comments on it are a bit rough.’
George puts an arm around Miles’s shoulders, speaks loudly into his ear. ‘You can’t pay any attention to it, mate. The people who write the comments are complete morons. Don’t even look at them.’
‘Yeah, I know, but it’s hard not to.’
George is opening his mouth to reply when the doorbell goes – a heavy trill, like an old telephone. He raises one eyebrow. ‘Want me to get it?’
‘Nah,’ Miles says. ‘It’s just Reubyn.’
