Now
I woke up at 6 a.m., my mouth stale and lightly furred from the remnants of last night’s dynamic cocktail of beer, vodka miniatures from the ransacked mini-bar and, eventually, half an Ambien.
‘What the . . .’ I opened my eyes and felt a rush of disorientated panic. The walls, which I could barely see in the dim early-morning light, were papered with sprigs of lilac, a deep purple border running through the centre of it. Every perceivable surface was covered with tiny ceramic animals – goats, squirrels, fluffy little dogs, all of them staring out at me from the shelves. I sat bolt upright, my heart jumping into my throat and nestling in with the leftover vodka fug. I blinked once. Twice. Three times. I finally remembered. I was in England, in a giant old – but apparently not that old – house with my family and the Armstrongs and – oh, God – Ethan. I rolled over and smiled into the pillow, remembering the way we’d locked eyes last night. It had been brief, but it had meant something. I just knew it.
‘Baby, I need water! I’m literally dying of thirst, and my skin is going to freak out if I’m dehydrated. Please?’ Piper’s voice rang out as clear as a bell through the paper-thin wall. I listened to my future brother-in-law walk across the room and turn on the tap in the bathroom. He let out a long, gentle fart, followed by a long, gentle sigh before the pipes groaned and I heard water thunder into a glass. ‘Thank you!’ Piper sang. ‘Now get your cute butt back in bed.’ It became rapidly apparent that I needed to get out of earshot of the two of them, and fast.
I struggled to my feet. The room looked vaguely menacing, all those flat painted animal eyes staring at me from various shelves and nooks, and I wanted out of it as soon as possible. I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt I’d packed as pajamas – even though I had never once in my life worn pajamas – and crept downstairs. I could hear Mrs Willocks getting ready for the breakfast rush in the kitchen, and slipped past. I opened the front door and headed out onto the lawn, where a dew had settled overnight. I rubbed my arms for warmth and checked the time on my phone: 7 a.m., which meant it was 2 a.m. back in New Jersey. To hell with it, I decided, desperate times called for desperate measures. I hid next to the gardening shed and pressed dial.
Jess picked up on the third ring. ‘Hello?’ she said. There was an angry edge behind the grogginess in her voice, and I felt a stab of guilt for waking up a pregnant lady is the middle of the night.
‘Jess, it’s Ruby.’
‘Thank God you woke me up. I was having a nightmare that I had to give birth without painkillers. What’s up?’
‘I’m in England,’ I said, somewhat redundantly.
‘Yes, I am aware,’ she said. ‘Hang on, I’m just going to get up.’ I heard her grunt as she lifted herself out of bed, and then the sound of her footsteps padding down the hall. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’m in the clear. Now give me the full update: have you and Ethan had sex yet?’
‘No, but . . .’ I chewed at a stray cuticle and stared out across the grass. ‘I think we had a moment.’
‘No shit. Tell me everything.’
‘There’s nothing to tell, really. We just – I don’t know. We were at the pub and we ended up alone at the table and he was like, “it’s really cool seeing you again” and I was like, “me too”.’
‘And then you lunged across the table and licked his face?’
‘Not exactly. Dad and Candace came back from having a cigarette –’
‘They were smoking? Is it 1997 over there?’
‘– and the moment was sort of lost. But it was definitely a moment.’
‘Did you invite him back to your room?’
I pushed down a flash of irritation – I felt like she wasn’t taking me seriously. That said, I’m sure Jess would have preferred it if I’d just pulled him into a bathroom stall at Heathrow and asked questions later. She was always a lunatic, but since settling down in the sticks she was taking this whole ‘living the single life vicariously’ thing to a new level. I was secretly thankful she’d never got into Fifty Shades – I’m sure she would have bought me a ball cock for my birthday.
‘Of course I didn’t! We’re in the same hotel as my dad and my sister – gross. Plus, I didn’t really get the chance to talk to him again. We got back and he basically went immediately to his room.’
‘Well, obviously I would have liked you to have made more progress, but I’ll take what I can get.’
‘Come on, it was a good moment!’
‘Okay! Okay! You had a moment.’ I could practically hear her grinning down the phone at me. ‘So you’re happy?’
‘It’s so weird – all of this time has gone by, and then it’s like – BAM! – here we are again.’ I was happy. It felt good to be letting go a little, opening myself up to new possibilities. I sighed – I knew what was coming.
‘I don’t want to have to say it but, I told you so!’
‘You’re a liar – you so wanted to say it.’
‘You’re right, I loved it. But still, it’s so romantic!’
‘I guess it is.’ I had wandered off into a tiny daydream about Ethan’s hand on the small of my back when I heard the sound of liquid splashing onto porcelain. ‘Wait, are you peeing while you’re on the phone with me?’
‘It’s called multitasking, and yes, I am. What’s the big deal? You’ve seen me pee a million times!’
I thought back to the dingy frat room bathrooms, disabled stalls in throbbing New York bars, and the occasional Brooklyn alleyway where Jess had pulled down her underwear without warning and said, ‘Cover me.’
‘All unwillingly,’ I pointed out.
There was the flush of a toilet. ‘There, finished. Now, where were we? Ah yes – romance!’
‘I feel like the atmosphere has been slightly punctured by the bathroom break, to be honest,’ I said.
‘Then you wouldn’t last a day in married life.’ Her voice dropped, suddenly serious. ‘If things do work out with you and Ethan, are you going to tell him?’
Her words felt like the equivalent of popping a child’s balloon at his own birthday party. ‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I don’t think there’s any need. It’s all in the past, remember? Better just to move forward.’
‘I think you’re right,’ she said, though I don’t think either of us was fully convinced. ‘No point in airing out dirty laundry now, right?’
‘Exactly. Now go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you up – I hope you won’t be too exhausted tomorrow.’
‘Please, between the bowling ball sitting on top of my bladder and Noah’s night terrors, I’m used to operating on about an hour and a half of sleep a night. I had my quota before you called.’
‘I love you,’ I said. ‘Thanks for picking up the phone.’
‘Always. Love you too. Let me know as soon as you have another moment, only for Chrissakes, kiss him next time.’
I hung up the phone and crept back to my room, wincing every time I stepped on a creaky floorboard. A soothing voice coming from the radio in the kitchen was discussing the results of a recent census of the local otter population, while Mrs Willocks tutted rhythmically to herself. All of the doors were still shut tightly, everyone desperate to sleep off their jet lag or put off facing each other around the breakfast table. The light was now streaming in through the window in my room, and I threw open the sash and thrust my head out, sucking in great lungfuls of fresh air and feeling it carry the musty, close smell of the house out with it.
I lay on the bed and flicked through my emails, several of which had been marked urgent. I battled my way through as many as I could before finally trundling downstairs, my stomach tied in a neat bow of anxiety. So much for a vacation.
I seemed to be the first to arrive for breakfast, and settled into one of the tall oak dining chairs. The table was spread with a starched white cloth littered liberally with crocheted doilies, and in the centre was an ornate urn over spilling with lilacs. It was beautifully laid out, but the overall effect was more funereal than I was used to for breakfast. I slid a heavy beaded napkin ring off and spread the linen napkin on my lap. I felt my posture improve immediately.
‘Morning!’ I looked up to see Mrs Willocks sail into the room, holding what looked like a knitted rooster in one hand and a heaped, steaming plate of food in the other. She was wearing a stiff white apron over a floral-sprigged dress, and her legs were encased in shiny taupe tights, the kind that Piper had worn at tap-dancing recitals as a kid. ‘Tea?’ she asked, gesturing towards the rooster.
‘Sure,’ I said. I actually wanted coffee, but I was too fascinated by the rooster contraption to stop her. Mrs Willocks lowered the rooster to my cup and poured a long stream of weak-looking tea from it.
She must have clocked the look of incredulity on my face because she nodded towards the rooster and said, ‘Tea cozy. Sweet, isn’t it? I’ll get you your milk in a second.’
‘Very,’ I said, looking down at the plate of fried eggs and sausage and trying not to appear disappointed. ‘You don’t have any yogurt, do you? Or some cereal?’
‘Do you not like a hot breakfast?’ Mrs Willocks asked, eyes narrowing. ‘It’s the best way to start the day, you know.’ She gestured towards the sausages. ‘Lovely, those. Fresh from the butchers yesterday!’
They did look amazing – plump and golden, the meat escaping its skin at the ends. I felt my stomach growl. Tomorrow I’ll go for a run, I promised myself. I speared a sausage and took a bite. It was delicious. And I’ll do some sit-ups, I added.
‘And where are the rest of your party?’ Mrs Willocks asked, clucking impatiently. ‘The Armstrongs were down here at seven a.m. sharp, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the rest of them, and it’s nearly half-eight!’
‘Jet lag.’ Or they’re all nursing their incapacitating hangovers, I added silently. When I’d finally climbed up the stairs to my room the night before, Candace was leading my dad and the Armstrongs in a rousing chorus of ‘If You Like Piña Coladas’.
‘Well,’ Mrs Willocks said, hands on hips, ‘I hope they show their faces soon – it’ll get cold sitting out here much longer!’
‘More for me!’ I said merrily. And maybe some squats, I thought. I reached over and buttered a thick piece of white toast. I sank my teeth into it, letting the butter dissolve on my tongue. I hadn’t had white toast since Bush was in office – I’d forgotten how completely, utterly perfect it is. Definitely squats tomorrow.
Just then, Candace and Dad rounded the corner, both looking bloated and exhausted.
Dad summoned up his best showman’s smile. ‘Good morning, sunshine!! How’s everybody doing this morning? What a feast! I have to say, Mrs Willocks, this looks absolutely fantastic! Candace and I overindulged a little last night, so this will clear out the old cobwebs. Won’t it, sweetheart?’ He squeezed Candace around the waist. She swallowed, hard, and then lowered herself carefully into a seat and started nibbling at the corner of a piece of dry toast.
‘Poor Candy is a little under the weather,’ he said, nodding towards her. He reached over and helped himself to a couple of eggs and a few tomatoes, all of which he piled onto three pieces of heavily buttered toast. ‘Now’s not the time to worry about my cholesterol, am I right, kiddo?’
‘How’s your head?’
‘Oh, fine, fine. You know me – constitution like an ox! How about you? Did you sleep off your jet lag? You seemed pretty spaced out when we got back.’
I had a vague memory of staring at a strip of flocked wallpaper in the drawing room and replaying the look that Ethan and I had exchanged while my dad and Bob shouted over each other about Tiger Woods. I blushed. ‘I slept like a log,’ I said.
‘Good, good. I tell you, Mrs Willocks, that mattress of yours – like sleeping on a cloud!’
I thought back to my own bed, which was lumpen, hard, and topped with a pair of flaccid pillows, and raised an eyebrow at him. He winked back.
‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear it, Mr Atlas. I do like to make sure my guests are comfortable.’
‘Like a pig in shit,’ Dad said, and the look on Mrs Willocks’s face suggested he’d gone too far. ‘Pardon my French,’ he added before turning his full attention towards demolishing several rashers of bacon.
Ethan walked in, followed by Charlie and Piper. Ethan was wearing jeans and a slightly-too-small T-shirt that rode up to reveal a slash of his torso when he reached across the table for the ketchup. His hair was rumpled from sleep and his eyes slightly bleary. The morning had taken the edge off him, and the wealthy, confident sheen of yesterday was replaced by something like the boyishness I used to know. I wanted to reach out and touch him, feel the warmth of his skin and the solidity of his bones. But instead I sat up even straighter in my chair and tried to catch his eye. When I finally did, across a plate of slowly congealing eggs, he gave me a quick smile before turning his attentions to his toast.
Well, I thought, a guy’s got to eat, right? We can’t always be having a moment, particularly when there were sausages to be eaten. I speared another and took a bite, but it was cold now and the fat stuck to the back of my teeth.
‘Let me get you a fresh plate of eggs,’ Mrs Willocks said, bustling in and sweeping the platter off the table. ‘And some fresh tea and toast, too.’ She addressed all of this to Ethan, and from the pinkish glow in her cheeks I could tell she’d developed a crush. ‘Or do you want something else, pet?’ she asked. ‘I could knock you up some porridge as quick as you like! Or some of those pancakes you Americans love so much?’
‘This is wonderful, thank you,’ he said smoothly, and I saw his polished surface begin to re-emerge. ‘Don’t go to any extra trouble on my account.’
‘I’d love some porridge,’ Piper said. She looked like she could faint with relief as she pushed away the plate of eggs she’d been idly forking. ‘I’m not really meant to eat eggs or meat or stuff with gluten,’ she said with an apologetic shrug.
‘Of course, love!’ Mrs Willocks said, and disappeared into the kitchen with a flourish of her apron.
‘I didn’t know eggs were on your hit list now,’ I said. ‘What the hell is left? Chickpeas and kombucha?’
‘I can’t help if I have a sensitive stomach,’ she said, chin held defiantly high. ‘And chickpeas make me bloated.’
‘If your stomach got any more sensitive, it would be writing you love poems and leaving them in your locker,’ I said. I saw Ethan crack a smile and felt disproportionately proud.
Bob and Barbara walked in, both pink-cheeked and windswept and bedecked in matching fluorescent technical jackets. ‘Who’s up for a bit of adventure?’ Barbara cried, waving her umbrella in the air. In the twenty-four hours she’d been in the country, she’d managed to pick up a faint English accent. ‘We’d better get a move on if we’re going to make it to Alnwick before the tourists!’
There was a collective suppressed groan around the breakfast table. I took another bite of cold sausage and washed it down with a swallow of tea: I was beginning to suspect I’d need all the energy I could get today.
‘Come on, chaps!’ Bob called. ‘Chop chop!’