The Burnout(46)

Finn and I exchange shifty glances.

“I’m trying not to use my phone,” I say. “Digital detox. Maye you could just … tell me?”

“Of course,” says Cassidy unsuspectingly. “Here you are.” She hands me a printed sheet inviting me to a Special Lobby Concert, featuring Herbert Wainwright on French Horn and Other Acts.

“Great!” I try to sound enthusiastic. “I’ll do my best to make it.”

“Marvelous! And now, the caves. You’re all booked for this afternoon, two P.M. Both of you,” she adds to Finn. “Enjoy!”

“Both of us?” I echo, taken aback.

“Yes, you both expressed interest, and that’s the only available slot. In fact, you’re the only takers.” Cassidy lowers her voice. “They’re opening up just for you.”

I glance awkwardly at Finn.

“Is that a problem?” he says at once. “Because I’m happy to bow out if you’d rather tour the caves alone.”

“No, no,” I say a bit stiffly. “You go and enjoy the caves. I’ll bow out.”

“Aren’t you polite?” cries Cassidy in admiration. “Why don’t you both go? They’re big caves, you know. You can easily avoid each other. I know that’s your thing,” she adds knowledgeably. “Avoiding each other. I’ve marked it on your notes.”

“Yes, I guess that is our thing,” says Finn, his mouth twitching as he meets my eye.

“We try our best.” I nod.

“That’s settled, then,” says Cassidy. “And I’ll order you a taxi there, if you like. If you don’t mind sharing?” she adds warily. “Because if you do, I could always order two taxis.”

Oh my God. What would we look like, arriving there in convoy?

“No, it’s fine,” I say, glancing at Finn for confirmation. “We can share a taxi, I’m sure?”

“We’ll stare out of opposite windows,” agrees Finn, deadpan. “I won’t speak or move a muscle, and maybe you could do the same.”

He’s quite funny, I’m realizing. Underneath his frowny, bad-tempered demeanor.

“Well, if that’s all, I must just pop to the kitchen,” says Cassidy, coming out from behind the desk. “Nice to see you both. You know, you do look like a couple,” she adds musingly. “Funny that you’re not, isn’t it?”

“Well,” I say, feeling my face heat up. “It’s …”

I’m not sure how to finish that sentence.

“Hilarious,” says Finn.

As Cassidy starts walking across the lobby, I call out quickly, “Wait, before you go, what about the champagne on the beach? You’re sure it’s nothing to do with the hotel? Because it’s glass. We shouldn’t leave it there. What do you think we should do?”

Cassidy turns back and looks at me, apparently nonplussed, then shrugs. “Drink it?”





Eleven



True to his promise, Finn sits in total silence all the way to the caves, and if he’s breathing, I can’t hear it. I sit facing the other way, equally silent and rigid, determined to match his implacability. But as we get near, my calmness starts to slip. These are roads I haven’t seen for years, and they remind me so strongly of Dad that I feel a physical ache.

The caves were his thing. Whenever we visited them, Mum would stay behind and have a little nap, whereas Dad would leap at the chance to clamber about the caverns and give us talks on rock formation. “Look,” he’d say every year, his glasses gleaming with enthusiasm in the dim subterranean light. “This rock is a thousand years old. Nearly as old as me!”

Every year we took the same cheesy picture of ourselves grinning self-consciously in the Rainbow Cave, our favorite of the caverns. I searched out those photos last night and scrolled through, watching the gradual unfolding of time. Dad looks the same enthusiastic, slightly goofy dad every year, barely aging beyond a thinning of the hair. But Kirsten and I transform, year by year. In the first photo, I’m a toddler; I only reach Dad’s knees. By the age of twelve I’m up to his shoulder.

I’d be up to his ears now, almost eye to eye. And he’d be gray. He never went gray. He’s eternally forty-six.

A tear runs down my cheek, and in embarrassment I wipe it away. I’m hoping Finn won’t notice, but he must be more aware than he lets on, because he asks quietly, “Are you OK?”

“It’s just my dad used to bring us here every year. When he was alive. I was remembering.” I force a smile. “It’s fine.”

The taxi pulls up and I busy myself with finding cash—we’re going strictly half-and-half on the fare. By the time we’re both standing on the street, I’ve got my composure back, but Finn is surveying me in consternation.

“Have you just been through—” He stops himself. “I don’t want to pry, but are you here because you’re grieving?”

“No, Dad died years ago. I’m here because of … something else.” There’s a long beat of silence, and for a moment I consider leaving it there. But I have a weird compulsion to confide in him. Finn’s seen my messed-up lodge; he knows something’s up—he might as well know the whole story. “I had a flip-out at work,” I explain, avoiding his eye. “I was quite stressed. It all got a bit much, and … Anyway. The doctor signed me off. I needed some time out. So …” I spread my arms around. “Came here.”