‘Hey!’ A flash of fear lit his eyes. ‘I decided. This was my decision.’
‘Sure. Absolutely.’ Winning mattered a lot more to him than to me, he could have his victory.
Unsure of what to do, I went home again and FaceTimed Claire, who was still in bed in the SugarLoaf Inn, a mess of smeared lipstick, dishevelled hair and wonky eyelashes.
‘Hey,’ I said cautiously. ‘You look …’
‘Yeah.’ She groaned. ‘A good time was had by all. What’s up? What about you and Luke?’
‘Well, nothing really. He’s still with Kallie –’
‘– but you did sleep with him?’ Claire all but shrieked. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t!’
‘Claire, calm down, take it easy! We did. But that’s it, that’s all. We’re done. In a good way.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, no, no, no, no, this is a disaster. What about Quin?’
‘It’s over.’
‘Christ.’
‘Yeah, but …’ I hadn’t believed it last night when I’d been up to my oxters in delusion, but this morning I’d been prepared.
‘Lookit, I’ve to go. Need to puke. Debrief in Mum’s around five. Be there. She’s rewriting her will.’
I slept for the rest of that day, then went to Mum and Dad’s. Not because I cared about my ‘inheritance’ – Mum was forever rewriting her will, reallocating her gold-plated watches and miraculous medals. No one cared apart from her. But I liked the post-mortem of a party as much as the next person.
Throwing on some clothes, I tentatively probed my emotions – there was a mountain of shame for hurting Quin. And huge amounts of guilt about Kallie.
Quin having slept with Golden also burned, but in a peculiar second-hand fashion, as if a layer of cotton wool protected me. Perhaps the pain would come later.
The strangest feeling of all was about Luke. A calmness hummed in me, a sense of completion, as if a storm had blown itself out, revealing a world both peaceful and benign.
I rang Nola. Brusquely she ordered me to start writing my steps again. ‘Start step one tomorrow,’ she said. ‘An hour a day. Make it a priority.’
‘Okay.’ Then I left for my parents’ house.
In Mum’s Good Front Room the mood was subdued, all four of my sisters pale and quiet, curled on the couches, their clothing pyjamas or pyjamas-adjacent. Claire seemed to be wearing an actual duvet.
‘I’m sorry I bothered getting dressed,’ I said.
Mum, by far the most strung-out, was horribly, nervily jubilant. ‘Wasn’t it a great night?’ Underneath her left eye, a slight twitch was hopping.
‘A total triumph,’ I said. ‘I’ll just say hello to Dad.’
‘He’s watching the golf.’
In the TV room Dad and Angelo were happily side by side, facing the telly, each eating a bag of Monster Munch. Poor Dad, he was so happy on the rare occasions he had male company.
‘Everything okay here?’ I asked.
‘Gooch.’ Angelo winked.
‘What he said.’ Dad nodded. ‘It’s short for “Gucci”， he tells me.’
All very amiable.
Moving from their wholesome harmony back to the smoking-ruins vibe of the Good Front Room, Anna, delicious in a silk kimono, was asking, ‘Should I get the gin?’
‘Jesus Christ, no.’ Margaret, in blue tartan pyjamas, twisted her head to one side.
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘None of you are ever drinking again?’
‘Oh shut up!’ Mum cried. ‘You smug lump.’
‘Hey!’ Helen’s voice emerged from the depths of a black hooded dressing gown. ‘She gets one night a century to be smug, let her have it.’
‘Is there anything for an upset stomach?’ Margaret asked Mum.
‘Look in the kitchen. They’re in the fruit basket.’
‘Bring painkillers too,’ Helen called after her.
‘What do you need?’ Claire opened up her handbag. ‘I’ve got them all.’
Margaret had returned with the fruit basket, which contained an apologetic handful of fly-spotted grapes, one shrunken kiwi fruit and a veritable cornucopia of pills. ‘Okay. Who needs what?’
‘Something to stop the gawks,’ Helen said.
‘Motilium?’
‘Anything stronger?’
Margaret rummaged. ‘Stemetil?’ She read from a box. ‘They’re on prescription. They’d be good.’