She took his hand. ‘Hi. I’m Savannah.’
‘Savannah . . .?’ He kept holding her hand, waiting for her surname, like someone’s embarrassing uncle.
‘The bathroom is this way,’ said Savannah.
‘I’ll show him the bathroom,’ said Amy, and she knew she sounded thirteen. Then she said, ‘Well, but you know, what actually is your last name, Savannah?’
Because how were they going to secretly investigate her if they didn’t even know her last name? Did their parents even know it? They may never have even asked and had probably never bothered to Google her, just blithely believing every word she had to say.
‘It’s Pagonis,’ said Savannah. ‘Savannah Pagonis.’
The cut above her eye had completely healed, and she was wearing just a touch of make-up, and there was a kind of creamy, settled confidence to her, as if she were wearing her own clothes in her own home and Amy and Simon were unwelcome guests who she would soon be sending on their way. Amy’s mother’s clothes didn’t look wrong on her. They looked exactly right. She was a younger version of Joy. She could be Joy’s daughter. Joy had probably dreamed of a pretty feminine little daughter like this. Amy and Brooke had talked about this over the years: how their mother sometimes made them feel huge, like big lolloping orangutans.
‘Oh, that’s unusual. How do you spell that, Savannah?’ asked Simon. It was like watching an accountant perform in an amateur community production. He was terrible, but so adorably committed.
‘P-a-g-o-n-i-s,’ answered Savannah, eyebrows arched.
‘Huh,’ said Simon. ‘Is that, let me guess, Greek?’
‘Apparently,’ said Savannah shortly.
‘Savannah Pagonis,’ repeated Simon. ‘I bet people never spell it correctly. I hope your middle name is something simple. Like Anne? Marie?’
Amy looked at him admiringly. His delivery remained forced and theatrical, but the strategy couldn’t be faulted.
‘You guessed it, it’s Marie,’ said Savannah. ‘Do you want me to spell that too?’
Could he really have guessed it that fast? Or was Savannah just going along with it to shut him up?
‘It’s my mother’s name,’ said Simon. ‘Marie is very popular as a middle name.’ He opened his mouth to ask another question and Amy took him by the arm. Next he’d be asking for her date of birth and tax file number. If Savannah did have evil plans, Amy didn’t want her feeling compelled to fast-track them.
‘The bathroom is this way,’ she said.
‘Wait, is this you?’ asked Simon in his natural voice. He’d stopped in front of a photo of Amy triumphantly holding up a tiny trophy with both hands, racquet resting against her thigh, big Wimbledon-winning smile, even though it was just the Under 9s regionals.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Amy.
‘You were so cute,’ said Simon. He kept standing there, examining the photo. ‘I didn’t know you played tennis!’
‘Yep,’ she said.
‘I play a bit of social tennis,’ said Simon. ‘We should have a game sometime. You’d probably beat me.’
‘I would definitely beat you,’ said Amy. She pointed down the hallway. ‘Second door on the left.’
Simon looked at her blankly, forgetting his ruse to get inside.
‘Bathroom?’ Amy reminded him.
‘Ah yes! Thank you, Amy!’ He returned to his loud, overly enunciated tone.
When he left, Amy and Savannah looked at each other. It was the oddest feeling. Amy was in the home where she grew up, with photos either side of her attesting to this, and yet she still felt like Savannah was the host. She couldn’t seem to find the right balance between two indisputable facts: Savannah should feel grateful to Amy because her family had given her shelter in her time of need. Amy should feel grateful to Savannah because she was taking care of her parents, and doing a better job than any of the Delaney children ever would or could.
‘I’ll just pop my head in the door and see if Mum is still asleep,’ said Amy.
A complicated expression crossed Savannah’s face. ‘Sure. I’ll get back to the kitchen. I’m in the middle of making minestrone. Sing out if Joy needs anything.’
Sing out if Joy needs anything.
Because I am the one who can provide your mother with everything she needs.
‘Sing out’ was a Joy phrase. This girl was a mini Joy.
The besotted dog pattered off on Savannah’s heels.