“So where are you guys from?” the woman asked.
“England,” said Cleo.
“I guessed,” the woman smiled.
“Here,” said Quentin curtly, turning from her toward the man. “Where are you from?”
“I’m from Philly.” He looked to his wife. “But Anna’s actually from here too.”
“Yes, Anna by the way,” said Anna. “And this is Paddy.”
“I went to fat camp in Philly,” said Quentin, ignoring her. “When I was eight. My parents sent me from Poland. It was right by the Hershey’s chocolate factory. What a stupid place to put a fat camp. The air always smelled of chocolate or manure. Obviously only one of them was conducive to weight loss.”
Quentin had directed this exclusively to Paddy with a fervent kind of intensity.
“You don’t say,” Paddy mustered.
“We went to that factory once—，” Anna began.
“And then when I became a model in high school, I heard they put my picture up on the wall as ‘thinspiration’ or whatever for the kids. You know, to encourage them to eat healthy. But I’m like, babes, it’s not that complicated. You just stop eating and start doing a bunch of blow.”
Quentin laughed, and Cleo forced herself to join. She could see the couple nervously trying to digest this new information. Cleo was so tired of being the kind of person who made other people uncomfortable. She could see it when she was with Frank, strangers trying to work out their relationship to one another. Too young to be her father, too old to be her partner. And Quentin specialized in making people feel uncomfortable. She used to get a thrill from it—it felt like a repudiation of her stiff British upbringing—but now it only exhausted her.
Paddy moved to unplug the vacuum. “Well, we’re about to have our dinner. So if everything with the Dyson looks good …”
“We eat so early now,” Anna said apologetically and rubbed her protruding belly. “I can barely stay awake past nine.”
“When are you due?” asked Cleo.
“You guys should go to the Duplex one night,” said Quentin. “It’s right around the corner from here. I sing there sometimes. If you can stay awake, I mean.” Quentin looked meaningfully at Paddy.
“We should let you eat,” said Cleo.
“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” Paddy said, motioning toward the vacuum perched between them like a watchful animal.
“I always do,” said Quentin with just the slightest wink.
“Why do you do that?” asked Cleo. They were back outside on the street corner, Cleo hopping from foot to foot to stay warm. An ambulance drove past, sirenless, illuminating their faces.
“Do what?”
Quentin lit a cigarette and handed the pack to her.
“Lie to strangers. About us.”
“Why not?” shrugged Quentin. “It’s not like we’re ever going to see them again. Although I wouldn’t mind seeing more of old Paddycakes.” He wiggled his eyebrows over his glasses.
“I think he was aware,” said Cleo.
“Good,” said Quentin. “Always good to give a man options.”
“And what about Alex?”
“What about him? He’s not my boyfriend.”
Cleo exhaled. Had Quentin always been this prickly and defensive? It felt impossible to talk to him—just when she needed to talk to someone most.
“Their life seemed so … simple,” said Cleo.
“If you’re using simple as a euphemism for boring, then yes, it was very simple,” said Quentin, pulling out his phone. “There’s a party with an open bar tonight, if we get there before ten.”
“No, I meant it seemed nice,” she said. “Happy.”
“Oh god, Cleo, you’re not going to let Frank knock you up, are you?”
“We’d have to be having sex for that happen.” Cleo blushed. She hadn’t told anyone that.
“Good,” said Quentin without looking up from his phone. “You’re not cut out for that.” Quentin affected his elderly queen voice. “‘We are not those kind of people, honey.’”
Cleo immediately regretted saying anything. Why should he care about her failing marriage anyway? Why should she expect anyone to care? Quentin tried to insist she come get a drink with him, but she pretended she was having dinner with Frank.
“Tell Frank about the party tonight,” said Quentin as he crawled into the back seat of a cab with the vacuum. “You know he likes an open bar.”