His face is so open, so genuinely concerned-looking, that I can’t help confiding in him. Just a little.
“Oh, I’m fine, thanks. I just heard they’re selling my family home. My parents split up eighteen months ago,” I explain, since he looks blank. “I mean, I’m over it. Obviously. But still.”
“I get it.” He nods sympathetically. “It’s a shame.”
“Yes.” I nod, grateful for his understanding. “Exactly! It is a shame. It’s like…why? Because it was totally out of the blue. Our family was happy. You know? People were like, Wow! Look at the Talbots! They’re so amazingly happy! What’s their secret? Until suddenly my parents are like, Oh, guess what, kids, we’re splitting up. It turns out that was their secret. And I still don’t…you know. Understand,” I finish, more quietly.
“Wow. That’s…” Elliot seems flummoxed. “Although lucky they waited till you were grown up, right?”
This is what people always say. And there’s no point disagreeing. There’s no point saying, But don’t you understand—now I look back at my childhood and wonder if the whole thing was fake?
“You’re right!” Somehow I muster a cheerful smile. “Silver linings. So, are your parents still together?”
“They are, as it happens.”
“That’s nice.” I smile encouragingly. “That’s really nice. Heartwarming. I mean, it may not last,” I add, because it’s only fair to warn him.
“Right.” Elliot hesitates. “I mean, they seem solid—”
“They seem solid.” I point at him triumphantly, because he’s nailed it. “Exactly! They seem solid. Until suddenly, boom! They’re living separately and your dad has a new girlfriend called Krista. Anyway, if it happens, I’m here for you.” I squeeze his arm in a kind of advance sympathy.
“Thanks,” says Elliot, in a slightly weird voice. “Appreciate it.”
“No problem.” I smile at him again, as warmly as I can. “Better do these flowers.”
As I manhandle the floral decoration up the stairs to the entrance hall, I feel a little glow inside. He’s nice! And I think he might be interested. Maybe I’ll ask him out for a drink. Just casually. But also making my intentions plain. What’s that phrase they use in personal ads again? For fun and more.
Oh, hi, Elliot, just wondering, would you like to go to the pub, for fun and more?
No. Argh. Definitely not.
Anyway, as I return to the kitchen, I can tell this isn’t the right moment. It’s busier than ever and the stress levels seem to have gone up a notch in my absence. Damian’s having a row with the house manager, and Elliot is trying to interject comments while piping cream onto a chocolate dessert. I admire his courage. Damian is pretty scary, even when he’s in a good mood, let alone when he gets in a rage. （I’ve heard a story of a chef hiding himself in a fridge rather than face Damian, although that can’t be true.）
“Hey, you!” barks another chef, who is standing over a huge saucepan of pea soup. “Stir this a moment.” He passes me his wooden spoon and heads over to join in the argument.
I stare nervously down at the pale-green liquid. Soup is above my pay grade. I hope I don’t do it wrong. Although can you ruin soup? No. Of course you can’t.
As I stir it round and round, my phone bleeps and I awkwardly pull it out of my pocket, still stirring with the other hand. It’s a text—and as I see the name Mimi, I can already hear her comforting Irish brogue. I open her text and read her message:
Darling, I just heard about the house. It had to happen. I hope you’re OK. You have a tender heart, Ephelant, and I’m thinking of you. Found this photo today in a clear-out, remember this day?
See you soon, my love
Mimi xxx
I click on the attached photo and am instantly overwhelmed by a cascade of memories. It’s my sixth birthday party—the day Mimi turned the whole house into a circus. She tented our huge vaulted sitting room and blew up a million balloons and even learned how to juggle.
In the photo I’m wearing my ballet tutu, standing on the old rocking horse. My hair is in disheveled bunches and I look like the happiest six-year-old in the world. Meanwhile, Dad and Mimi are holding my hands on either side, smiling at each other. Two loving parents.
Swallowing hard, I zoom in, studying my parents’ young, animated faces, moving from one to the other as if I’m a detective looking for clues. Mimi’s face is glowing as she beams at Dad. His smile is equally affectionate. And as I stare, my stomach feels like it’s in a vise. What went wrong? They were happy, they were—