“I’ll tell him to meet us in the Bar,” I suggest. “No one’ll ever find us there.”
The Bar is the biggest attic of all, with a tiny round window which lets in a gray stream of light. It has an old chest of drawers in it, in which we stashed illicit bottles, and it was always our secret meeting place.
“The Bar!” Bean’s eyes light up. “Of course! I haven’t been up there for years. We should have a final drink there, anyway. For old times’ sake.”
“You get the booze,” I say, already half up the loft ladder. “I’ll get Gus. See you there.”
* * *
—
OK, the attics are smaller than I remember. Or I’m larger. Or older. Or something.
I remember nimbly scampering from beam to beam as a child, effortlessly shimmying past water tanks, dodging odd planks with ease. Not huffing as I crawl along and squeezing through tight gaps with an “Oof!” and cursing as stray nails catch me. As I finally reach Gus’s trapdoor, my back is aching and my lungs are protesting at all the dust.
Still. I made it.
I sit on my heels, brush a cobweb off my face, and survey the square trapdoor in front of me. All the trapdoors in the attics open from both sides—it was a safety measure Mimi insisted on when she realized we were playing up here. Gus’s bathroom is directly below me. I can get to him, through that trapdoor, in a nanosecond. I’ve done it plenty of times before.
But now I’m having qualms. It was all very well, crawling around and surprising each other when we were children—but we’re adults now. What if Romilly’s in there? What if they’re naked together? What if they’re having sex?
I lower my ear to the trapdoor—but I can’t hear anything. I’ll just open it a chink, I decide, and peep out. See what’s going on.
I let the trapdoor down a few inches and peer through the gap, trying to make sense of the room below me. There’s the bath, full of water, but Gus is not in it. （Thank God. I don’t particularly want to be a peeping Tom when my brother’s washing himself, thanks very much.）
I crane my neck and see him sitting on the closed lid of the loo, fully dressed. And I’m about to call a greeting to him, when his expression stops me. He looks wretched. No, worse than that, he looks desperate. Pale with shock.
My eyes fall to the object in his hand. It’s a plastic stick. Hang on. Is that…
Oh God. No.
My heart starts thudding. She can’t be. She can’t be.
As he gets up and walks toward me, I get a full view of the stick. It’s definitely a pregnancy test and it reads Pregnant. As I stare at the word, taking in its full reality, I feel suddenly leaden—so I can’t even imagine how Gus feels. He was about to escape. He had his chance. You stupid, stupid brother, I silently berate him.
“Gus!” Romilly’s voice through the bathroom door makes us both jump. “Have you finished?”
“Nearly!” calls Gus in a strained voice. He looks at the pregnancy test once more, then dumps it in the bin.
OK, this is really not ideal timing. But I have to move fast, before he lets Romilly into the bathroom. I allow him three seconds to gather his thoughts, then open the trapdoor wider, poke my head down, and whisper, as loudly as I dare, “Gus!”
Gus’s head jerks up, and as he sees me, his eyes widen.
“What the— Effie? What the hell?”
“Shhh!” I put a finger to my lips. “We need to talk. It’s important. Meet at the Bar, OK?”
“The Bar?” He stares at me. “Now?”
“Yes! Now!”
“Gus, I really need to do my face,” Romilly is saying sharply through the bathroom door. “And we need to have sex. I have a lot of tension right now. I told you that, Gus. I need an orgasm at least every other day, and it has been seventy-two hours. I really wish you would listen to me on this.”
I’m biting my lip so hard, I’m going to chew it off. Gus meets my eyes, then hastily looks away again.
“Do whatever you have to do,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But be quick and then come to the Bar. Bean’s bringing the drinks. Be there.”
As I crawl through the entrance to the Bar, I’m instantly engulfed with nostalgia. How many hours have I spent in this place? It’s almost head height, with a ratty old sofa, threadbare rugs, a chest of drawers with one drawer missing, and a “bar” made out of an old bookshelf. Propped up on the bar is a neon sign reading cocktails that someone once gave Gus for a birthday present. I switch it on—and to my delight, it still glows. Now we just need some drinks. Where’s Bean got to?