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10
Emma
I didn’t mean to pry.
In fact, I had only come downstairs to get a cup of tea. Sylvie and I have been hanging out in her room for an hour or so, listening to music and talking about everything from guys, to my new job, to trips we want to take. While Sylvie changed the CD, I went downstairs and made myself a cup of tea. Something Sylvie teases me about. In fact, she has said, if I ever cut myself, she wouldn’t be surprised if I lost tea, not blood.
I was carefully making my way back with my steaming hot beverage. Having walked through the hallway, I had just reached the bottom step of the stairs, when what I heard had stopped me in my tracks.
Finn and Danny were in the Den, as they had arranged earlier, but the Den door was not closed. As their voices seeped out into the hallway, I could hear every word they were saying.
“…I’m more concerned with getting that woman’s claws out of my wallet.”
“So, what’s taking so long?”
“Well, Miranda keeps changing the deal. That’s what’s taking so long. Just when Gary thinks he has the divorce neatly packaged up with a pretty bow, her lawyers come back with her wanting something else. The last time Gary called, he said she now wants half of the penthouse, or the equivalent of its value. To be honest, Dad, I’m that damn tired, I’m seriously thinking of just giving in to her demands.”
A door closing somewhere in the house had made me wary that I might get caught, and so feeling both a little flustered, and a little guilty, having overheard a conversation that I ought not to have been listening to, I tried to hurry up the stairs without spilling any of my tea.
Making it to the top of the stairs, I now walk along the landing and stop outside of Sylvie’s room. I need to take a minute because my heart is beating out of my chest. Maybe it’s partly to do with the fear of getting caught, but it’s more than that, and I know it.
Finn is in the middle of a divorce.
This knowledge ought to be bad. I should feel awful that his marriage is breaking up. And I do. By his exhausted tone, he sounds like he’s going through a really tough time. It also sounds like his, soon-to-be ex-wife, is not a very nice person at all. That news is more surprising, given that Finn is a good and kind man. But beneath those acknowledgements, I have different emotions. Selfish emotions. Emotions that are making me feel guilty because of the thoughts they originate from.
I am thinking about myself. I’m thinking about all the times my mind has thought about me and Finn. All the times I have then brought myself up short because I have reminded myself that he is another woman’s husband. I’m also feeling a small amount of glee that the man downstairs, that I have been growing rather fond of over this past couple of weeks, is soon to be free and single.
Clearly, I am a terrible person.
I open Sylvie’s bedroom door and walk in.
“What took you so long?” she says, grinning up at me. She’s lying width ways across the bed, painting her nails.
“We seriously need to buy a kettle,” I reply. Using a pot to make tea does take longer, but I refrain from telling her that those extra minutes of my departure were not just me watching water boiling.
I’m now intrigued to know more about Finn’s situation, and as I place my tea down on her dresser, I settle down on the beanbag in the corner, where I was sitting previously. But I’m trying to figure out how I’m supposed to bring the conversation around to Finn, without it looking blatantly obvious that I’m trying to know more about Sylvie’s brother.
And then, it comes to me in a flash of inspiration. The day we bought the paint.
“I never did tell you what happened with Mr. Shilliday when we went to buy the paint, did I?” I begin.
Sylvie raises her eyebrows and shakes her head.
“As usual, I made a fool of myself,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“I’ll bet you didn’t,” Sylvie says, trying to assure me. “You always say things like that, but it’s just not true.”
“Believe me, on this occasion, it is. Finn and I had walked in, and Mr. Shilliday had looked delighted to see Finn—”
“Mr. Shilliday is a nice man,” Sylvie says, nodding with a warm smile as she continues to brush a soft pink hue onto her nails.
“And then he turns to me and says, ‘And is this Mrs. Brecken?”
Sylvie’s eyes flew up to meet mine then. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” I say emphatically. “Anyway, I was blustering like an idiot then.” I start flapping my hands about in an over dramatic gesticulation. “I said, Oh, no. I’m not his wife. In fact, I’m not even married. I hardly know Finn, and on and on I went. If you’d have seen their faces, Sylvie.”
She’s grinning at me now. “I’m sure Mr. Shilliday thought you were hilarious.”
