Jessamine’s face is doughy with drink and lack of fresh air. She looks behind me and then around. “What are you doing here? How did you know where I live?”
“You told me.”
“I did not tell you.”
“Well, you as good as told me. I worked it out. Anyway.” I wave the champagne bottle again, and beam at her.
“I mean…” She looks behind herself again. “We’re just watching TV.”
“Oh,” I say. “Anything good?”
“No. Not really.” Her eyes dip to the champagne and I can see the machinations, the idea that she now has a legitimate reason to drink in the middle of the day. “Come in, just, excuse the… it’s… messy.”
The house is indeed messy. It looks as though someone got halfway through moving out or moving in and then abandoned the project. Boxes. Lots of boxes. Lots of plastic storage units. But also antique furniture, beautiful antique furniture, the type that is so unfashionable now. Ornate credenzas, bow-fronted chests of drawers, crystal chandeliers,chinoiserie coffee tables. I know about furniture. My dad was a cabinet-maker.
“Beautiful house,” I say, brushing my feet on the doormat. And it is beautiful, but it is also strangely cold and unwelcoming. There’s something in the atmosphere that makes me feel on edge, as if I should be ready to make my escape at any moment.
I follow her into the kitchen. It’s old-fashioned: pale green Formica-covered units with cream plastic handles, a pockmarked terra-cotta floor, frilly gingham half-curtains at the window, pots and pans hanging from a wooden pulley. Jessamine selects vintage-style champagne coupes from a shelf, tiny, as if they belong to a doll’s tea party. I watch her moving around, the urgency of it, the tight silence. I can hear the TV on somewhere else in the house. Hugo sits in the doorway and watches her. Then he turns his head and watches me.
“Here, boy,” I say, crouching down on my haunches and offering my fingers to him. “Here, boy.”
He comes slowly, and I scratch him under his chin; he backs away slightly but then inches closer again. I cup his head in my hands and kiss his crown, and I know that we are friends.
Jessamine places the tiny coupes of champagne on the kitchen table and pulls out a vinyl-covered chair. I follow suit. The champagne isn’t chilled. I hate champagne at the best of times, and even more so when it’s not cold. But I need to drink it, so I do.
“Cheers,” I say, lifting my glass toward her.
“Cheers,” she says, lifting hers in return.
“How was your Christmas?”
“The usual. He’s off in Istanbul. I’m stuck here.”
“He?” I ask. “You mean, the married man?”
“Yes. Him. He’s just landed in Istanbul. Another mini-break. With her.”
“His wife?”
“Yes. His wife. His wife who is twenty years older than me and thirty pounds heavier.”
I flinch.
“Sorry. I’m a bitch. Whatever. I just don’t understand it.”
“She’s his children’s mother.”
“I’m his daughter’s mother!”
“Yes, but to keep you, he’d have to sacrifice everything. And maybe…” I take a small breath in. “Maybe she’s easier than you?”
“Ha!” She reacts loudly. “Easier? Are you actually mad? The woman is a nightmare.”
“What sort of nightmare?”
“Demanding. Spoiled. Stupid.”
“Stupid? And you know this how?”
