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20
Phin’s place is across the other side of Chicago in a gentrified, upmarket, very unfunky area peopled by well-to-do young families with SUVs in their driveways. The houses are mainly Victorian red brick with bay windows and terracotta-tiled pathways. Phin’s apartment is a conversion in one of these; it’s on the second floor, up two flights of polished wooden stairs, nice art hanging from the communal walls and a brass chandelier dangling above the staircase from the top landing. Joe greets me barefoot, in blue shorts and a black polo shirt. Joe is very, very, very young. I cannot imagine how he can possibly afford to rent such a beautiful apartment. But then, I am not in a position to ask anyone questions about how they got where they are.
‘Hi,’ he says, allowing me to enter. His voice is a little high-pitched. If he were a dog he would be one that quakes and quivers, or one that sits in a bag and growls occasionally.
‘You are too kind,’ I say, making my voice sound as deep and honeyed as I can, to alert him to the fact that I am a fully grown man but also that he is safe with me. ‘I really, really appreciate you letting me come and talk to you.’
‘Can I get you a juice?’ says Joe, standing against the kitchen counter, one bare foot balanced upon the top of the other. ‘Soda? Water?’
‘Water would be great, thank you.’
I lean against the back of a sofa and glance around. It’s a beautiful apartment: lots of neutral colours, the odd bit of big-game-philia – etchings of tigers and elephants, watercolour maps of Africa. It’s absolutely nothing like my apartment, the apartment I had designed with Phin in mind, and once again I realise that I have been chasing a ghost all these years, living my life in the slipstream of a young man who doesn’t exist any more. But rather than dampen my need to find Phin, this realisation only serves to increase it. Joe passes me a glass of water and I say, ‘So, have you ever met Phin?’
‘No.’ Joe shakes his head. ‘I’ve never met him. I have spoken to him, though. He’s British, right, like you?’
‘Yes. Yes he is.’
‘I’ve seen photos of him, also; there are a couple in the apartment. So I knew what he looked like and he—’ He stops and his gaze flicks up to me and down again. ‘How well do you know him? I mean, are you like super-close?’
‘Well, yes and no. We knew each other as children and then I knew he’d gone to live in Africa and work as a safari guide. And we were all set to go and visit him – “we” being me and my family, his family – when he disappeared. And we’re all terribly, terribly worried about him.’
‘So, you haven’t spoken to him in a while?’
‘No. No. Sadly not. The whole family lost touch with each other for a very long time. This was meant to be a reunion. Of sorts.’
He throws me a nervous glance and says, ‘I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but there are a few photos of him in the apartment and me and my friends, we have this joke about him, because he’s kind of hot, you know, and kind of mysterious and we make up stories about him? You know? About Hot Finn, the Game Ranger. So that’s what rang a bell with Lyle, I suppose. When you were asking about him last night. I hope that doesn’t sound disrespectful?’
‘Oh God. No. Not at all. I totally get it.’
‘It’s just fun. You know.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I smile widely. ‘And how long have you lived here?’
‘Couple of years. Since I graduated. My parents pay for it. In case you were wondering.’
I shake my head firmly, as if the thought had never occurred to me. ‘And it’s just you here?’
‘Yeah. Just me. And the occasional sleepover. I mean – not that kind of sleepover. I mean, you know, likefriends.’
I smile reassuringly. My goodness me, if you can’t sleep around when you’re twenty-two, cute as a button and living rent-free in a gorgeous one-bed apartment in a smart suburb of Chicago, then when can you? I want to tell him to crack on with it, stop with the platonic sleepovers and get busy. I want to tell him that this bit doesn’t last long, that it’s a beautiful blowsy rose which blooms and dies so quickly that you barely have time to catch your breath. But of course, I don’t. I just say, ‘And have you spoken to him lately? To Phin? Has he been in touch?’
‘No. No, I haven’t spoken to him for a few weeks. I had to write to him a while back about some works to the roof. Some scaffolding. But nothing since then.’
‘And this was his apartment? I mean, he used to live here?’
Joe squints up at the ceiling and then back at me. ‘I suppose he must have lived here. At some point. As some of his things are still here.’
‘Like the photos, you mean?’
‘Yes, like the photos. They were in a drawer in the desk in the bedroom.’
‘Could I see them, do you think?’
‘Yeah. Sure. I mean, I already got them out for you. Here.’ He turns and scoops a small pile of photos from a shelf behind him and passes it to me.
I leaf through them, my cheeks sucked in hard against my teeth with the effort of not shaking, not betraying my excitement and anxiety. I clear my throat and glance down.
There he is. There is Phin. Not beardy and sun-crisped as he is in the photo I’ve been staring at obsessively since the night of Libby’s birthday, but clean-shaven, young. What – late twenties, early thirties? Sporting a variety of haircuts from shaven-headed to long and floppy. Suntanned here, pale there, in jumpers and padded coats, in shorts and vest tops. He has a tattoo, I see, just one, on his bicep – very old-school, like a sailor – I can’t tell what it is. Phin smiles, he frowns, he laughs, he eats, he drinks, he faces the camera, away from the camera. He has his arm around girls, his arm around boys. He drinks beer. He drinks champagne. He sits in restaurants and on beaches. He looks beautiful in each and every one. His looks have lasted him all the way through fromtwelve years old to over forty. It’s appallingly unfair. I look for a sign that one of the supporting actors in these photos might be someone of some intimate significance; I look for something to tell me about his sexuality, about which way he’s landed in the world after his ambiguous beginnings. But he is sexless, flawless, impossible to read, like a children’s TV presenter.
