‘’S’OK, like I say,’ he says simply, getting up. ‘We’re family.’
* * *
I smile as I watch him go into his room and grab his stuff. I pick up the phone again and cal my mother. The phone rings, and my heart starts thumping. But instantly, it’s diverted to the answerphone. I cal Guy again, too. Same thing. I sigh, and I go into Jay’s smal study and unpack my stuff. It’s a meagre col ection of things: my sketchbooks, a pair of jeans, a couple of tops and cardigans, pyjamas, a few knickers, a sponge bag with toothpaste and the like in it, and a little bag with Cecily’s necklace. Right at the bottom, her diary.
Jay is whistling in the other room as he gets ready for work. It’s just an ordinary day, I suppose. I feel as though everything has changed: more than that, that the world as I know it has fal en down around my ears. But you stil have to go on, you can’t just lie on the sofa staring at the wal -
paper, tempting as that might be. I’ve done that too, and I know it doesn’t accomplish anything. So I put Cecily’s diary, my sketchbooks and the necklace into my shoulder bag. Jay emerges with his backpack on.
‘I’m going to the studio,’ I say. ‘I’l walk with you.’
‘Great,’ Jay says. He jangles his keys. ‘Tel me, how’s my friend Ben? I was thinking, we should al go out one evening, don’t you think?’
‘Oh . . .’ I say. ‘Yeah. That’d be great.’
Jay looks suspiciously at me. ‘What’s up? You two had a row?’
‘God, no,’ I say, putting my coat on. I put my phone in my pocket, and that’s when I see the text message.
Had to dash to Morocco unexpectedly for work! Know we need to talk darling. Just explained it al to Guy. He is around while I’m away. Perhaps you cld talk to him? See you for foundation launch? Do love you darling – Mum x
‘It’s from Mum,’ I tel Jay. ‘How is she?’
‘She’s in Morocco. She’s gone to bloody Morocco.’ She’d rather cal Guy and tel him where she’s going, Guy who she supposedly hates, than me.
We go down the stairs and Jay opens the front door. ‘Oh yeah, Dad mentioned she was thinking of going there,’ he says.
‘She could have told me she was going,’ I mutter. I stare at the phone again, wanting to scream. Yes, I do want to talk to Guy, Mum. But I’d much rather talk to you. Stop running away from me.
Chapter Forty
When I reach the studio there is a new receptionist, a Breton-striped-top-wearing boy, very skinny, with a mop of curly hair on top of his head, shaved at the sides. He is wearing the obligatory thick black glasses that al boys and girls in East London must wear, from Tania to Arthur to Tom and Tom, the two gay guys who run Dead Dog Tom’s, the hottest new bar in Shoreditch just down the road from the studio. I sometimes wonder what would happen if someone wore frameless steel Euro-style glasses in Shoreditch / Spitalfields – would an invisible forcefield shatter them?
‘Hiyaa,’ he says, not looking up from his phone. ‘How’re you.’
This isn’t a question, more a rapped-out courtesy. ‘Hi. Where’s . . . Jocasta?’ I say. ‘Or Jamie?’
‘I’m Jamie’s like brother?’ the beautiful boy says. ‘Dawson? She’s not wel today, her skanky boyfriend gave her food poisoning? So I’m fil ing in for her?’
I can’t keep track of Jamie’s love life. I thought she was with the dodgy pockmarked Russian mil ionaire and surely mil ionaires don’t get food poisoning. ‘Oh, right,’ I say.
‘Lily’s having an open studio this afternoon, so she asked Jamie to get someone to cover for her.’ Dawson’s eyes shift away from me, and then his face lights up. ‘Hey, you!’
‘Hey,’ says a voice behind me. ‘Oh. Hi, Nat.’
I swing round, my heart thumping loudly. There, in the doorway, is Ben, and again I adjust to the new person he is, shorn of hair. The person I kissed three nights ago. I stare at him, drinking in the sight of him.
‘Hi, Ben,’ I say. ‘Hey,’ he says, taking his backpack off his shoulders. He barely glances in my direction. ‘Hi, Dawson,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?
What are you doing here?’
He high-fives Dawson, who smiles at him and stands up, excited. ‘Ben, my man. Good to see you! Hey, thanks for those links! I checked out that photographer dude, he was amazing? That shit of those dead trees, and the foil – it was so . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘So
‘Good, good.’ Ben is nodding. ‘How’s Jamie?’
‘Good, she’s good. Wel , she’s not, she’s being sick every five minutes, but she’s good otherwise.’
Ben grimaces. ‘Oh, dear. Tel her I said get wel soon, and she should definitely lose the boyfriend.’ He turns to me. ‘Hey.’
I lean forward. ‘Yeah. So—’
‘See you later,’ he says, and turns away, making for the stairs.
I fol ow him. ‘Ben,’ I say, as we curl up to the first floor, out of earshot. ‘How – how are you?’
He nods vigorously. ‘I’m good, good.’
‘Look—’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry about the other night.’
A smal muscle on his cheek twitches in Ben’s lean face. ‘Yeah, no problem.’
