Page 47 of Last Night

‘Oh my goodness,’ Mr Hart says, and Fin and I stare at each other, as we know what’s coming. ‘My son’s called Finlay. Fin, more often.’

We stand in silence and I sense that Finlay, above and beyond his deep irritation at my unexpectedly being here, is embarrassed. My seeing his father like this is a privacy invasion and he feels exposed. Fin is about the iron-clad façade, the KEEP OUT sign he has hung on himself. This is weakness and vulnerability, if only by proxy.

‘Tell you what, I’ve got some nice biscuits, with fruit in them,’ Mr Hart says. ‘I’m going to find those, then let’s chat about what you’ve been up to. Go on, take a seat through there and I’ll join you.’

I carry my cup of tea to the sitting room, Fin right behind me, near-closing the cream gloss painted door with its floral enamel handle behind us. The Harts’ home belongs to an era where the wife made all the interiors choices. It always blew my mind they had a sitting room they watched television in, here, and a posh front room next door with a dining table with a runner tablecloth and candelabra, where they received guests. (Not scrubs like me, I mean dinner parties.)

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Fin says, in a loud whisper. ‘He doesn’t need the disorientation of strangers from Susie’s life turning up on his doorstep.’

‘He knows who I am! He greeted me as Eve!’

‘He thinks Susie is seventeen years old. He has no real idea who you are.’

‘You’re here, and he has no idea who youare?’ I say.

‘I’m his son,’ Fin says, eyebrows shooting up. ‘I have a right. You have no right.’

‘You wouldn’t be in the door if it wasn’t for me.’

‘Here we go, they’re pieces of crystallised ginger, I think,’ Mr Hart says, pushing the door open, bearing a plate, which he sets down on the coffee table. ‘Delicious. Would you like a cuppa, young man?’ he says to Fin. ‘I do apologise. I’ve forgotten you.’

Indeed.

‘… Yes thanks,’ Fin says, after a pause, where he no doubt realised it’d be a useful prop to extend his stay. ‘Milk, no sugar, thanks.’

‘Have you been into Susie’s house?’ Fin says, after his father leaves. ‘I thought it looked like someone had tidied up.’

‘Yes,’ I say, sitting up straighter, spooked, thinkingthank God for Ed. Thank God for him being the kind of person who spotted that we needed to attend to that straight away.

Finlay Hart was clearly at Susie’s with the locksmith as soon as he’d got out of the airport transfer from Heathrow.

‘Did you take personal effects from her room?’

My skin prickles.

‘A box of personal mementoes, nothing of financial value whatsoever.’

‘Can I decide if they’re of value? What things, specifically?’

I have no idea whether I should dissemble and I don’t quite dare stonewall him.

‘A box of letters and diaries.’

‘Right. Can I have that back, please?’

‘No, they’re private.’ I had not, for a single moment, thoughther brother would either know these things existed or identify their absence, and I’ve been caught fully on the hop.

‘They were private, to Susie? They’re not yours.’

‘I’m keeping them private for her.’

‘But not private from yourself.’

‘Yes, actually. I’m not going to read them.’

Fin does a double-take.

‘You’ve got something you say I can’t have, that you’re not going to look at?’

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