Page 51 of Holiday Romance
“Just your childhood trauma.”
We wait in line for a taxi and end up with a blissfully silent driver who, other than saying hello, makes no attempt at conversation. And just like that, we’re off on the next stage of our cursed adventure.
“We should try and see some stuff if we have time,” Andrew says, peering out at the M4. West London passes by in a blur of cars and houses. “Especially since we didn’t get to see Paris that much. I haven’t been here in years.”
“I don’t think we’ll have time.”
“We will,” he insists, glancing over at my reluctance. “We have all day.”
“We’ll see,” I say in a perfect imitation of my mother. (It means “no.”)
Our surroundings grow increasingly fancier as we leave the motorway and near Notting Hill. The houses lining the roads look finer, the cars slicker; shiny Teslas and SUVs that I don’t think anyone really needs to navigate the narrow residential streets. My nose is practically glued to the window as I take it in, especially when we pull up outside a white terraced townhouse that looks like something out ofMary Poppins.
I am instantly confused.
“Is your family secretly rich?” I ask Andrew as we get out. London real estate isn’t exactly cheap, though I know looks can be deceiving. Maybe the building has been split into tiny apartments and his cousin is subletting from a subletter who’s squatting. But I don’t think so. The place looks too maintained, the painted shutters and window boxes too matching. A tasteful string of lights hangs from the roof and a fat white candle sits in the window, waiting to be lit. “You have to tell me right now,” I say as the cabbie drives off. “I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Andrew only laughs. “We’re not rich.”
“Butsomeoneis,” I insist.
At this, he hesitates. “Well—”
“Cousin!”
The front door flies open as a man emerges from the shadowy interior. He steps into the daylight in a thick burgundy dressing gown and matching slippers, both of which look out of place for the middle of the afternoon. Even at Christmas.
Oliver.
He’s younger than I thought he would be, late twenties maybe, and handsome, with an angular acne-scarred face and a thick head of blond hair in desperate need of a cut. He almost seems surprised to see us, despite the fact he knew we were coming.
“We didn’t mean to wake you,” Andrew calls, only sounding a little sarcastic.
“You’re referring to my outfit?” Oliver looks down at himself. “This is loungewear. I’ve been up for hours.”
“That’s because you didn’t go to sleep.”
He smiles ruefully. “You always were the smart one.” Oliver waits until we’ve walked up the stone steps before hugging Andrew hard enough that he almost falls backward.
To my surprise, he does the same to me, wrapping his arms tightly around my body. He smells oddly like cinnamon and I don’t hate it, but when he pulls back, I see that his eyes are bloodshot and suddenly his attire makes a little more sense.
“Late one last night?” Andrew asks, coming to the same conclusion.
Oliver pats him on the cheek. “’Tis the season,” he says faintly. “Come in! My favorite Irish cousin and his beautiful Irish friend. Has Christian met her yet? She seems his type.”
His voice fades as he disappears inside, not bothering to check if we’re following. I glance at Andrew who’s staring tiredly after him.
“Is he always—”
“Yes,” Andrew sighs. His hand goes to the small of my back and he presses me forward into the house. “Yes, he is.”
“I used to spend every summer in Cork,” Oliver says when we enter. My eyes adjust to the dim light to find him standing on the bottom step of a stately, carpeted stairway. “Are you from Cork, Molly?”
“Dublin,” I say, trying to glance around without being too obvious about it.
“I hated going to Cork. Weeks of constantly being made fun of for my English accent. Namely by this man.”
“It was more of a family activity,” Andrew tells me, and I try not to smile.
