“Just give me a moment.”
“Wonderful.” Eloise is curt. “Let me know.”
She backs away from Daniella’s post and finds a bit of breathing room at the far end of the bar. Her family huddles together in a silent clump near the restaurant’s front door, and she offers them a wave before looking down and puffing her cheeks. Why is she acting like this? What in God’s name is her problem? She’s never spoken to Daniella in such a tone before; among her friends, she prides herself on staying calm when restaurants fumble a reservation or a waiter screws up an order. But now—Christ, look at her: she’s sweating like a maniac.
Nerves about her family, about how tonight will play out: that’s the only explanation she can muster. But then, this is normal, she tells herself; the last time they were all together was three years ago, at her stepfather’s funeral. Who wouldn’t be anxious, particularly given the stakes? The main thing to remember is that she’s entering the evening with high hopes for peace, and—come hell or high water—she’s determined to hold on to them. Still, she can’t shake how awkward and totally unlike what she expected the past forty-five minutes have been. For starters, Alice, who showed up first, greeted her like she was a complete and total stranger. Earlier, she had hoped to mention the potential new job opportunity before the rest of the family arrived, but that prospect faded quickly. Eloise doesn’t know if it’s jet lag, or the shock of not having seen each other in so long, or if her sister’s drunk (she smelled, very faintly, of bourbon), or what, but the fact remains that the hug Alice gave her was one of the iciest that Eloise has ever received. And when she asked about the suite—the suite that Eloise had so generously paid for—all she’d been able to say was, “The what?”
“The suite,” Eloise repeated herself. “At Claridge’s. Where you’re staying?”
Alice smiled, but almost as if her mouth wasn’t attached to her face.
“Oh, it’s super nice.”
Super nice?
Eloise forged on: “Well, I’ll have to come see it when I join you for tea.”
Alice smiled again and nodded, as if she hardly remembered that she’d invited Eloise over in the first place.
Then there’s Paul and her mother. She doesn’t know what she anticipated happening on that front, though if she’s being perfectly honest with herself, it was something more than what she witnessed. Some tears, maybe. A brief but heartfelt apology. At the very least, a goddamned hug. But what had her brother done? How had Paul signaled an end to the two-year cold war that had ravaged his relationship with their mother and drawn lines in the sand between his siblings? With a handshake.
He arrived, waited for her to come to him—for her to duck and dodge and wedge and wiggle through hordes of ale-soaked Londoners—and then he stuck out his hand. She’d taken it, of course, because that’s who her mother was—a woman with class—but Jesus Christ: a handshake! Her single regret is that Ollie wasn’t there to see it.
And Mark? Regardless of how ghastly her brother’s behavior is at the moment, she still can’t make heads or tails of what Paul sees in him. In fact, so far one of the few pleasurable moments that Eloise has experienced this evening was when Mark, implying that she wasn’t capable of speeding along their reservation, scooted her aside and approached the ma?tre d’s stand himself. Daniella all but ignored him, and when she finally did speak to him, she simply thanked him for his patience—the hospitality industry equivalent of please fuck off.
“How’d that work out?” Eloise asked him when he came slinking back to the group.
“They must just be getting their legs underneath them. Seems like there are some kinks they’ve got to work out.” He added, “We’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes.”
“It’s one of the most popular restaurants in London.”
“Huh,” he said. “Interesting.”
He’s loathsome. That’s all there is to it, she thinks. She knows she shouldn’t make such rash judgments, but with Mark, it’s impossible; he’s atrocious. After their tedious exchange about waiting for their table, he’d launched into an awful diatribe about the dining scene in London and how it paled in comparison to places like Copenhagen and Oslo. The whole speech smacked of the quality she despises the most: unearned snobbery. And he isn’t even that good looking, Eloise thinks, allowing herself a moment of shallowness. Out of the two of them, Paul’s definitely cuter. If anything, she supposes Mark carries himself with a bit more confidence, but for what reason she can’t possibly guess. She’s met doorknobs that she’s found more interesting.
But then, she’s also seen some exquisite doorknobs.
“How about a drink, sweetheart?”
Eloise blinks and smiles. She’s been so distracted by her nerves that she hardly noticed her mother squeeze her way in next to her. Behind her, Paul, Alice, and Mark jostle for space.
“Just while we wait?” Donna says.
“I think that’s a great idea. Here, let me—”
“No, no.” Donna slaps Eloise’s hand away from her purse. “You’ve been gracious enough. This one’s on me.”
“All right, all right.” Eloise plays along. “Here, at least let me introduce you to the barman.”
She waves over Charles, her favorite bartender at Dean Street, and leans over the bar to kiss his cheek.
“Charles, I want you to meet my mother.”
He extends a hand and Donna takes it, lightly.
“Very nice to meet you,” she says. “I think we’d like to order some drinks.”
Charles nods. “What can I get you?”
“Bourbon!” Alice shouts, and Eloise nearly jumps. “Neat.”
“Any particular kind?”
“Whatever you’ve got.”
Charles lifts his chin to get a better look at her.
“Well, we’ve got quite a—”
“Then Maker’s.” Alice sounds exasperated; Eloise plays with the ends of her hair. “A double.”
Donna smiles apologetically to Charles. “Okay, so one bourbon. Paul? Sweetheart? What would you like?”
“Vodka martini, dirty. Mark’ll have the same.”
Their mother nods, and turns back to the bar. “Right, then. My son and his—his friend will both have dirty vodka martinis. And for me, I’d like a French 75, and my daughter will have—”
Eloise leans forward. “Just a glass of the Picpoul de Pinet,” she says. “Thanks.”
Charles repeats the order and vanishes to prepare their drinks.
Paul, Eloise notices, is snickering.
“What?” Donna asks.
“Nothing. It’s just—” Her brother runs a hand through his hair. “It’s just, sometimes you’re really unbelievable, Mom.”
Donna looks to Alice for some sort of explanation, but she’s gazing elsewhere, to an unfixed spot on the ceiling.
“I don’t understand,” Donna says. “What’d I do?”
“Mark’s now my friend? I’ve lived with him for over three years now, Mom. What, are you afraid to tell people that he’s my boyfriend? That he’s my lover?”
“Partner,” Mark corrects. “Your partner.”