some terrible indictment of my character, but—running up the stairs to tell Hugo the cousins were coming for dinner, mouthful of chocolate biscuit, spring in my step that almost got rid of the limp—I didn’t really care.
When Melissa got home I had my clothes laid out on the bed—blue linen chinos and a really nice shirt, soft cream with a tiny blue geometric print, Melissa must have packed it for some reason and it had been months since I’d dressed up for anything and why not?—and I was singing some cheesy Robbie Williams song at the top of my lungs, in snatches, while I shaved. “Hello, you,” Melissa said, poking her head around the bathroom door. “How’s Hugo been?”
“Fine. Nothing scary. He found out Haskins—the diary guy, Mrs. Wozniak’s cousins’ great-great-whatever?—he hates dogs and fired his maid because she smelled funny.”
“I saw your clothes. What’s the occasion?”
“I’m in a good mood. Come here.”
She tiptoed to kiss me around the shaving foam; I grabbed her and rubbed my foamy cheek on her nose, and she squealed and laughed—“Silly!”—and wiped her nose on my bare chest. “You’re going to be all gorgeous. I’d better dress up too.”
“I seriously need a haircut,” I said, peering into the mirror. “I look like I should be hanging around a crappy pub in Galway trying to convince tourist chicks that I’m a surfer.”
“Will I trim it for you? I don’t know how to do a proper cut, but I could tidy it up a bit, just to hold you till you get to the barber’s.”
“Would you? That’d be great.”
“Course. Let me find some scissors.”
“Oh,” I said, when she was halfway out the door. “Su and Leon are coming for dinner. Do we have enough food? Or will we get takeaway?”
Melissa turned quickly, but she said readily enough, “Let’s order from that Indian place. Hugo loves it, and it’s easy for his hand.”
“Lovely. I’m starving; curry sounds great.” Tilting my head to get under the angle of my jaw, not looking at her: “Listen, about last night. I know it sounds like I’m obsessing over what happened to Dominic. But it’s not just that.”
I could see her in the mirror, watching me from the doorway. “What, then?”
I needed to be careful here. I actually needed a hand from Melissa to make the night go smoothly, and I knew she wasn’t going to be crazy about that idea. “It’s tough to explain,” I said. “I feel like a lot of things are a mess—OK, let’s face it, things have been a mess for months, but I was in too bad shape to do anything about it. Now, I don’t know if it’s because I’m getting better or what, but I feel like I need to clear things up. Dominic, yeah, but not only that.”
She was listening carefully, one fingernail scraping at a stain on the door. “What else?”
“All the stuff Sean and Dec said, about what Dominic did to Leon. You were right: that’s bothering me.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”
“Well. That’s the question. I honest-to-God don’t remember anything like that, but with my memory the way it is . . . yeah. Who knows what that’s worth.” I flashed her a crooked half smile, in the mirror. “I mean, I seriously don’t think I would’ve let Dominic beat the crap out of Leon, but it’d be nice to be sure.”
Melissa said, “Does it make a difference now?”
Taken aback, a little pained: “Well, yeah. Course it does. If I let Leon down, then that’s been hurting our relationship ever since, even if I was too thick to realize it. And I know I don’t see a lot of him, but him and Su . . . they’re the nearest I’ve got to a brother and sister. Maybe everything’s fine and I was the perfect cousin. I hope. But if I wasn’t, I need to know, so I can fix it.” With another wry grin, lifting my chin to get at the underside: “This is what people always say about murders, isn’t it? They drag up all kinds of other stuff, and everyone’s stuck dealing with it?”
When she didn’t answer: “Look. Probably this doesn’t make sense, but . . . this whole getting-attacked thing: I need that to be something. A fresh start. A wake-up call, to get my life sorted out. Otherwise it’s just shit—let’s be honest, so far it has been just shit. If I can make something good out of it . . . you