house?” comes Zeb’s cautious words, and I mentally wish him well. He shouldn’t tangle with Mrs Finch. That way lies retribution.
However, his charm seems to work its usual miracle because when she speaks next, her voice is warm and friendly. “You’re right, Mr Evans. Well, I must forebear, I suppose.”
“That’s the spirit,” my stepbrother says heartily. “I think I’ll go along and have a little chat with His Nibs. Is he out of bed?”
“In a very louche manner,” she says. “He’s lying on the sofa in his study where he seems to spend most of the day staring into space.” She sniffs. “Looks like a picture of Barbara Cartland without the Pekes.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Well, let’s see if I can do anything about that,” Zeb says.
I’m sure I do not imagine the slight air of menace in his voice.
The door swings open and my stepbrother appears. He’s wearing one of his expensive suits and a rather forbidding expression on his craggy face, but his eyes are warm and concerned, and I suddenly feel like the young boy I’d been when my mum married the charming wastrel who was Zeb’s dad. My mother gained a whole roster of bad debt from that marriage and a credit score that only a dead person would be proud of, but I was the winner because I got Zeb.
He was a steady and kind presence in my life all through my adolescence, turning up at my school for sports days and to take me out on the weekends, and I clung to him even when I became an adult. He’s the best man I know, and it kills me that I’ve disappointed him.
We stare at each other. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the wedding three weeks ago, and the aftermath from that debacle hangs between us like an ugly curtain I want to tear down.
He’d woken me that night by throwing a pint of water over me. He then proceeded to inform me that Felix had gone, driven away by me because I was determined to be alone. But that was just the warm-up act. He then tore so many strips off me I was lucky to have any left. And every word he spoke came with that heavy air of disappointment.
I deserved every syllable of those words because of what I did to Felix. In truth, I deserved more. Pain twists in my chest at the thought of him and I rub it absentmindedly. As if he senses my thoughts, Zeb’s expression softens, and he comes to sit on the chair opposite me, lifting his feet to rest them on the coffee table.
“You look terrible,” he observes.
I sniff. “Thank you. What a lovely compliment.”
“Have you shaved this year?”
I rub my face. “I’m growing a beard. It’s supposed to make me look distinguished.”
“It actually makes you look like Tom Hanks in Castaway. After being on the island and talking to a volleyball for a year.” I open my mouth to reply, but he shakes his head. “Cut the crap, Max. What’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t know,” I say, rubbing my chest again. “I think I’m ill. I’m not hungry. My head hurts all the time. I ache. Maybe it’s the flu. You shouldn’t be with me in case you catch it.” I hope that he’ll take his far-seeing gaze off me and bugger off back to London. But no such luck. Zeb defines steadfastness.
“Hmm,” he says. “Maybe it’s not the flu. And it’s not a hangover?” He looks at me in question, and I shake my head. He shrugs. “Maybe you’re just missing Felix.”
I wince at the sound of his name. “How is he?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Do you remember me saying that I wouldn’t become an intermediary between the two of you? That this whole fiasco has nothing to do with me?”
“I remember it vividly,” I say sourly. “And for reference, you didn’t exactly say it. It was more shouting it at a decibel level that could have woken the dead.”
“How dreadful for you,” he says tartly. I stare imploringly at him, and he groans and rubs his eyes before giving in. “Felix is fine,” he says. “He’s better than you, that’s for sure.”
“Well, that’s… that’s good,” I force out.
He snorts. “Try and sound like you mean it.”
“I do,” I say immediately. “I want him to be happy more than anything.”
The riveted expression on his face slowly changes to something I’ve never seen on Zeb before. “Why?”