‘Bye bye, France,’ says Stella, waving her hand, ‘bye bye France.’
36
Libby stares at Phin.
He stares at her. ‘I used to live here,’ he says, although no one has asked him to explain who he is. Then quickly, before Libby can form a response, he says, ‘You’re really pretty.’
Libby says, ‘Oh.’
Then he looks at Miller and says, ‘Who are you?’
‘Hi.’ Miller offers him a big hand. ‘I’m Miller Roe.’
Phin peers at him questioningly. ‘Why do I recognise that name?’
Miller makes a strange noise under his breath and shrugs.
‘You’re that journalist, aren’t you?’
‘Yup.’
‘That article was such shit. You were wrong about everything.’
‘Yup,’ says Miller again, ‘I kind of know that now.’
‘I can’t believe how pretty you are,’ he says, turning back to Libby. ‘You look so like …’
‘My mother?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Like your mother.’
Libby thinks of the photos of her mother with her dyed black Priscilla Presley hair, her dark kohled eyes. She feels flattered.
Then she says, ‘What are you doing here?’
Phin says, ‘Waiting for you.’
‘But I was here the other day. I heard you upstairs. Why didn’t you come down then?’
He shrugs. ‘I did. But by the time I’d got to the bottom of the stairs, you’d gone.’
‘Oh.’
‘Shall we …?’ Phin gestures at the staircase.
They follow him down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Phin sits on one side of the table; Miller and Libby sit on the other. Libby studies Phin’s face. He must be in his early forties, but he looks much younger. He has extraordinarily long eyelashes.
‘So,’ he says, spreading his arms wide, ‘this is all yours.’
Libby nods. ‘Although, really, it should have been my brother and sister’s, too?’
‘Well, more fool them. Oh, and I suppose I should wish you a happy birthday. A little belated.’
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘How long since you were last here?’
‘Decades.’