He laughs and then sobers. “I like that way of thinking,” he says musingly.
“How would you do it, anyway?” I ask, suddenly filled with the desire to know.
“What?” he asks. “Propose marriage?” I nod, and he looks thoughtful. “I wouldn’t do it in public. To me, it’s one of the most intensely private things you can do.” He shrugs. “I think I’d wait until we were curled up at home all snug and warm and it would come from one of those moments when I’d have a sudden realisation of how much I love the other person and want to spend my life with them. Then I’d say, ‘I have a question for you.’”
He trails off awkwardly, and silence falls. I have a sudden, incredibly powerful yearning for it to be me on the other end of Jack’s dream proposal. I squash that thought like it’s an irritating bug. Jack’s dreams will never include me. When he proposes, it will be to someone who looks like they belong on an advertising billboard. Probably for aftershave. They always look like smug bastards.
“That’s lovely,” I say in a low voice. “Really lovely.”
He flushes, and, to rescue both of us, I hastily suggest, “Let’s go to breakfast.”
Half an hour later, dressed in skinny jeans, combat boots, and an oversized black jumper, I follow him into the restaurant. As usual, we’re comfortable together again, the awkwardness easily left behind.
I look around in appreciation at the series of wood-panelled rooms. Huge sash windows let in the winter sunshine, illuminating the beautiful artwork on the walls and the bright blue and purple velvet chairs that surround wide, wooden dining tables. The effect is tasteful and comfortable. Against the wall opposite us, there’s a series of refectory tables filled with food of every description. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of coffee and bacon and fresh toast.
Rubbing my hands together, I grin at Jack. “See you in a bit,” I say cheerfully.
Five minutes later, I settle opposite him with a plate that’s piled high with food, including two croissants, toast and jam, and thick slices of ham.
He grins at me. “Surely you’re eating more than that, Arlo. You’ll waste away.”
“I’m a growing boy, and we need to eat every scrap to justify the extortionate prices here.” I unroll my cutlery and settle the heavy napkin over my lap. “Anyway, this is just a preliminary snack. I want eggs benedict afterwards.”
“Are you a hobbit?” he asks seriously.
I laugh. “I can’t even grow hair on my chest, Jack. Let alone on my feet.”
“I ordered coffee for you,” he says, digging into his own more modest breakfast of cold meats and cheese.
“Is that all you’re eating?” I ask disapprovingly.
“Yes, because we can’t all consume meals that look fit for Henry the Eighth.” He smiles. “I don’t know where you put it.”
“My cock,” I say. Unfortunately, my voice is a bit too loud, and the comment lands in the sudden pocket of silence around us like a brick in a puddle.
An old couple at a nearby table turn their heads slowly to look at me.
“Oh,” I say, trying to think quickly. “Oh dear… My clock! My clock isn’t working this morning.”
The old couple relax slightly and turn back to their meal, and when I look at Jack, it’s to find him red-faced and fighting obvious laughter.
“Hush,” I say primly. “This is a nice hotel, Jack. Have some decorum.” A snort escapes him, and I tap my fork on my plate. “We need to line our stomachs for this pub crawl. Otherwise, I’ll be left on the pavement again. A testament to lost dreams and poor alcohol tolerance.”
“Happy holidays,” he says wryly.
I smile, and then, at the sound of nearby laughter, we look up to see our friends coming towards us. I eye them consideringly, and, damn them, they don’t look hungover. Then I see Bee’s glowing face.
“You’ll never guess what,” he says excitedly as he arrives at our table.
“Oh my God,” I shout, getting to my feet and hugging him tightly. “I’m so happy. Congratulations!”
Too late, I see my brother making wild gestures at me.
Bee looks at me in confusion. “Wow! Did you hear already?” he says. I blink, and Bee looks over at Jack. “I ended up scoring some tickets for the Rembrandt exhibition but didn’t think anyone else apart from us was going to be that happy about attending.” He turns back to me. “This is brilliant, Arlo. Tom can go on his pub crawl with Freddy and Diana, and you can have your brother’s ticket if you’d like and come with Jack and me. I never knew you were such a Rembrandt fan.”
“I am?” I ask, and then it sinks in what’s just happened. Bee’s talking about going to a museum, not about getting married. “Oh yes,” I say heartily. “So much a fan. Huge. Ginormous. Wow! A ticket to the Rembrandt art exhibition rather than the pub. Great.”
“Really?” he enthuses. “What’s your favourite work of his?”
I remember with a sinking heart that art history is amongst the many topics Bee is brainy about.
“Oh, er…” I falter, looking desperately at my friends. Nobody catches my silent plea, apart from Jack, who, behind Bee’s back, makes a sudden charade-like gesture. I stare at him closely. He gestures again. “Oh,” I say loudly and excitedly. “The disembowelment one. I love that. So… so visceral and… and so real.” I trail off as Jack lowers his head to the table and bangs it gently.
“Really?” Bee asks, looking puzzled. “I don’t remember that one.”
“Oh yes,” I say faintly. “It was painted during his depressed period.”
Jack’s laugh breaks free, obviously too forceful for him to contain.
Five
Arlo
Jack is still laughing as we wait outside the hotel for Bee and the others.
I shoot him a sour look. “Oh, shut up.”
He snorts again, making my mouth tick upwards despite my attempt to look stern. I shrug. “Well, there’s one silver lining in the typhoon cloud anyway.” He looks at me in query, and I say, “Bee’s well used to our family being odd. This was nothing on the Wright family strange-behaviour measurement.”
“No. It’s nowhere near the time when your dad inadvertently entered that road race in the South of France,” he says solemnly. “Thirty minutes of French people shouting at us was just a wonderful holiday memory.”
I laugh and shake my head. “My fucking family.” A cold wind gusts around me, and I shiver, pulling my parka closer. “Shit, it’s cold. Where the hell are they?”
He unwinds his long, red and black striped cashmere scarf from his neck. “Here, have this.”
“I can’t have that,” I say, startled. “That’s your scarf, and you’ll need it because it’s bloody freezing.”
He shrugs. “I’m not as cold-blooded as you. I swear you’ve got crocodile blood in you.”
“Did you know that crocodiles release heat through their mouths rather than sweat glands?”
He pauses in looping the huge scarf around my neck, and I inhale and get a gust of his woody scent. “Really? How do you know that?”