Page 3 of High Season
She thought about it all through dinner. When they agreed to order a second bottle of wine, instead of pudding. When Ryan insisted on paying the whole bill, and Nina was briefly struck with the surprise of how differently people could treat her when they didn’t know who her family were.
She thought about it in the taxi on the way back to her flat.
When she unlocked the door, and Ryan whistled and said that he’d expected student digs, not a mansion flat in Chelsea with paneled walls and a four-poster bed so large that Nina’s mother often joked it would never fit through the doorway when she moved out.
She thought about it as she explained that the flat had belonged to her grandfather.
That she had been living here since their second year of university, after her mother made a fuss about the small, damp student house that Nina had planned to move into with Claire and some of her coursemates, asking, Why on earth would you live there when there’s a perfectly nice flat you could live in for free?
That, like everything in Nina’s life, the flat was inherited, another thing passed down through the family that Nina felt she had no right to, but somehow ended up accepting anyway.
That she hated the stiff-backed mid-century furnishings, the paintings that were worth more than most people earned in a year, the bar cart heaving with sticky bottles of Cointreau and Pernod that Nina always cringed at when she brought back her beer-drinking friends from the student union.
She thought about it when Ryan kissed her as she was midway through explaining all of this, his hands cupping her face beneath the chin, his mouth hot and firm against hers.
As he led her to the bedroom. When he had taken off her dress, his mouth moving all the way down her body, her neck, the soft outward rise of her hip bones.
Even as he entered her, all Nina could think about was what he had said back in the restaurant.
How do you know that you were telling the truth?
The morning after the dinner party, Nina wakes to a pulse in the back of her head, an ache behind her eyes, the sour-mouthed dryness that accompanies a hangover.
The room is dark, a benefit of the hideously expensive blackout blinds that Ryan had imported from Germany, but Nina can tell from the panicked feeling in her chest and the fact that Ryan’s side of the bed is empty that she has overslept.
She rolls over and fumbles on the bedside table for her phone.
Instead, her hand knocks against a wineglass.
Her memories from the night are blurred.
Ryan getting annoyed when she failed to put a coaster down on the bedside table.
Claire insisting that they do their go-to karaoke routine from their university days—“Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” by Elton John and Kiki Dee, with Claire usually ending up taking over both parts.
Blake asking Nina again if she’d fly out with him tomorrow, One last chance, sis.
And did Blake and Claire leave together?
Nina manages to drag herself up to sit, wincing as she does.
Ryan is already in the kitchen dressed in a shirt and chinos, standing, even though there’s a barstool beside him.
He’s religious with tracking everything from his screentime to his steps, and his latest endeavor is to spend at least eight hours per day on his feet.
He doesn’t look up from his screen as Nina enters, his fingers tapping against the keypad.
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” he says cheerfully. “Or should I say afternoon?”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter past nine. There’s coffee in the pot if you want it.”
“Let me just brush my teeth first. I’m disgusting.”
“You left your phone out here, by the way,” he calls after her as she crosses into the hallway. “I put it on charge in the living room for you.”
“Thanks.”
Nina swipes her phone off the coffee table as she passes and locks the bathroom door behind her. She sits on the lowered toilet lid as she ignores the pile of notifications at the bottom of her screen to tap into her conversation with Claire.
I feel like shit this morning. Make me feel better and tell me you didn’t go home with my brother last night?
She stands to switch the shower on and leans against the sink, thumbing through messages that she missed last night while the water heats.
A notification from Instagram; a newsletter from a psychology magazine she’s long subscribed to but almost never reads; an email sent at half eight this morning from her soon-to-be employer reminding her to read through her contract and let them know if she has any questions.
Then, farther down, a subject line that makes her breath catch in her chest.
Tamara Drayton case: twentieth-anniversary documentary (interview request)
The room is hot, filling with steam. Nina has to wipe a film of moisture from her phone screen to make out the text. She has a sick, heavy feeling in her stomach as she scans the message, her eyes skimming too quickly to take much in.
Notorious murder case. Youngest-ever witness. Access to case files.
Before she knows what she’s doing, Nina is crouching on the bathroom floor, the tiles damp beneath her skin.
Renewed attention on case. Unreliable witness. Tragic death. Josie Jackson.
She’s lightheaded, her heart falling into beat with the hard drum of water against the ceramic shower stall.
She has to close her eyes for a moment. Slow her breath.
She tries to remember her exercises from therapy.
A long, deep inhale through her nose. A slow exhale through her mouth.
When she opens her eyes, the screen seems too bright.
The words of the message stark. She scrolls back to the top of the email and reads the whole thing from start to finish, lingering over each word.
She reads the email through twice. Turns off the shower, and then reads it a third time. She only realizes that she’s clenching her jaw when it begins to throb, a sharp pain that cuts through the dull ache of her hangover.
Give me some credit, Claire has responded. Solo taxi home for me. I actually feel OK. Maybe I’m still drunk?
Nina ignores the message. Finds her brother’s number.
What time’s your flight? she types. And is it too late for me to get a seat?
She presses send and then waits, her thumbs hovering above the keypad. Then, before her brother has a chance to open the message, she types out a second text.
We need to talk about Josie Jackson.