I WAS EXCITED TO welcome Meg to my home, but also embarrassed: Nott Cott was no palace. Nott Cott was palace adjacent—that was the best you could
say for it. I watched her as she walked up the front path, through the white picket fence. To my relief she made no sign of dismay, gave no indication of disillusionment.
Until she got inside. Then she said something about a frat house. I glanced around. She wasn’t far off.
Union Jack in the corner. (The one I’d waved at the North Pole.) Old rifle on the TV stand. (A gift from Oman, after an official visit.) Xbox console.
Just a place to keep my stuff, I explained, moving around some papers and clothes. I’m not here much.
It was also constructed for smaller people, humans of a bygone era. Thus the rooms were tiny and the ceilings were doll’s house low. I gave her a quick tour, which took thirty seconds. Mind your head!
I’d never noticed until then just how shabby the furniture was. Brown sofa, browner beanbag chair. Meg paused before the beanbag.
I know. I know.
Our dinner guests were my cousin Euge, her boyfriend Jack, and my mate Charlie. The salmon turned out perfectly and everyone complimented Meg on her culinary talents. They also devoured her stories. They wanted to hear all about Suits. And her travels. I was grateful for their interest, their warmth.
The wine was as good as the company, and there was plenty of it, and after dinner we moved into the snug, put on music and silly hats, and danced. I have a fuzzy memory, and a grainy video on my phone, of Charlie and me rolling on the floor while Meg sat nearby laughing.
Then we got into the tequila.
I remember Euge hugging Meg, as if they were sisters. I remember Charlie giving me a thumbs-up. I remember thinking: If meeting the rest of my family goes like this, we’re home free. But then I noticed that Meg was feeling poorly. She complained of an upset stomach and looked terribly pale.
I thought: Uh-oh, lightweight.
She took herself off to bed. After a nightcap I saw our guests out and tidied up a bit. I got into bed around midnight and crashed out, but I woke at two A.M. to hear her in the bathroom, being sick, truly sick, not the drunken sick I’d imagined. Something else was going on.
Food poisoning.
She revealed that she’d had squid for lunch at a restaurant. British calamari! Mystery solved.
From the floor she said softly: Please tell me you’re not having to hold back my hair while I’m vomiting.
Yes. I am.
I rubbed her back and eventually put her to bed. Weak, near tears, she said she’d imagined a very different end to Date Four.
Stop, I said. Taking care of each other? That’s the point.
That’s love, I thought, though I managed to keep the words inside.
