Three

Magnolia

My sister flings herself into my arms as soon as I walk through the door.

I see her all the time. She flies to me or meets me somewhere in Europe for my work trips, but it’s been a bit more than a fortnight since the last time we’ve seen each other.

She picks me up off the floor even though she’s shorter than me.

“You’re home!” She lets out a squeal of excitement and I peel her off my body, frowning a little.

“That’s much too much emotion, Fridget. And you’re crushing my dress.”

Ballerina Style Tulle Dress from Miu Miu with the cut-out flower pumps from Dolce & Gabbana.

My sister rolls her eyes and smacks me in the arm. “How was the flight?” She pulls one of my suitcases inside and throws me another look. “How many of these are there?”

“Hmm?” I look over at her mindlessly. “Oh. Twelve perhaps?”

“You’re here a week.” She blinks.

“Actually,” I glance from her to Taura, “I’m here just under three.”

“Oh.” Taura schleps in another bag before we all give up and leave them in the courtyard. Is this not what fathers are for? I wouldn’t know, I suppose. Mine’s been terribly useless thus far.

“Three weeks?” Henry asks, poking his head out of the study. “What for?”

“Couple of work meetings.” I shrug and it’s a bit of a lie but what else can I say? December 3rd?

They’d never understand, not even Henry.

I skip over into his arms and he wraps them around me as he kisses the top of my head. He sniffs me. “Your hair smells weird.”

“Oh.” I frown. “It’s the Philip B White Truffle shampoo — do you not like it?”

He gives me a look. “Why would you want your hair to smell like a mushroom?”

“It’s very expensive.” I frown at him.

He shakes his head. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I use Clairol Herbal Essences—” my sister announces.

I give her a look. “Don’t brag about that, Bridget.”

Henry grabs her by the waist and sniffs her hair. “Brag away, Bridge. You smell like a fucking meadow.”

I link my arm with Taura’s and glare over at them — my sister specifically.

“This is what you wear for my big homecoming, you terrible wench?”

She looks down at herself in her matching green tracksuit and then back up at me, frowning. “I have those stupid puffy Chloé slides on you bought me.”

“I like it.” Henry throws a defensive arm around my sister.

“I’m quite sure you would.” I eye him in his Wild Thang tee from Golf Wang with the black logo-print track pants from Vetements. “Tell me, did you two make some sort of tracksuit-wearing pact to lower morale or has everything just fallen entirely to the wayside in my absence?”

My sister tries to kick me and I swear at her in Ukrainian, dodging her dumb, gangly leg because I don’t want my white dress to get dirty.

“Where is everyone, anyway?” I’m semi-miffed that my sister, my lifelong best friend and my new best friend are the only welcoming committee for my big London return.

I don’t know who else I was expecting. Christian, maybe? I haven’t spoken to Jonah since. Having Marsaili out here with some flowers and a banner would have been nice though, don’t you think?

“In here,” she nods at the dining room door, then stops. “Dinner’s on the table. You’re almost an hour late — so typical of you.”

I shrug, unperturbed. “Harley should have sent me the G700 then and not the Bombardier, and that’s just a consequence he’s going to have to bear.”

Taura stands in front of Henry and he slips his hand under her Get Back printed cotton-jersey jumper from the Stella McCartney x The Beatles collaboration.

“And what consequence might that be?” She blinks. “The potato gratin gets a bit cold?”

I frown at her playfully. “What’s a potato?”

Henry slings an arm around me. “It’s where vodka comes from.”

Bridget looks across all of us, blocking the path.

“So look, on the other side of this door is a lot of family drama…”

I roll my eyes. “Great.”

“Bushka isn’t talking to Marsaili—”

“—Why?” I interrupt.

“Because Marsaili won’t let her be a bridesmaid,” Taura tells me.

She spends a bit of time with Bridget, I’m told. That’s nice. I’m glad they have each other here in my absence.

“Mum’s new bottom’s here—”

“Bridget!” I poke her in the ribs. “If you insist on creating an acronym out of Boyfriend Of The Month, I beg of you, please, don’t say it phonetically.”

Henry starts laughing.

“Dad hates the BOTM…”

Henry tilts his head. “Interesting.”

“Keeps asking why he’s here—”

“Seems fair,” Taura considers.

“Then Mum is angry because Uncle Alexi’s hurt that he’s not invited…”

“Your mum’s brother is angry that he’s not invited to her ex-husband’s next wedding?”

Bridget shrugs, helpless. “I’m just here with the facts.”

“Wow.” I blink. “I really was the glue around here, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah.” My sister gives me a glib look. “That’s what it is.”

And then Henry pushes through the door.

My mum is first up.

Hands on both my shoulders, kiss-kisses each of my cheeks by bumping them with hers.

“Welcome home, darling.”

“I’m not home.” I smile at her politely.

My father stands, gives me a hug that’s rigid and uncomfortable for us both.

“So glad you’re home, darling.”

“I’m not home,” I say again with a curt smile.

Marsaili touches my face with her hands and smiles tenderly before hugging me.

(“Welcome home, Magnolia,” she whispers. “I’m not home,” I whisper back. She gives me a look. “Yes, you are.”)

I sit between Henry and Bushka, squeezing her arm hello.

“Where you been?” She gives me an annoyed look.

My face falters. “New York.”

“Since when?” She frowns.

I glance around the room uncomfortably. “A year almost.” I give her a little look. “You visited me last month? We drove to Bedford to visit Martha Stewart? She made you special Moscow Mules?”

Marsaili gives me a look. “Perhaps one too many?”

“To be fair,” Taura shrugs, “she’s got a heavy hand, that Martha. Loves a good pour.”

“Who doesn’t?” Mum nods appreciatively. “Oh, Magnolia, darling, Henry — this is Enzo.” She gestures to her BOTM who’s just been sitting there, smiling pleasantly.

Just chuffed to be here, old Enzo.

Sort of handsome, I suppose. If you like Euro-trash and bratwurst. I don’t know exactly what I mean by that, but it is apt.

“Magnolia,” he sings my name in a thick Italian accent. “Isa great pleasure to meet the famous tree girl—”

(“What?” I whisper, blinking at my sister, who shakes her head, rubbing her ear. “He’s not excellent at English.”)

Enzo stands to hug me but I hold my hand out to stop him.

“Oh, no, no—” I shake my head as I instead pat his arm gingerly. “Thank you, Enzo. We don’t need to hug. But I’m very happy to meet you—here. Now. On my very first night back in London, at an intimate dinner with my family and best friends.” I give him a cordial smile.

He does a little bow.

Marsaili and I catch eyes.

“Enzo’s number…” my dad starts, counting off on his fingers.

“Harley—” Mars growls.

“восемь,” Bushka says at the same time Bridget says, “Eight.”

Mum drinks her wine with tall eyebrows and flaps her hand once to dismiss them all.

“So, have you heard from BJ, darling?”

“I have not,” I tell her, my nose in the air. “Nor shall I.”

Bridget rolls her eyes but I catch it.

“What?” I scowl. “I haven’t. And I won’t. And I hate him and, actually, our love is dead—”

“—Oh!” sighs Mum’s BOTM remorsefully.

“No-no, Enzo—” I shake my head at him, flashing him a quick smile. “It’s not a sad thing, it’s an empowering thing.”

“Is it?” Henry tilts his head and I elbow him quiet.

“I’m very empowered. It’s like that part in that film, with the love fern? And it dies. And she’s fine. Relieved, even—”

“Your plant die too?” he asks, a bit devastated.

Taura shakes her head. “Doesn’t she go mental when the love fern dies in the film?”

I shoot her a look.

“Uh — no. No, everyone listen. I, metaphorically—” I try to clarify just for him, “dropped the — metaphorical — plant of our love into the desert and willingly abandoned it there. So, to just elucidate — not sad—” I give Henry a stern look. “Very empowered.”

I give Taura an exasperated look.

Bridget thinks for a few seconds. “Out of curiosity, what sort of plant was it? Your metaphorical love plant?”

I blow a raspberry and shrug off her stupid question before giving her a stupid answer. “I don’t know — something super boring like an ugly shrub. Like a… like a Sprinter Boxwood. Super ugly.”

“Oh.” She squints over at me. “You mean an evergreen? The plants that never die?”

I look up at her, alarmed.

“What?” I shake my head. Hen glances at me, amused. “No! I mean— no, that’s no — I understand the implications of that and no.” Fuck. “I’ve changed my mind. It’s an English rose. Very fragile, stupid flower. Can’t survive shit.”

“Oh.” She nods sarcastically. “So the metaphorical plant of your love is only the most iconically beautiful flower… ever.”

I blink at her.

“What the fuck, Bridget? Are you a fucking botanist in your spare time now?”

Taura starts laughing.

“And also no… Even though yes, but no.” I give my sister a stern look. “Sure. Maybe it’s very pretty on the outside but it has a lot of thorns. Very thorny. Also it’s in the desert now. Where no one can see it. Or water it. No chance in the desert. It’s done for out there, for sure. One-hundred-percent dead. And there’s no such thing as rose ghosts, so that’s great.”

I drink my wine quickly and then Henry’s too and keep my head down for the rest of dinner.

•

My room is how I left it.

Preserved perfectly and it feels like a hundred paper cuts all over my heart for a second — all the ways my room makes me think of him — and then I throw back some more wine and it washes those feelings away.

Or drowns them out.

Bridget lies down on my bed right where he used to.

“You okay?”

I blink a few times, probably a couple too many because probably I’m not, but I lie anyway because it’s easy.

“Grand.” I nod.

She nods back and I know she knows I’m lying.

And then she smirks. “Rose ghost…”

Henry

9:52pm

You feeling okay about seeing him?

Who?

…

…

Let’s not do this

Agreed

Just answer my question

No, I am not feeling okay about seeing him

Is he feeling okay about seeing me?

Don’t break the rules.

Sorry.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

It’ll be good.