THE KITCHEN, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 11:54 P.M.
• • •
Olivia sat back from the table, holding the token inch of champagne Andrew had poured her. Her whole body still hurt, like she’d been smashed into. But Phoebe had been right to urge her to come down. She’d always thought it was better to cry in private, but now she wondered if she was wrong. Seeing how nervous they all looked, she told them to see in the New Year as usual with the bongs on the radio. She actually wanted some normalness around her—anything to cushion the feeling of freefall.
With a spark and splintering sound, the room went black. The voice on the radio stopped. “Power cut!” said Phoebe.
Her father flicked on the torch in his Swiss army knife, opened the fuse box in the corner, and fiddled with the switches. Nothing happened. “Must be the whole street,” he said, looking out the window. He took matches and candlesticks from the side, lit a candle, and put it in front of Olivia. He held up the match to watch the flame dwindle. “Still reminds me of Afghanistan,” he said, and then looked at her as if he shouldn’t have said anything. She took a tiny sip of champagne.
“How come? You never tell us the whole story,” she said. It was the first time she’d spoken since coming down. The candle flared, and she saw Emma, Phoebe, and Jesse looking at her in surprise, and then at Andrew. And as he began to tell the story, she thought, It’s going to be hard. But I won’t be alone.