‘No. Of course not. I just mean … you don’t know them very well, my family. And they don’t know you.’
‘So, that’ll change, right?’
He chuckled. ‘I guess it will. Ten days in close quarters.’
‘How come you make it sound like a jail sentence, not a holiday?’
‘I don’t mean to.’
‘Are they crazy?’
‘Aren’t all families a bit crazy?’
‘Sure. I know mine was.’ That was how she always spoke about them, in the past tense, although as far as he was aware they were alive and well and living in New Jersey. She’d never wanted to talk about them, and she’d never offered to take him there to meet them; they were compartmentalized in her past, the door firmly closed. ‘Sounds like you’re more worried about spending time with them than I am.’
‘It’ll be strange, is all. We haven’t done anything like this, without my mum.’
‘When was the last time?’
‘Oh, God. Years ago. After Laura married Alex, and Ethan was born. Carrie and Nick were going out, I think, but she wasn’t there … They weren’t that established. Mum and Dad rented a villa with a pool – Portugal.’ He couldn’t remember the year. ‘Ethan was just a toddler.’
‘And how was that?’
‘Good, I think. Okay. We played golf.’
‘Really?’ She sounded incredulous. He never played golf.
‘Yeah. Me, Nick, Dad. Maybe even Alex. Mum and Laura stayed at the villa with Ethan, who was obsessed with the pool, as I remember.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘All different now, though, isn’t it? Mum’s not here.’ He contemplated. ‘I’m just not sure how we work as a group without her.’
Heather had her head on one side, listening.
‘She ran the show. Everything. Not just the practical stuff, although she did that too. She was the fixer … the glue. None of us have much in common apart from parentage.’
‘You grew up together.’
‘Of course. But as adults we’ve got such different lives. Such different views. Politics, even. We have that shared history, of course, but it recedes, doesn’t it, when you’re older? She was the common thread.’
‘And your dad?’
‘I kind of think he’s been lost without her. Just treading water.’
‘It matters to him, though, this holiday. Why do you think he’s done it?’
‘It’s his birthday.’
‘I know that. But when did you last spend his birthday with him? All of you?’
Scott closed his eyes, scanning through the years. ‘Seventy.’ He could see Charlie – there must be a photograph – standing against a colourful border in his garden at home, sheepishly holding two gold helium balloons – a 7 and a 0. Ethan, aged six, was clutching one of his legs. Daphne was stage left, her hands clasped under her chin, beaming at them both.
‘Before you lost your mum?’
‘Would have been the same year. She got ill that autumn, at least. She died in the winter. January.’
‘And not since?’
‘Weddings, christenings, funerals.’
‘Just the formal stuff?’
He nodded.
‘So this is a big deal. For him.’
‘I suppose it must be.’
‘So we all have a responsibility. To make it a good one for him. For your mum.’ She laid a hand on his leg, and squeezed gently. He felt a moment of profound gratitude for her. He felt she was adding layers of perception to his life, to his relationships. She had changed everything – all his perspectives, all his priorities. He was a lucky man. ‘God. You are good.’ He put his arms around her. ‘So good. And wise. Did I mention wise?’
‘Oh, keep going!’ She laughed, the sound muffled against his chest.
‘And smart. You make me more good.’
‘Oh, you were already pretty good when I met you. I could see that.’
Thank God she had. He changed his tone, made it lighter. ‘Can I be one of your followers? Can I, please? Can you influence me? I’m very suggestible …’
She brought one hand around from his back to prod him in the ribs. ‘You can certainly make a follow request. I’ll consider it.’
‘Oh, you’ll consider it? If it’s good for your brand!’ He flipped her over in a single movement, and lay on top of her on the floor, his arm behind her head to cushion it against the hard surface.
She laughed with delight. ‘Oh, yeah, baby, only if it’s good for my brand …’
20
Ethan didn’t want to talk to his father without her. Dad had to be told, but he wanted the two of them to do it together. Even in the midst of her fear and anxiety, Laura registered that as a good thing for her relationship with her son. He was hers, still hers.
She didn’t want to do it at home. But she didn’t want to meet in a public place. She texted him that she needed to speak to him, and that she and Ethan wanted to come on a Saturday morning. She hoped she needn’t make the point that Genevieve had better not be there, but in the car on the way over, she rehearsed asking her to leave if she was. They hadn’t met yet, and she was in no hurry for that – and now was most definitely not the time. This was about her family, and Genevieve had no part in it.
She’d dressed carefully, pulling smarter clothes than normal from the back of the wardrobe – a pair of black cigarette pants and a silk shirt. The trousers were loose around her waist, but if she tucked the shirt in and bagged it out, they didn’t look too bad.
She dried her hair, curling it under with the brush, rather than scraping it into a ponytail, and put on light makeup.
Then she stood and looked at herself in the mirror. Older, more tired, ever so slightly scrawny, but she recognized herself from the days when dressing well and being groomed were part of her armour for battles she won more often than lost. Today she needed Alex to be an ally, not an adversary.
In the car Ethan barely spoke. He was pale and looked very young, hunched in the passenger seat beside her. She knew he wasn’t sleeping either – she’d heard him in his room on several nights, moving about. He had dark circles around his eyes, and there was a fresh crop of sore red spots across his cheeks and chin.
She’d made him talk, the first night, after Saskia’s parents had gone. Once he’d finished crying, and the adrenalin had subsided enough for her to stop shaking, she’d made hot chocolate and pancakes, the comfort food of his childhood, mostly so she could face the stove and keep busy for a few moments. They’d sat at the kitchen table. He didn’t eat or drink. She’d poured a heavy measure of whisky into her mug when he wasn’t looking. She had a million questions, but she sensed it would be better for the information to come out of him in his way. He took some time to process, and then, through ugly, angry tears, he spoke. Every few minutes he rubbed snot on the sleeve of his plaid shirt, and he kept squeezing his eyes and wiping tears. She wanted to hold him again, but when she took his hand on the table, he pulled it away.
Shock had seemingly removed whatever sense of privacy Ethan might have had, and fear made him speak. He was animated by the need to explain. He’d told her everything, she thought. It had been his first time, he said, that first time with Saskia, and she believed him. He told her that the two of them had talked about it before it happened. That Saskia had gone to the doctor, that he’d bought condoms anyway, from the chemist.