‘The en-suite is through here,’ he says. ‘And there is the second bedroom.’ He opens the door to a smaller room, with shutter blinds across the window and a bed with a tall, navy blue padded headboard. ‘And there’s another bathroom through there.’
‘It’s very tidy,’ I say, noting the lack of photographs and knickknacks and books. It’s also very masculine – the polar opposite to our house.
‘I’m a bit of a control freak. I like all my mess to be hidden behind cupboard doors. Anyway, what can I get you to drink? Red, white, gin?’
We walk back to the living room. I place the rose on the countertop.
‘A small glass of white, please.’
He takes a bottle out of a largely empty fridge. I note a box of six eggs, a quarter pint of milk, a couple of lemons and a tray of some ready-made meal. I wonder what he intends to give me for supper.
‘Where do you keep all of your stuff?’ I ask as I accept a glass of wine.
‘My work is on my laptop and in my briefcase, and to be honest, I don’t have much stuff. My ex kept most of our belongings. I was quite happy to start again. Come here.’ He tugs my hand.
I place my wine glass on the marble coffee table as he pulls me into his arms and then bends down and gently places his lips over mine. As his kissing becomes more insistent and his fingers undo my buttons, I think of my bank account. I can’t help it. The fifty thousand pounds left my account on Tuesday morning. He must have paid the cheque in first thing on Monday morning. I didn’t think cheques went through that fast. As his clothes drop to the floor, I press my body to his. We seem to fit so perfectly. But then I feel terrible. My husband died less than four months ago and here I am with another man. And worse still, I think I’m falling in love.
He must sense my confusing melee of thoughts because he pulls back and holds my face between the palms of his hands, so confident in his own body, he barely seems to notice that he is standing totally naked whilst I am almost fully clothed.
‘By the way, I wanted to say thank you. Sandra cried tears of joy. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful we are for the loan of your money. She’s starting the next month of immunotherapy tomorrow.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ I say, my shoulders easing downwards.
‘And I’ll be able to pay you back soon. I promise, Lydia.’
Patrick drops me back home shortly before 11 p.m. Most of the evening was spent in his bed, with a short interlude for a Chinese takeaway.
I don’t want him to go. He leans over the gear shift to kiss me again, and once more I get lost in his arms. Eventually I pull away, grab the rose off the back seat, and step out of the car into the cold night.
‘I’ll see you to the door,’ he says as he swings his long legs out of the car.
‘It’s fine. It’s three steps to the door.’ I laugh.
‘And three steps I want to take with you.’
I walk towards the house, but he grasps my hand.
‘Don’t go!’
‘I have to. The children. Cassie is waiting for me.’
‘One last kiss, then.’ He grabs me on the doorstep, his kiss deep and passionate, and I feel like swooning, so lost I am in his arms. And then I hear a click and a gasp.
I pull away.
‘Mia, wait!’
My fifteen-year-old daughter darts back along the corridor and runs up the stairs, taking two at a time. Muttering, ‘Sorry,’ I push Patrick away and sprint after her.
‘Wait!’
But she doesn’t. She rushes into her bedroom and slams the door behind her.
I hesitate at the top of the stairs, but then I hear a car engine start up and fade away.
‘What’s going on?’ Cassie emerges from the living room and stands at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing her eyes and yawning. ‘Sorry, fell asleep in front of the telly. Is everything all right?’
‘No,’ I whisper. ‘Mia just saw me snogging Patrick.’
‘Oh shit,’ she says. ‘Think I’ll leave you to it, if you don’t mind. I need to get home.’
‘Thanks, Cassie,’ I say, blowing her a kiss. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
I knock on Mia’s door. There is no answer. I try again.
‘Go away!’ she says. Her voice sounds choked.
I turn the door handle, but she has wedged a chair up against it and I have to push hard to get it to open. Mia’s bedroom is in darkness, the only light coming from her mobile phone, which is lying on her bed.
‘Darling, we need to talk.’ I squeeze through the doorway and walk to the side of her bed. I kneel down next to her.
‘I said go away. Which bit of that don’t you understand?’ Her clipped tone of voice sounds like mine when I’m chastising her. It makes me want to weep.
‘I need to tell you what’s going on. To explain.’
‘It’s pretty bloody obvious. My mother is a whore who couldn’t wait for my dad to die so she can bonk someone else.’
I grit my teeth. ‘Mia, do not talk to me like that! It’s not what it seems.’
She turns then and sits up. I can just make out her pale features, her long, dark hair framing her face, the wetness running down her cheeks. I want to hug her, to make things better for my little girl. But I know I can’t.
‘You treat me like I’m a kid, but I’m not. I’m more mature than you are.’ She stifles a sob.
‘Darling, I know you’re angry and you feel betrayed, but I need to tell you about Dad and me. You must have noticed that things weren’t good between us, that we were arguing loads. We had decided to divorce. We were about to instruct solicitors when he… died.’ I still find it so hard to say that.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mother. Don’t fucking well lie to me! Just because Daddy isn’t here to defend himself. You disgust me.’
I stand up. ‘Do not swear at me.’
She slides down the bed again, turning her back to me. She does nothing to hide the desperate sobs that engulf her body. I bend over her, stroking her forehead like I used to do when she found it difficult to fall asleep. She shoves my hand away.
‘Go. Just leave me alone.’
So I do. I back out of her room and gently close the door behind me. I lean against the wall in the hall and let out a sigh.
I feel like the worst mother on earth, as if I have totally betrayed my own children, putting my needs before theirs. Should I dump Patrick and focus on them for the next couple of years, park my own happiness for a while? Or could there be some sort of compromise? I simply don’t know.
I sleep terribly, worrying about Mia. Now I’m pacing up and down the kitchen, my coffee cup in my hand, and I decide honesty is the best policy. I will invite Patrick over for supper and introduce him properly. I send him a text and then try to do some work. It’s so difficult to concentrate.
It is nearly midday when both the children are up, slurping from bowls of cereal at the kitchen table. Mia refuses to look at me.
‘Kids, I want to tell you something.’
Oliver looks up, his spoon held in midair. Mia ignores me.
‘Before Dad died, he and I had decided to get a divorce. We were going to tell you when it was a bit more sorted. We wanted to minimise the impact on you. But then… Anyway, we both love you so much, and the three of us would have stayed living here. The thing is, Dad fell in love with someone else, so I started looking for someone else too.’