‘I’m so sorry,’ I say quietly, carrying two plates piled with food back to the table. Patrick carries the remaining two and places one in front of Mia and the other at the head of the table.
‘You can’t sit there. It’s Dad’s place.’ Mia scowls at him.
‘Um, do you mind sitting next to me instead?’ I suggest, trying to quell the redness I can feel creeping up my neck.
‘Of course. No problem. I totally understand.’
Mia eats with her headphones on, totally ignoring the rest of us and refusing to engage in conversation. I am mortified. But what can I do? Fortunately, Patrick and Oliver seem to hit it off. Patrick knows all of the ‘in’ computer games, and Oliver is suitably impressed. I am relieved and also curious as to how childless Patrick knows so much.
After dinner, when both Mia and Oliver have left the room, Patrick strides over to me and takes my hand.
‘I understand, Lydia. Really I do.’
And I burst into tears, thinking how incredibly lucky I am to have met such a gorgeous, compassionate man.
13
As the autumnal days merge into winter, Mia starts communicating with me again. It’s slow, but I’ve decided not to push her. Yes, she’s angry with me for dating Patrick, and as a result, he hasn’t been back to our house. Yes, she’s angry with her father for dying. My heart bleeds for her. Life isn’t fair. But so long as I avoid any mention of Patrick, we seem to be on safe territory.
Now, we’re facing the dreaded winter holidays. Our first Christmas without Adam. I think back to the happy times, when year after year Adam insisted on dressing up as Father Christmas, and how he used to creep into the children’s bedrooms to lay their filled Christmas stockings at the end of their beds. I think back to last Christmas when we tried so hard to be civil to each other for the sake of Mia and Oliver. I think we succeeded. I hope we did.
My sister, Bea, has suggested that we join them in Switzerland. The kids jumped at the idea; I wasn’t so keen. The compromise was that she would whisk Mia and Oliver away at the beginning of the school holidays for ten days in an alpine chalet with her and the boys, for daily ski lessons and fondues with fries. Her husband, Craig, and I are due to join them for a short break over Christmas and Boxing Day. They regularly rent the same chalet in a small resort in the French part of Switzerland. I’ve seen the photos of wooden walls and fleece-covered chairs, a log-burning stove and breathtaking views of jagged mountains and snow-laden fir trees. They’ve been so many times, I assume Bea is a pro skier by now.
She has changed since she married Craig. I think she tries a little too hard to fit in with the privileged South Kensington set that she mixes with. Prestigious boarding schools for the boys, organizing charitable events to keep herself busy in their absence, and holidays in Switzerland and the Caribbean. Craig does something in the City I’ve never understood, and their lifestyle is equally lavish to ours, more so, actually, because they seem to have the time to spend and enjoy their money. Two sisters growing up with nothing, now living with unimaginable wealth. I often wonder how happy Bea is, but I never dare ask. She’s one of those closed-up, stiff-upper-lip types who would never admit anything was less than perfect, not least to herself. I think Mum saw through it. She said on several occasions to both of us that money was a great insurance policy, but it didn’t secure happiness.
I used to welcome school holidays and half-terms, special times to share with my children, but now I have to juggle childcare and work alone, things are different. Thank goodness for Bea. I wave them off, happy in the knowledge they’ll be well looked after, get plenty of cold fresh air and sunshine, and a break from the grief and the memories. In the kids’ absence, I intend to concentrate on work.
Things are definitely better with Ajay. He told me that he and Marianne have decided to make their marriage work. I’m surprised. And I have to assume that the police are no longer interested in him, because nothing further has been said or done. As the weeks and months have passed, I have resigned myself to not knowing how Adam died. DC White has confirmed that the case is still open, but I doubt they’re working very hard on it. Knife crime has surged; there are other major crimes to solve.
I try not to think about how dismayed Adam would be that his case wasn’t at the top of their list. I imagine what he would have done if it had been me who had died. I am sure he would be contacting the police every day to demand answers; turning up at the station, his arms on his hips, his jaw jutting forwards, telling them that not knowing isn’t good enough. I often think that I am failing his memory by not doing the same.
Although the business is still suffering from the retail downtrend, the atmosphere is vastly improved in the office, probably because I don’t eye Ajay with suspicion. He is cordial with me, we are agreeing on most major business decisions, and I try not to think about Marianne. In fact, it’s a bit like the old days, before Adam joined us.
Patrick has been in Manchester for the past three days. He has invited me out for dinner tonight and I’m hoping that he will stay over; the first time sleeping at my house, taking advantage of the kids’ absence.
I am fastening the clasp on my rose gold necklace when I hear the crunching of tyres on the drive. I glance out of my dressing room window and am surprised to see a taxi pulling up.
Patrick climbs out of the back seat. His jacket is over his shoulder, a briefcase in his hand, and he looks thoroughly flustered. Barefoot, I rush downstairs and fling the front door open just as he’s putting his finger on the buzzer.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask, standing back to let him in.
‘I’m lucky I’m not dead,’ he says as he strides inside.
I wince and he places a hand on my arm. ‘Sorry, that was insensitive. It’s been a shit day. My car was nearly written off.’
‘What!’
‘I need a drink. Is that ok?’
‘Of course.’
He follows me along the hallway and into the kitchen. I grab a beer from the fridge.
‘Something stronger, Lydia. Do you mind? A whisky, maybe?’
‘Of course.’ I hurry into the living room and open the door to Adam’s bespoke walnut wood drinks cupboard. I find a bottle of whisky. I’ve no idea if it’s a good one or not, but I pour a large measure into a cut-glass tumbler. I carry it back into the kitchen, where Patrick is slumped on a chair.
‘What happened?’ I hand him the glass.
‘I was on my way back from a client meeting when the car started juddering. I pulled up onto the hard shoulder of the M23 and quickly realised I had a flat tyre. I was going to change it myself, but then thought twice about it, what with all of the heavy lorries thundering past. So I called the AA and got myself up onto the bank. Five minutes later, a lorry caught the corner of the car. It flipped over and was bedlam.’
‘Bloody hell. Was anyone hurt?’
‘Miraculously, no. And now I’ve got no car for work and it’s a total nightmare.’ He runs his fingers through his hair, making it stand up on end.
‘Have you spoken to your insurance company?’
‘Yup, and they won’t pay up.’
‘What do you mean they won’t pay? You’ve got full insurance, right?’