‘Bye, my love,’ I say to my boy. He doesn’t reply.
We walk to the car park where Patrick has left his hire car, packed with a small suitcase that I gave him yesterday with my overnight things. I suppose, if I’m honest, I’m disappointed. There is no white ribbon on the front of the car; nothing to suggest that we are newly-weds. And then I chastise myself. I had all of that last time; I don’t need it now. I have all I need: the love of a wonderful man.
17
Two days after our wedding, Patrick moves in. The kids are at school, and I wait expectantly, hovering at the front door. We have never discussed how much stuff he intends to bring, and I wonder if we’ll have sufficient space. Will I need to get rid of some of our furniture to make space for Patrick’s? Perhaps I should remove the picture hanging over the fireplace and suggest he hang his ocean painting there instead. It’s a more attractive piece of artwork than the abstract landscape that Adam chose and insisted on displaying, chosen because it was painted by a famous artist rather than being a picture he loved. I decide to leave it for now. We can always change things around later.
Just after 10 a.m. I hear the crunch of tyres and I pull open the door. Patrick hops out of his car and opens the boot. He reaches in and tugs out one large suitcase and a small bouquet of red roses. After shutting the door, he carries the case to the front steps, puts it down next to him, places the bouquet on top of it and pulls me towards him.
‘Hello, Mrs Grant. How are you?’
‘Very well, Mr Grant. And you?’
He gives me a quick kiss and pulls away, leaving me wanting more.
‘Lead on,’ he says.
‘What time is the lorry coming?’
He stops still. ‘What lorry?’
‘The removals lorry with all your stuff. Or is it a van?’
‘There is no lorry, Lydia. This is it. The sum contents of my belongings. As I told you, my ex took all of our furniture, and my sister has an old Welsh dresser that belonged to our parents. There was nothing else worth keeping.’
‘Oh.’ I frown. ‘But what about all the furniture in your flat? And the lovely seascape picture in your lounge?’
‘I’m renting out the flat furnished.’
I realise we haven’t discussed any of this. I have been so swept away in the whirlwind of our romance, so engrossed in managing the fallout from Adam’s death, my wedding to Patrick and the problems we are facing at work, I haven’t given a moment’s thought to the practicalities of us merging our lives together. I had assumed he would be selling his flat and we’d add that money to what I get for the sale of this house, and together we would buy our new family home. He must notice my confusion. He runs the palm of his hand over my cheek.
‘I thought we could use the rental income from the flat for our day-to-day living expenses. I know you have lots of money, Lydia, but I want to contribute my fair share. I hope you understand?’
‘Yes, of course.’
But I can’t get over Patrick having so few personal belongings. I find it quite odd for a man approaching fifty. He follows me upstairs into the master bedroom. I cleared out all of Adam’s clothes and shoes. Most of it went to a couple of charity shops in Horsham, but I kept Adam’s black-tie suit and stored it in the loft. Perhaps Oliver will wear it one day.
‘This space is for you,’ I say, flinging open the cupboard doors in our dressing room.
‘All of this?’ His eyes are wide. ‘I don’t have very many clothes, Lydia. I’ve never been one for accumulating stuff. Fashion doesn’t interest me.’
I wonder if this space is making him feel uncomfortable. It’s the last thing I want.
‘Anyway, I don’t want to get too embedded here, as we’ll be moving soon.’ Patrick unzips his suitcase. ‘Have you spoken to any estate agents?’
‘Not yet,’ I say.
‘Well, there’s no time like the present. Why don’t you make a few calls whilst I unpack?’
‘Sure,’ I say, backing out of the bedroom, wondering why that sounds more like an instruction than a suggestion.
I ring the estate agent we bought the property from originally. An assistant takes down my details and tells me that her boss, Gail Smithers, needs to come and value the house. It seems they are hungry for a sale, so we agree that she will visit in two days’ time. Unsurprising in these times of economic downturn.
It doesn’t take Patrick long to unpack, and soon he bounds down the stairs and into the kitchen.
‘Can you make me an espresso, Lydia?’
‘Sure.’
He flicks through a few papers that I have on the end of the island unit, invoices and suchlike. I have to restrain myself from asking him to please leave my papers alone. As I hand him the small cup and saucer, he gives me a kiss on the cheek and walks out of the room with them. I open my mouth to ask him where he’s going, but then close it again. I must remember that Patrick is no longer a guest in this house. This is his home, too.
I settle at the kitchen table and open my laptop, answering a few work emails, and soon enough it’s lunchtime. I put some pasta on to boil and go in search of Patrick. He’s not upstairs. He’s not in the living room. And then I hear his voice.
Patrick is in Adam’s study, and it sounds as if he’s on the phone. Softly, I open the door.
‘I’ve got to go. Bye.’ Hurriedly he switches off his phone and glances up at me. He is sitting on Adam’s chair with his laptop open on Adam’s desk. It makes me shiver.
‘You don’t mind me installing myself in here, do you?’ He peers at me, a look of concern on his face.
‘No. No, of course not.’ But I do. A little bit. I’ll get used to it, I suppose. I remind myself that I didn’t love Adam for a long while before he died. This is the man I love now.
‘I can sort through the remainder of Adam’s things if you’d like,’ Patrick says, eyeing the bookshelves and half-packed boxes. I wish I had done more sorting beyond the filing cabinet. ‘It might be easier for me to go through everything, as I don’t have an emotional attachment.’
‘That’s kind of you, but I’ll do it. I’m sorry I didn’t clear it all away before you arrived. Anyway, I’m making pasta for lunch, if you’d like some?’
‘Thanks.’ He turns back to his laptop.
I have arranged for a mother of one of Mia’s school friends to bring them home this afternoon so that I can spend the day with Patrick. Not that we do. He works all afternoon.
Shortly after five p.m., Mia walks into the kitchen, her skirt rolled at the waist so the hemline is almost indecently short. She dumps her rucksack on the floor and opens the fridge.
‘Where is he, then?’ she asks.
‘I assume you mean Patrick?’
‘Yeah. Lover boy.’ She sticks her tongue out and makes a mock retching movement. Oliver sniggers.
‘He’s in the study. We’ll all have supper together in about an hour.’
‘In Dad’s study?’ Oliver asks. He looks pained.
‘Yes. It’s Patrick’s now.’
‘I bloody told you!’ Mia slams the fridge door closed. She grabs her rucksack and a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice and stomps out of the room.