‘Are you ok, sweetheart?’ I ask Oliver.
‘Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?’
An hour later, I go upstairs to tell the kids that supper is ready. Mia is hunched over her laptop, headphones on.
‘Supper,’ I say. She nods but doesn’t look at me.
Oliver isn’t in his room doing his homework as he normally does straight after returning home from school. As I walk downstairs to look for him, I’m surprised to hear laughter coming from the living room. Then I hear Patrick’s deep, mellow voice followed by further peals of laughter from Oliver.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, pushing the door open.
‘We’re playing a computer game,’ Oliver says. ‘Patrick’s brilliant at it. Hey, watch out!’
‘You won that round,’ Patrick says, leaning back in the armchair.
‘Have you done your homework?’ I ask.
‘No. Look, look, Patrick!’
They both peer at the television screen. I have no idea what game they’re playing.
‘You’re good, man!’ Patrick says. He high-fives Oliver.
‘You need to do your homework straight after supper,’ I say.
‘Yeah. Yeah,’ Oliver says dismissively.
‘It’s more important to have fun when you’re fourteen years old, isn’t it, Ollie my boy!’ He thrusts his knuckle towards my son.
‘I’m only twelve!’ Oliver says.
‘You’re very mature for a twelve-year-old.’ Patrick looks impressed. ‘And bloody good at gaming.’
‘Um, no swearing, please, Patrick.’
‘Well, your mum is a right spoilsport, isn’t she, Ollie? I think we’ll need to work out how to loosen her up.’
Oliver’s smile is the widest I have seen it in months. Whilst I’m happy that Patrick and Oliver are bonding, this love-in is too much. I’m going to have to have a word with Patrick about discipline. It’s quite obvious that he hasn’t got children of his own and doesn’t understand the need for routine.
‘Supper will be getting cold.’
Patrick stands up and stretches. Oliver groans but switches off the game. They follow me to the kitchen.
Mia is already seated at the table, but she has her headphones on.
‘Can you take your headphones off, please.’
She pretends not to hear me and carries on picking her nails.
‘Mia!’ I say a bit more loudly. I still get no response.
A flash of anger darkens Patrick’s face.
‘Is she always this rude to you?’ he asks quietly.
‘No. She’s struggling at the moment.’
Mia pushes her headphones off. ‘I’m not struggling, I just don’t want…’
She scrapes her chair away from the table and stands up, tears welled up in her eyes. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she mutters as she dashes out of the room.
‘I thought I had sorted things with her,’ Patrick says. He clenches his teeth together.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s hard for Mia to adjust to everything. Plus she’s got all the normal teenage hormone stuff going on.’
‘Well, she mustn’t spoil our evening. I found a bottle of champagne in your cellar and have popped it in the fridge. I think we should celebrate.’ Patrick walks over towards the fridge and removes the bottle. ‘Where are the champagne glasses?’
My smile is forced. It is so strange that Patrick is helping himself to my things. As I stride to the cupboard where we keep our glasses, I tell myself to snap out of this. What is mine is his. I place two empty champagne glasses in front of Patrick. He uncorks the bottle with a pop and pours me a glass.
‘And how about you, young man? Fancy a sip to celebrate your mum and me living together?’
‘Um, I’m not allowed any. I’m too young.’
Patrick rolls his eyes. ‘One day, when your mum is out, then. But don’t tell her!’ he says in a mock whisper.
After we have finished dinner, Oliver returns upstairs to finish his homework.
‘Do you need any help clearing up?’ Patrick asks.
‘No, it’s fine. Go and relax,’ I say. After I have loaded the dishwasher, I put a portion of the chicken stew, rice and vegetables on a plate and place it on a tray. I carry it upstairs. I’m about to open Mia’s bedroom door when I hear voices inside. It sounds as if Patrick is talking to Mia but in a low voice, so I can’t make out what he is saying. I hesitate a moment and then knock on the door.
‘I’ve got some food for you, Mia,’ I say.
She is seated cross-legged on her bed. Her eyes are red from crying. We refurbished Mia’s bedroom a little over a year ago, transforming it from a pink Barbie-inspired room into something surprisingly sophisticated with a teal-velvet-covered headboard, a copper pendant light and copper accessories. Patrick is perched on the window seat, his arms crossed, the teal blinds pulled down behind him. I can’t quite put my finger on the atmosphere. It reminds me of the ozone-scented air after a heavy storm; a relief that the worst is behind us.
‘I’ve just had a little word with Mia, and she’s got something to say to you, haven’t you, Mia?’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I won’t behave like that again.’
‘It’s ok, love.’ I place the tray on the end of her bed.
Patrick throws Mia a look that I don’t understand and then leaves the room.
‘What was that all about?’ I ask.
‘Nothing,’ Mia says, shaking her head. ‘I’m okay now, and I’m sorry for being rude.’
‘It’s all right, my darling. I know how difficult things have been.’ I try to give her a kiss, but she wriggles away and grabs the plate of food.
‘Thanks for this,’ she says, spooning large forkfuls into her mouth.
I don’t know what Patrick has said to Mia, but I don’t recognise this polite version of my daughter.
The next few days are uneventful. Gail Smithers has a good look around the house and values it for twenty percent more than we bought it for. If she knows about Adam’s death, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she tells me that she has a number of properties on her books that might be suitable for us, all at a fair whack more than what she proposes we sell our house for. She says she can think of at least three clients whom she wants to show our house to. I am buoyed up by her positivity.
Today was packed full of meetings, and I realise I’m going to be home late. I message Patrick, who offers to collect the kids from school and to make supper. I smile. Adam used to help out, but only if I asked him to. I finish off my work and it’s gone six thirty by the time I put my key in the front door.
‘Hello!’ I shout, dumping my coat and my bags in the hall and walking down the corridor to the living room.
‘Oh!’ I exclaim, my hand in front of my mouth as I look around the room. Logically, I know that this is my living room, filled with my furniture, but it looks nothing like how I left it this morning. The large cream sofa has been moved to the other side of the room and has its back to the wall. The armchairs are placed facing it, nearer to the fireplace. The antique satinwood bookcase is now on the wall adjacent to the patio doors, and the console table is a few feet in front of the doors. On it is a large arrangement of dried flowers that I keep in the hall, along with some ornate silver candlesticks. Even the long, silken-haired rug has been moved.