I nod. “Victorian,” I say. “I know that much.”
Lucas smiles. “It may still have original tiles under here.” He taps a foot on the carpet. “Or at best, floorboards.”
“It’ll make a nice family home,” I say. “For whoever buys it.”
“And what’s happening with all that?”
“Solicitor is coming next week,” I tell him. “Then I suppose it’ll go on the market and—”
“And where will you go?”
I look at him, raise my shoulders. “I’ll find somewhere else. Get another room somewhere, maybe even a flat on my own, but that’s all down to money.”
“Well, have you applied for any more jobs?”
It makes me wince. I know he has my best interests at heart—so pragmatic, sometimes, in the pursuit of what he wants—but I haven’t thought much more about a new job in the last few weeks. I was concentrating on caring for Louise before she left us. Now I’m concentrating on missing her, of living in her home without her in it. On grieving her.
“No,” I say. “I’ve been busy, obviously. Sorting Louise’s house and going through her things is all I’ve really been thinking about.”
“No, of course,” says Lucas quickly. Then he puts down his burger, looks at me. “Em, I only mention the job stuff because I know deep down you want something else. I don’t say it because I think anything is below you, or I’m measuring you against something. I say it because I want to help.”
I swallow the food in my mouth, look up at him. “I know,” I say.
“You studied, you worked hard and—”
“Luke, I know. And I’ll get there. In my own time.”
We eat, the TV on but the volume low, neither of us speaking. Until Lucas finishes his burger and screws up the wrapper. He wipes his hands on a napkin and looks around the room, then at me. “I know I should have come sooner, Em. I wanted to. But work. They’re dicks. You have to give at least a fortnight’s notice before you book off holiday, but I sorted it as soon as I could. I didn’t want you to be alone.”
“I haven’t been,” I say. “And you’re here now.”
“I am.” Lucas smiles. “Yours until at least tomorrow night. Now. We need tea. Then it’s up to you to put these muscles to work. Packing, lifting?” He flexes, kisses his bicep. “I’m your man.”
I laugh. “You’re a knob.”
Lucas swoops off to the kitchen, taking the bag of rubbish with him from my hands. I hear him opening and shutting cupboards, trying to find mugs, and he starts singing to himself badly. I pass him on my way to the toilet and find him with my red polka-dot apron on. “You still have this,” he laughs. “You used to wear this when manning the old lady fryer. It’s like seeing an old friend.” I am on the landing when I hear the doorbell sound. Before I can get there, Lucas is already scooting down the hallway, into the porch, and opening the front door.
“Oh,” he says, teaspoon in hand. “Hey, dude. Nice surprise.”
“Oh. Hiya, mate.”
I rush to Lucas’s side. Eliot stands there, tall, the breeze bristling his hair, rucksack over one shoulder, and square, paper-handled bag in his hand at his side.
“Nice… pinny.” Eliot smiles at Lucas. “Hey, Em.”
“Hey you.” I smile, and I can already feel my skin heating at the sight of him.
“I carry anything off, you know that, big bro.” Lucas looks down at the apron and brushes it with a hand. He puts his arm around me. “Fancy tea, El?” he says. “I just put the kettle on.”
“Uh, actually, you two carry on.”
“Don’t be daft,” I jump in. “You’re not interrupting anything important, we’re just—”
“Hanging out in pretty pinnies, eating burgers on the sofa, plotting hangings and Bon Jovi imprisonment—”
Lucas and I laugh at the same time, and Eliot smirks. “I’m intrigued, I can’t lie,” he says. “But actually, I was just passing by to give you these.” He swings his bag off his shoulder, reaches into it, pulls out a fan of papers. “These are for Rosie. Drawings of the screen thing she wants, for the event next weekend.”
“The blog-ference,” I say.
And he smiles gently at me. “I mean, I’ve done some jobs, but this’ll be my first ever blog-ference.”
“She’ll probably have you dressed up à la Diet Coke Break.”
Eliot laughs. “Yeah, she has a thing for the tool belt, doesn’t she?” he says. “I told her I’d bring it but I am not taking my shirt off for less than fifty quid.”
“Bit steep,” I say, and Eliot raises his eyebrows. “What do you want, then, Emmie? Mates’ rates?”
Lucas straightens next to me. “Right, well, I’ll erm, go make the tea, shall I?”
“Little bro,” Eliot says, reaching forward, and Lucas takes his hand; they do that rough, squeezing thing men do, when it looks like they’re declaring a thumb war. “Should catch you at Mum’s, at the weekend.”
“Cool,” says Lucas, and he walks off into the house.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”
Eliot smiles gently. “I’m sure,” he says. “Plus, I’ve got a transatlantic phone call to take. So, no time for tea.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this what happens when carpenters get headhunted for blog-ferences? Transatlantic gigs, no time for your brother, or for boring old Emmie Blue?”
“Cabinetmaker, thanks,” he says with a smirk. “And I’ll explain what it’s about. When I see you. I’ll know more by then.”
“You can tell me Saturday,” I say.
“Pick you up at eight?”
“Perfect,” I say. “Don’t forget your tool belt.”
Eliot gives a wink. “Wouldn’t dare.”
I find Lucas in the kitchen, squeezing tea bags against the sides of two mugs, still dressed in my red apron.
“So,” I say. “Tea.”
Lucas looks to his side at me, eyebrows raised.
“What?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“No, come on, what?”
He shakes his head, hesitates. “Do you want mates’ rates?”
I laugh. Lucas doesn’t. He just looks at me, stirring now, waiting for an answer.
“You do, don’t you?”
I hesitate.
“Well, if you don’t you better tell him that, then,” says Lucas. “Poor dude’s got it bad.”
Lucas reaches across, touches a finger to the tip of my nose, smiles, and picks up his tea. It’s later that I realized the bag Eliot was carrying at his side was a bag from Askew’s. The bakery on the seafront he bought us lunch from twice last week. Eliot had planned to stay. Until he saw Lucas here.
WhatsApp from Lucas Moreau:
Em, I need you.
WhatsApp from Lucas Moreau:
Please please pick up.
WhatsApp from Lucas Moreau:
I need to talk to you.
WhatsApp from Lucas Moreau: