As we slice through the centre of town towards Greystones, there’s a strange feeling sitting in my chest. We both try counting back to the last time we were here. For me, it’s been a few months. Adam refuses to trust his memory, otherwise it’s been almost a year.
We’ve seen Dad in between, of course. He’s taken the train to visit us both and stayed a few nights in Adam’s spare room, and Christmas lunch was hosted by my brother. But coming home today, the city almost feels brand-new, like she’s trying to tell me something about how beautiful she is. Even our old detached stone-fronted home looks like somewhere I know but am not entirely familiar with.
‘So, is it serious?’ Adam asks, breaking me out of my hometown haze.
‘You have nothing to worry about.’ I pat him on the shoulder. ‘At the rate I’m going, he’ll probably never be your brother-in-law. Take a deep breath and count to ten.’
‘Katharine.’ He sighs heavily and gives the steering wheel a soft slap as we pull into Dad’s driveway, which is decorated with an old Defender. ‘I don’t mean it like that.’
‘Is this a party?’ I switch subjects and narrow my eyes at Adam. ‘Whose car is that?’
‘As long as it’s not an orgy,’ he mumbles, tugging at the seat belt. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I’m saying. I can’t stop you doing that, getting married. In fact, I think it would be wonderful if you did. A life partner is so much fun. I just worry about you, that’s all. I’ve known him longer, so I’ve seen him go through one or two women, and I don’t want you to become another casualty.’
‘And I’m thirty-five and quite capable of looking after this myself.’ I fix him with a look, and he turns a light shade of pink.
‘I know,’ he says quietly. ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
‘And who would you rather I date?’ I ask. ‘Hmm? Come on, Mr Perfect Match.’
‘Why can’t you just find yourself a nice artistic boy?’ he asks, slamming the car door so hard I’m certain it’ll fall off if we take a corner too tightly on the way home. ‘Someone who can keep up with your wild conversations and that small art gallery you’ve got happening in your flat.’
‘Sure.’ I shrug. ‘That way there’ll be two equally neurotic people in my house. That would be great.’
‘At least you’d have something in common,’ he says. ‘I’m only trying to look out for you, you know. I do love you.’
I want to pretend like I’m angry at his intrusion, but he cares so much that I can’t be. So maybe I am a little miffed that the only thing he’s focusing on is my love life. And maybe he has planted a few seeds I’m not sure I want sowing. He hasn’t asked me about anything else on the way here, not my job or my friends or my otherwise inactive social life.
I decide that’s okay, because I don’t feel like talking about the rest of my life right now. In fact, it’s been nice to not feel that bile-ish rise of unemployed panic in my throat for a few hours. I blow him a raspberry and walk along the stone path, through a Monet’s garden of flowers, towards the front door.
I’m home.
Chapter 5
Adam holds the front door open and straightens a family photo on the sideboard as he follows me inside. Our footsteps echo along a hallway decorated in a collage of memories and we say a quick hello to a photo of Mum that takes pride of place atop a display cabinet in the dining room, which is full of her favourite china.
A jasmine-scented breeze carries laughter with it up the middle of the house, which appears empty except for Dad. As we enter the kitchen, he reaches into the windowsill and fiddles with the radio dial until the crackling sounds of Tchaikovsky register. One look at him, and the first thing that comes to mind is Picasso. His sunflower yellow T-shirt is accentuated with royal blue stripes and splotches that would be right at home in an Eighties music video. Mark Knopfler, eat your heart out.
‘Well, shit.’ Dad throws us a quick look over his shoulder, his dark eyes suddenly bright at our intrusion. ‘You’re both still alive.’
‘I told you I’d get her here.’ Adam slips his coat over the back of a chair, claiming his place at the dinner table. As if he were ever allowed to sit somewhere other than the side of the table facing the window; childhood habits die hard around here. I kiss my father’s bristly cheek and steal a slice of Brie from the cheeseboard he’s piecing together.
‘As if you can talk,’ I demur. ‘What are you doing home on a Saturday morning? Hey? Come on, you’re the one who instilled our work ethic.’
Adam reaches into the refrigerator and grabs for a Capri-Sun Dad insists on keeping in the refrigerator for him. A holiday snap from Italy feathers its way to the floor before he curses and picks it up again.
Dad runs an art supplies store in the middle of town, so his Saturday mornings were usually spent working there. Given it was his busiest day of the week, it was rare to see him home, let alone putting on a spread.
‘Things have been on the up at the shop, so I’ve hired a few people to cover the occasional shift.’ He hands me the cheeseboard. ‘I thought a catch up might be on the cards.’
‘Time to break out the sparkling.’ Adam pops a cocktail onion in his mouth and disappears with his drink. From the sunroom, Dad’s girlfriend, Fiona squeaks her excitement at the sight of him.
‘So.’ Dad looks at me. ‘How’s the museum? Running the place yet?’
I huff, my fringe doing a Mexican wave against my forehead. I really want to tell him what’s happened, but now isn’t the time to pour out my feelings on the parental chaise longue. At least not with an audience. ‘You know, the usual. It’s frustrating. Office politics, men, promotions that seem like a fantasy. But, yay art, right?’
‘Big city life, huh?’ He sounds as thrilled as I feel.
‘You can say that again,’ I mumble.
‘Are you okay?’ The bridge of his nose furrows. ‘You look spooked.’
‘Me?’ I stuff a cube of cheese in my mouth. ‘La vita è bella.’
‘You do know how that movie ends, don’t you?’ he asks.
‘Dad, come on.’ I grin, nodding in the direction of the hall. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ He waggles an accusatory finger. ‘Anyway, come out and say hello, see who I’ve managed to rustle up today. I’ve got someone I want you to meet.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. You’ve got a lot in common.’
I grimace. ‘Sounds ominous.’
He shepherds me into the sunroom, where I find Adam and Fiona, who is the sunshine of the place, her greying hair swept together in a chignon and her apron-smock smattered in a rainbow of paints. She’s just as eccentric as Mum was, with a touch more bite, which means she’s slotted into our family perfectly.
She’s already drawn Adam into an animated discussion about a new piece hanging on the wall. It’s as wide as I am tall, I’m sure of it, and it’s a magnificent landscape of the Ribblehead Viaduct and surrounding Dales, full of oranges and greens and spurts of light. I love that, from a distance, anyone would be forgiven for thinking it was a photo. Looking around the room, at the empty seats and half-drunk teas, I spot another guest outside.