‘Do you practise your own art?’ he asks.
Suddenly, I’m made of glass. ‘Well, it’s been a while, but—’
‘She’s an incredible photographer.’ Dad stuffs a cracker laden with baba ghanoush into his mouth. ‘Landscapes mostly, a bit of portraiture. You did a lovely series of shots of the Town Hall once, I remember.’
My gaze slides towards Dad. Normally, I’d speak up at being talked over but, right now, I don’t mind so much.
‘He’s right,’ I say. ‘Photos are my thing, but it’s been an age since I’ve had the time.’
‘You know, if it’s been a while since you’ve made any art, you should take a class at Kit’s to help rebuild your skills,’ Dad adds. ‘Hell, he’s even sucked me into going. And it’s great, you should see some of the stuff we’re doing.’
‘But she has a master’s degree. Surely, she doesn’t need me,’ Kit chimes in as he slouches back into his chair. ‘Right?’
‘He’s right,’ I agree, begrudgingly. ‘I think I’m okay, thank you. Just need a bit of time to myself, but I’ll keep it in mind.’
I can’t remember the last time I felt so out of the loop in a conversation of this kind. So, when Fiona leaps from her chair and announces she’s going to organise dessert, I take the opportunity to follow her to the kitchen and away from the discomfort.
Chapter 6
‘She wrote her thesis on Grimshaw.’ Dad’s voice floats through the walls and into the kitchen. ‘I proofread it about a dozen times. Bloody brilliant if you ask me.’
‘I didn’t understand a word of it,’ Adam chimes in.
All I can do is bury my face in my hands and laugh. Fiona gives me a light slap with the dish cloth despite the fact she’s tittering too. Neither of us hear Kit’s response. Perhaps it was too low and mumbled, perfect volume for a roast, or maybe there wasn’t one at all. I make the decision there and then that, despite how amazing his art might be, or how wonderful his school for the gifted is, I don’t like him. I’ve had my fill of art snobs lately.
In this moment, I’m glad for the sanctuary of the kitchen. It’s comfortable and non-judgemental. Once upon a time, I’d spend nights and weekends helping Mum whip up all manner of gastronomic creations. Despite what Dad likes to think, she really was the cook of the two of them. I laugh sometimes, thinking about how frustrated she’d be if she ever saw my microwave gourmet paired with the first bottle of wine Sainsbury’s has on offer.
Not a lot has changed here since she died. Besides Fiona, that is. We’ve still got the same beige laminate worktops that have almost worn through in Mum’s favourite spot where she’d sit and lean into the counter while having a conversation and a brew. Knife wounds slice the surface in spots where Adam and I selfishly made sandwiches without chopping boards. Even the mixing bowls are in the same cupboard by the oven.
‘I thought you were just cutting up cake?’ I ask. ‘Do you want me to do that? I can make one if you like?’
Because of course I’ve made mountains of cakes lately. Not.
‘Oh, you don’t have to do that.’ She fluffs and flutters and tries to steer me out of the way.
‘Please, let me.’ I reach above the refrigerator for a cookbook. ‘It’ll be nice to be out of the spotlight for five minutes.’
‘Go easy on the old boy.’ Fiona relents and lifts her mug to her mouth, eyes already crinkled conspiratorially. ‘He thought Kit would be right up your alley.’
‘Let me be very clear,’ I whisper and pinch my fingers together as I lean into her. ‘He’s not going anywhere near my alley.’
‘Oh.’ She breaks into a scandalised laugh that lights up her face. ‘No strike then?’
‘Not even a gutter ball.’
‘Oh, balls.’ She giggles.
‘No, no balls.’ I laugh with her. ‘None at all.’
We corpse all over again.
Before I have a chance to gather ingredients, Fiona is pulling packet mixes from the pantry and whispering about how Dad thinks she makes caramel mud cakes from scratch. She leaves me to bake if I swear never to reveal her secret. I cross my heart and, soon enough, am alone and listening for whatever conversation wafts into the kitchen.
I’ve barely managed to crack the last of the eggs into the bowl when I hear footsteps thudding along the hallway towards the bathroom. I pay no attention to them until they start up again. This time, they’re getting closer. They’re not the one-two shuffle of my father or the slightly shorter version preferred by my brother and I can still hear Fiona laughing in the sunroom.
It can only be Kit, and he’s now standing in the dining room, staring up at Dad’s makeshift gallery wall. It’s covered in prints and postcards of Dad’s and Fiona’s favourite pieces and it’s where I got the idea to do the same thing in my flat.
‘Hello.’ I spare a look over my shoulder and try to be as upbeat as possible, though I’m sure I sound desperate, panicky even. ‘Lovely day today.’
I bristle and brace myself for whatever’s bound to come out of his mouth but his only response is to offer me a disinterested grin before turning back to the art. He’s so bad at faking a smile he can barely manage to crinkle his eyes.
It doesn’t take long to realise, as he moves around the space, he’s watching me. That’s okay, because I’m watching him too. We just aren’t doing it at the same time. I catch him in the corner of my eye and, when I turn away to melt butter, he’s watching me do that. It’s a silent tug-of-war.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ The room is so still I’m sure it’s not the clock I can hear ticking, but the cogs in both our brains. He doesn’t move or flinch. Even the conversation in the sunroom seems to have ground to a halt. Instead, he leans in closer to the piece he’s in front of for a few more minutes. I rub the back of my neck. ‘They’re some of my parents’ favourite art pieces.’
‘It’s an interesting collection, isn’t it?’ he asks, finally making eye contact.
I smile. ‘It’s certainly eclectic.’
‘He loves his Picasso.’ His head tilts and turns as he takes the work in from all angles. ‘So, you’re a photographer?’
‘Pretend to be,’ I say.
‘Any favourites?’ he asks, offering another cursory glance.
‘I quite like Adams.’
‘Ansel?’ he asks. ‘I don’t mind the landscapes.’
‘No, Bryan.’
He rolls his eyes and clucks his tongue. ‘Figures.’
‘Why does it figure?’ I ask.
‘Well, he’s famous, isn’t he? Mainstream.’
‘Of course.’ I feel my brow furrow. ‘I wouldn’t have heard of him otherwise.’
‘My point exactly,’ he says in a soft grumble as he waves a languid finger towards the wall. ‘This one here seems out of place with the rest of them.’
I take a deep breath and fumble with the mixing bowl; I can’t discard it quickly enough. There’s just something about him that sets my nerves on edge. ‘Ah … you want to know about that piece in particular?’