‘Katharine.’
‘Christopher, hello.’
Even with my mind buried in menu cards, I haven’t stopped thinking about him and how we spent yesterday afternoon talking.
Walking and talking and debating the finer points of art in Weston Park. I can hardly believe it myself. The same Katharine who flew straight into bed with her last boyfriend spent the afternoon just chatting. And it was perfect.
It wasn’t that barely breaking surface tension stuff of first dates (wait, did yesterday count as a date?), but the real in-depth stuff that gets into the crevices, burrows into hearts and fills tissues with snotty tears. That’s the difference between someone who looks at art and says ‘finger paintings’ and someone who can dissect layers, shadows and symbolism.
I like to think I’m switched on, that I can see things coming a mile off. But if that were true, it wouldn’t explain me hanging on to John by my fingernails for months, and it certainly didn’t explain how it was that Christopher had managed to sneak up and get through the keeper.
He’s done a serious number on me and, right now, all I can think is that I desperately want to feel his mouth on mine and his fingers curled through my hair again.
‘How are you?’ He reaches for the bowl in my arms. ‘May I?’
‘If you touch that bowl, Kit, you’re staying for dinner,’ Fiona teases as she skirts past and winks at me. Urgh. Was it that obvious?
Immediately, he yanks the bowl from my hand and almost drops it on the dining table. ‘I’ve been trying to call you.’
‘You have?’ I scramble for my phone. Yes, he has. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, of course, I’m fine.’ He says, angling his screen towards me. The question: Do they know? typed out in a message. ‘I just wanted to show you some of the pieces that had arrived for the exhibition.’
I shake my head. No. Nobody knows. I haven’t seen anyone to be able to tell them, though I’m hardly about to go and advertise my personal business when I’m not even sure what it is myself. Yet, I’m acutely aware we’re being watched like we’re behind plate glass and someone’s charged an admission fee to the show.
I’m relieved when Adam appears from the living room. Not only does it take the spotlight from us but, with the handshakes and hellos, it gives me a little breathing space while everyone settles themselves into seats.
‘We have some news.’ Fiona places a plate of nibbles on the dinner table.
“We have some news”. I reflect on those words for the brief second I’m allowed. It’s one of those rare sentences that immediately captures a room’s attention. Not surprisingly, it was Adam I was expecting this from, not our parents.
And it’s the type of statement reserved for announcing births, deaths, marriages, or any otherwise serious business. I can’t see Christopher’s reaction, as he’s seated beside me, but Adam and I exchange a concerned look because, unless one of them is dying (please, no), they’re either getting married or procreating. I’m not sure which of those two options is scarier.
I wouldn’t put it past them to have a baby. Not that the idea is offensive, it’s beautiful, but that would make me thirty-five years older than whoever my sibling may be. I’d always thought I’d like a sister, but maybe not one who’d be young enough to push me around in a wheelchair before she hit forty.
‘Look at your faces.’ Dad laughs. ‘Don’t worry, we aren’t toppling the empire.’
Adam scoffs as if this is not a big deal. Not at all. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘What have you done?’ I ask. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense.’
But they do, and when the oven timer buzzes to announce dinner is almost ready, we almost jump out of skins.
‘Okay, so, Fi and I have bought a summer house in Scotland,’ Dad says, still laughing as he reaches for her hand. ‘Well, it’s more a yurt but, you know.’
‘A what?’ Adam blinks rapidly. ‘What? A yurt? Katharine, do you know what a yurt is?’
Sometimes, just sometimes, my brother can be a little lost when dealing with things that don’t come between the covers of an act of law.
‘It’s a bit of a …’ Fiona waves her free hand ‘… a tent type of building, just near Loch Lomond. We’re going to transition into off-grid living.’
‘Basically, weed-smoking hippies growing vegetables?’ Adam mumbles, a bit louder than I think he’d hoped. ‘Eating roadkill.’
‘All things being equal, yes.’ Fiona grins. ‘Maybe not the roadkill part, but a more sustainable life, sure.’
My insides unknot themselves and scurry back into position. Gosh, this is such a them thing to do. Adam and I have lived through the embarrassment of walking in on the experimental sex-on-paint-covered-canvas period, the Andy Warhol masquerade ball, and the Machu Picchu holiday that filled our phones with llama selfies and landed Dad with a concussion when Fiona got overexcited with the selfie stick. At this point, it’s fair to admit that a baby would have been the most surprising option here.
‘That’s quite the move,’ Adam continues. ‘Who’s going to run the shop?’
‘Is there a problem with the shop?’ I ask. ‘Because if there is, and it’s a foot traffic issues, I was planning on heavily promoting through the gallery.’
‘There’s no problem. It’s performing well. In fact, the last twelve months have been brilliant. But I’m almost seventy now, so it’s retirement time.’ Dad looks directly at me. ‘Time for someone else to run the show.’
‘Oh, no, come on. I’m barely getting the gallery together,’ I say with a laugh. ‘What? You want me to buy it?’
‘Nonsense, you’re more than capable,’ he says. ‘Unless you’d be interested, Kit?’
Christopher’s stops chewing. ‘I hardly think it’s appropriate to be asking me. Adam?’
‘Shit, I can’t even draw a potato. I’d be stuffed trying to sell crayons.’
‘I mean, this is not an immediate thing, so we don’t need to decide tonight.’ Dad looks at us each individually. I sense that, as much as he wants to retire, he’s going to have the worst time letting go of the shop.
‘I think that’s a better idea.’ Fiona stands. ‘Anyone for a drink?’
‘Before you get drinks.’ Adam holds up a stop sign hand and shifts nervously in his seat. ‘While you lot are off playing yurts and entrepreneurs I’ve been hanging on to a bit of news of my own.’
Brothers. I sigh. Like that, my mood switches and tears prickle the back of my eyes as I wait for Adam to gather himself. Here comes the avalanche.
‘Should I, would you like me to leave the room?’ Christopher reaches around and clutches the back of his chair, poised for a getaway. Adam shakes his head.
‘Should probably just come out and say it.’ He takes a deep, steadying breath and clenches his fists against his thighs. ‘I’m sure you’ve probably all guessed by now, but Sophie and I have separated.’
And that’s it. Months of secrecy and excuses for a single sentence. Stunned silence replaces the hum of a cooling oven. A bird chirps by the back door. I hate that he’s refusing to look anyone in the eye when he’s got nothing to be ashamed of.