I reach across the table and give his hand a tight squeeze. Dad seems the most shocked of the lot, whereas Fiona’s wearing the look of someone who’s been there, done that. Somewhere deep down, I’m sure Dad had an inkling, but his big fault (if I were forced to pick one) is that he does like to see the best in people. Sometimes, that clouds his judgement a little.
‘You okay?’ I ask.
Adam gives his head a tight nod. His lips are so tightly pursed I worry he’s about to bite them both off. ‘You know what? I really am. I’ve been in a kind of limbo for months, so to have an answer now is good. Well, you know, not good, but better than not knowing.’
We sit in contemplative silence for what feels like forever. What exactly are you supposed to say to someone who’s hurting like that? Chin up, it’ll get better? Sure, it probably will, but that’s not quite what he needs right now.
‘Oh, Sophs.’ Fiona claps her hands to her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’
To say that we love Sophie is an understatement. Because we’ve known her so long, she became a pseudo sibling in the family. Her family often joined ours at Christmases and New Years. To think that all that shared history isn’t enough makes me incredibly sad.
Everything has been relatively amicable, he assures us, at least for now. It’s just a part of life. Except, it’s not just life, is it? It’s painful and awful and, if it’s hard to watch as an outsider, I hate to imagine what it’s like in the eye of the storm. They’ve split the furniture; they’ll sell the apartment and move on. He doesn’t go into further detail and I’m not sure anyone’s game enough to ask the question.
‘So there you have it. My news. Not nearly as fun as a yurt.’ Adam says teasingly. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ I say.
‘Actually, I should be thanking you.’ He looks at me, eyes wet. ‘You’ve been incredible through all this. With everything you’ve been dealing with, with moving and setting up your own business and everything that’s been a part of that, you’re still dropping everything to make sure I’m okay.’
Beneath the table, I feel a warm hand squeeze my leg.
Chapter 25
‘A yurt,’ Christopher blurts, breaking the silence as we wait at the traffic lights.
With my elbow nestled against the window and my hand over my mouth, a snigger becomes rolling laughter. As much as he tries not to, he does the same.
After dinner, conversation turned back to Scotland, the yurt, and how the idea even came about. For the record, it was a recent glamping weekend that stole my parents’ hearts, and their minds. Wallets, too, evidently. As lively as the conversation was, when Christopher offered to drive me home, I leaped at the chance to spend time with him.
‘What the hell does he want a yurt for?’ He looks at me. ‘I mean, I get it, he’s eccentric, but this is taking it to a Howard Hughes level of extreme, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know.’ I wipe away tears. ‘I can’t answer that.’
The rattling old car lurches forward as the light turns green. ‘There’s no reason why he can’t grow vegetables in suburban Sheffield.’
‘And I’m certain Fiona has been to t’ai chi classes here before, so going back there for them doesn’t make sense,’ I add.
‘Maybe they just need a tree change,’ Christopher says, hand held out in question. ‘Right? You had a city change, maybe they need a tree change.’
‘Anything is possible with the two of them.’ I take his hand in both of mine. ‘Though, I’m not sure I want to shoulder the blame for this.’
‘What about the shop?’ He shoots me a quick glance. ‘I feel like you don’t want it, which is strange, for me, when you consider family history. I suspect you’re far more sentimental than you let on.’
‘Moi? Sentimental?’ I bat my eyelids. ‘Absolutely.’
He pulls my hand up to his mouth and kisses it.
‘I don’t not want it,’ I say. ‘I just don’t know that I’ll have the time. What about you? You enjoy working there.’
He curls his lip. ‘Look, I don’t know. The thing I love about that shop is not that I’m earning money. I make enough with the art, so that’s not the problem. It’s getting out of the house that’s good for me. If it weren’t for the shop, I probably wouldn’t venture anywhere other than to skulk around galleries or buy toilet paper. I just don’t know that customer service is entirely my thing.’
‘That’s probably the one thing I’m still a bit worried about with the gallery, dealing with the public.’ I shudder as we pull into the car park behind the gallery. ‘Aside from that, what did you think of his suggestion?’
It probably couldn’t have been clearer that things had changed between the two of us as the first thing we did after dinner was sit next to each other on the sofa. And, while Dad nattered away about plans and the shop, we scrolled through photos of Christopher’s students’ exhibition work like proud parents at a graduation ceremony. If it wasn’t that, it was the slideshow of his own works in progress that had me gasping, cooing and pinch-zooming at the expense of the room around me.
It was around that time Dad suggested Christopher and I buy into the shop together. There was an awkward silence when, I suspect, we both realised that SnogFest in the park yesterday did not a marriage make. Also, it’s apparent my father thinks I don’t have enough on my plate right now.
‘We’d be making quite the commitment,’ he says, shutting off the engine.
‘Does that scare you?’ I ask. ‘Making a big commitment with me?’
He looks at me and shakes his head. ‘Weirdly, not at all.’
I pivot so I’m facing him and sandwich my hands between my thighs. ‘Not quite the conversation you expect to have so soon with somebody, is it?’
For a moment, we sit in the darkness and watch each other, faces changing with thoughts.
‘No, I suppose not.’ He rubs a hand over his mouth.
‘Also, it’s my dad. He may yet change his mind,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t read too much into it all.’
Christopher takes a deep steadying breath. ‘In that case, there’s something in the back seat for you.’
I close my eyes and bite my lip, laughter threatening its way up again. ‘I have to say, that’s the most creative way I’ve ever heard that put.’
‘What?’ he asks. ‘No. For crying out loud, Katharine, you’re a rotter.’
‘I’m not the one who just tried getting me in the back seat.’
He reaches around and pulls a small box from the footwell behind my seat. ‘I’ll have you know this car is the literal worst for shagging in. Been there, done that, got the scar from the craft knife I forgot was uncapped.’
I suck a pained breath between my teeth as he shows me the 5p-sized cross on his elbow. ‘Ouch.’
‘Anyway.’ He hands me the box. ‘I was going to post this today. I thought you might appreciate the irony.’
No bigger than a paperback book, there’s a severe red ‘Do Not Fold’ sticker on the front of the package. I give it a shake but can’t make out the contents. With a confused look, I slide my finger under the corner of the cardboard and peel it open.