‘It’s nice here,’ you whispered. ‘But it’s posh, isn’t it? I don’t think I fit in.’
‘You don’t,’ I said. ‘You are far too beautiful.’
You blushed and lowered your gaze.
‘I’m sorry about your food.’
‘It was lovely. I’ve never got on with mushrooms and I wasn’t sure if the orange stuff was for eating. The fish was tasty though.’
You were so desperate to make me happy. I’d have married you then and there, no word of a lie.
Dessert was more successful, pots of chocolate mousse scattered with flakes of edible gold and cherries dipped in white chocolate. You ate half the mousse and I had another surge of warmth towards you. You’re right. A woman should care about her figure.
Coffee came with sweets arranged on a white saucer.
‘They’re called petits fours.’
You repeated the words under your breath as you reached for a sphere of sugar-dusted apricot jelly and nibbled the edge.
Emboldened by wine I rested my hand on yours. It was electric.
‘I’d love to see you again.’
‘What about Paris?’
‘I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘You must have loads of girls you like up in London. I bet you have to fight them off with a stick.’
I toyed with the idea of making someone up to make you jealous. A colleague in the law firm. Emily or Arabella. But playing games wasn’t called for.
‘The girl I like is right here.’ I was pleased with this comment; it came out smoothly. ‘Can we have dinner again?’
‘You should come to The Packhorse with me and my friends when you get back. Meet some other people.’
I drove you back to your tiny cottage on the outskirts of Newlyn and walked you to your door. The air had chilled and there was the distant sound of a fishing trawler coming into port. A movement from an upstairs window caught my eye. I glanced up to see your mother watching us. The curtain fell back immediately. I smiled at you and you thanked me for dinner.
I thought you might kiss me. But, of course, you weren’t that type of girl.
When you know, you know.
Chapter Five
Hannah
The kitchen is silent but for the ticking clock and my own shallow breathing. I check the time again. Seven minutes to eight. Nathan sits at the table, unmoving, fists loosely balled and resting either side of his empty plate. He watches the clock like a hawk on a field mouse.
I check the shepherd’s pie again. The potato is turning from golden to overdone. I take it out of the oven, rest it on the side, and prod the crispy potato with a fork for no reason other than to appear busy.
‘You know, I think this has improved with the extra time in the oven.’ My tone is designed to appease Nathan’s mood. ‘He won’t be long. He probably missed the bus or—’
My sentence is interrupted by footsteps on the gravel path outside. Moments later, Alex pushes through the kitchen door and relief floods me. He dumps his kit bag on the floor and kicks off his football boots. His face is smeared with dirt and teenage indifference, and his white shorts are covered in a camouflage of stains from the football pitch. He bends down to ruffle the dog’s neck and whispers into her fur, and she responds with a vigorous beating of her tail on the flagstones.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ He appears anything but apologetic as he walks to the sink and turns on the tap to wash his hands.
‘And why are you?’ Nathan is glowering, staring at the wall in front of him, mouth moving in silent, tight-lipped mutters.
‘Why am I what?’
Nathan turns his head slowly to look at him. ‘Late.’
My stomach twists in anticipation of the inevitable argument and when Alex shrugs I have to bite my tongue to stop from interfering. From experience I know this doesn’t make the situation any easier.
Alex dries his hands and throws the tea towel on to the worktop. Nathan glances at the discarded cloth and visibly bristles, his lips pursing tightly.
‘Well?’
Alex rolls his eyes theatrically. ‘Rob offered me a lift but his mum was late. I was about to catch the bus, then she showed up, so I hung about because I thought going with her would be quicker than the bus, but it wasn’t because she got chatting to the other mums and we didn’t leave for ages.’
‘And you didn’t think to call?’ Nathan’s words are laced with caustic irritation.
‘I kept thinking she was nearly done.’ Alex gives a dismissive shrug. ‘Turns out they had a lot to catch up on.’
I stare at him and will him to apologise. He doesn’t need to do this. All he has to do is say sorry and sit down for supper.
‘What’s the point of having that bloody phone if you can’t use it properly?’
Alex heads towards the door.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Alex gestures upstairs. ‘Shower.’
‘Sit down and let’s eat.’
‘You waited?’ Alex’s forehead wrinkles with confusion but it’s an act. He knows full well Nathan would have insisted on waiting. He’s baiting him. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ Nathan says, spitting the words out like sharpened tacks, ‘this family eats together like civilised human beings.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Let’s just eat, shall we?’ Alex looks at me and I hold his gaze for a moment. ‘While it’s hot, love.’
Nathan reaches for the bottle of red. He pours two glasses. Alex slouches on his chair, legs kicked out in front of him, fingers toying with a fork. If it wasn’t for the leaden tension, their matching cartoon scowls might make me laugh. I make two or three attempts at starting a conversation, but the sullen silence from my son and one-word snaps from my husband ensure that very soon the only noise which accompanies our meal is the scrape of cutlery and the relentless ticking clock.
When he’s finished, Nathan leans back in his chair and wipes his mouth, leaving a greasy smear of orange on his napkin. He drains the last of his wine then taps his finger on the table. ‘I don’t think you’ve given me the receipts yet?’
Nathan smiles and my insides solidify as heat spreads to my cheeks.
‘Sorry. I meant to put them on your desk but got sidetracked in the kitchen.’
‘Can I have them?’
‘My purse is upstairs.’
‘No problem. Alex and I will clear while you fetch it.’ The lightness in his voice thinly masks an anger which hasn’t faded at all. ‘Now, if possible?’
My hands have grown clammy. I force a smile at him and imagine – as I often do – what it would be like to lean forward, close to his face, and tell him where he can stick his fucking receipts.
But I don’t.
Instead I nod and leave the table. Cass follows on my heel, her claws lightly tapping the stone floor, and waits at the bottom of the stairs as I go up to our bedroom. I lift my handbag from the chair in the corner and rummage for my purse. Humiliation burns my skin. It shouldn’t. I should be used to this by now, but it’s always hard when he does it in front of Alex. The pity on my son’s face sharpens the shame.
‘Here you go,’ I say brightly, as I walk back into the kitchen and hold out the receipts, one from the supermarket, the other from a cash machine.