‘Are you okay?’ Gregory asks, placing a hand on my thigh.
‘It doesn’t feel right any more.’
‘The house?’
‘It’s cold and miserable.’
He runs a hand down my hair. His mouth parts and closes silently, his eyes betraying his anxiety. He wants to say something but doesn’t know how. His palm moves to my cheek, my body responding by leaning into his anchor.
‘Why don’t you come and stay with me this week? I don’t want you to stay here alone.’
‘Stay? With you? At the Shard?’
He takes his hand away, moving his gaze to the front window. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, I?—’
‘It’s only a week, Scarlett; I’m not asking you to marry me,’ he almost snarls.
Unsure which of us is wounded more, I twist my lip between my finger and thumb. A week of Gregory and a week away from this house whilst I figure out what to do with it.
‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
He pulls his key out of the ignition. ‘Let’s get your stuff then.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay.’
He’s looking at an old photograph of my dad and me hanging on the wall in the hallway when I finally arrive at the top of the staircase.
‘That was my eighth birthday. Dad threw me a party in Richmond Park. It was a teddy bears’ picnic,’ I say with an enormous smile. ‘He invited all the kids from my class. Sandy made far too much picnic food, as ever, and the best birthday cake. She made a giant bear wearing dungarees. I loved dungarees. I was also going through a phase of being obsessed with teddy bears and the idea that all my toys came to life at night when I was sleeping.’
Gregory looks at me, amused I think, and gives me his stunning half-smile.
‘I read A Toy’s Palace a lot during my phase.’
‘Let me help you,’ he says, climbing the stairs to take my suitcase and shoulder bag. ‘I’ll be outside.’
I look around the house one more time. ‘Goodbye, Dad.’
After lugging my last three bags onto the porch, I pull the door shut behind me.
‘Flip, Scarlett, these cars aren’t made for their boot space,’ Gregory says, getting back out of the car to help me.
Raising my arms at my sides, I look down to my luggage. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he picks up all three bags as if they’re stuffed with air.
‘And I thought you were scared about staying for a week. You’ve got enough stuff for year.’
‘Scared for you,’ I say with a purposeful mischievous glint in my eye.
I follow him to the car where he’s forced to put the final bag on the almost back seat. Buildings disappear, the road opens up and the clouds begin to part as we drive into the evergreen of the country with Elton John’s ‘I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues,’ playing through the speakers.
‘So you’re taking me to a farm?’
