He rests back against the leather of the sofa. ‘Two things.’ He holds up one finger like a completely patronising arse as he speaks. ‘One, you don’t drive often.’ He lifts another finger and I’d like to mirror that action, flashing my knuckles in his direction. ‘Two, you don’t have the first idea about driving one ofmycars. Jackson will take you.’
Whilst I take his point on the supercar front – the paddle gears, no clutch, the car screaming out to go faster – I don’t appreciate his tone.
‘Why would you put me on the insurance if I’m never going to be allowed to drive the cars?’
‘In case.’
‘In case of what? A rally opportunity on South Bank?’
‘See. This is what I’m talking about.’ He raises his hands and faces Jackson. ‘Baby, you drive rally cars in a rally.’
‘Quit being a dick and just give me some keys.’
His eyes are bright when he looks back to me. He moves to the small safe in the corner of the lounge and types in his code then throws me a key.
‘You can take the Range Rover. It’s a normal drive and it’s safe. Don’t play games. Don’t take risks. Don’t drive over the speed limit and?—’
‘Bugger off, Gregory.’
* * *
Sandy and I run from the Range Rover, coats over our heads to shield us from the torrential rain, not stopping until we reach the porch. I have to fiddle with the lock, yanking the door handle towards me as I turn the key. A sign of how infrequently the lock has been turned in the last five months. I push the door past a stack of mail, most of which looks like adverts and trash. I stopped the important mail after my dad died. Sandy helps me scoop up the paper and envelopes into a pile on the dark wood side table in the vestibule.
We stand for a while, looking around what used to be a bright, happy home. It has a strange, musty smell and even with the lights turned on, it feels dark and grey, like the colour has been drained from the furnishings and the paint on the walls. I run my finger along the side table and look at the thick, grey circle that forms on my skin, a symbol of the past.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Sandy says. ‘I brought a pack-up and luxury biscuits. It’s going to be a long day.’
‘I didn’t even think of that, thank you. I’ll get the boxes from the car.’
* * *
Longday doesn’t cover it.One of the hardest days of my lifemight come close. We started downstairs: the lounge, the kitchen, the dining room. The removal men will be packing up and disposing of everything we haven’t agreed to keep or leave to the buyers and there weren’t many personal items downstairs. I decided not to look at photographs, wrapping them in old newspaper and packing them into a box before memories could form in my head. Sandy started with the opposite approach, wanting to remember and talk, but her smiles were cast in the shadow of tears and it took all my emotional strength to comfort her and drag us both through the godawful morning.
Now we’re upstairs and I’m in the doorway of my dad’s bedroom, staring at the empty space left by the removal of the special equipment he was given on loan from the National Health Service. The bed, the chair and commode, the drugs cabinet. All gone. In their wake, there’s the pungent smell of stale urine, a worn carpet and an overwhelming sense of death. I make my way into the room for one thing: the picture of my dad, Sandy and me at Brighton Pier in ’94. We’re all smiling, holding candyfloss. My dad drapes his arms around our shoulders. The sun is beaming down on us. He’s young, well, happy. It was his favourite photograph of the three of us and he asked for it to be put by his bedside on one of his good days. My throat constricts as I trace his smile with my fingertips and I close my eyes, willing myself to get past this moment for me, for Sandy.
‘I love you, Dad,’ I whisper, then press my lips to the frame.
The loft is the worst room. It was always going to be. But the reality is worse than the thought of it. My dad kept so many things from my childhood that I’d forgotten even exist. Dolls, bears, drawings, pictures with glitter and wool that Sandy helped me make. School reports, trophies from athletics and dancing, swimming badges. I can’t bring myself to throw away these things because I see in each of them the tremendous sense of love my dad had for me. I’m eternally grateful to have had a dad who loved me and protected me.
Sandy talks about the stories behind the things we pack into the boxes and I smile outwardly, sometimes even respond appropriately to her comments, but I don’t give myself over to the memories. I hide behind an invisible wall of safety because I’m afraid that when the tears come, they won’t stop.
* * *
Sandy holds in her lap a small bag of belongings that she asked to keep as I drive her back to Lara’s house. I hardly speak as we make our way, nodding and shaking my head as she talks. This is Sandy’s way of coping, talking through it, but I can’t help her. I can’t get words past the pain in my chest, the ache in my stomach, the stinging sensation behind my eyes.
I love Sandy, possibly more than she’ll ever know, but I’m relieved when I turn onto Lara’s driveway because once I’m alone, I can break.
‘Scarlett, hunny, come inside,’ Lara calls from the doorway.
Lara, the wedding. I forgot.I close my eyes, reboot and climb out of the car.
Miranda, another of Lara’s staff, brings tea and bitesize cakes which I take, both to calm my rumbling stomach and to comfort me through a conversation I have to endure when all I really want is Gregory.
Lara settles onto one end of a sofa and I sit next to her in a high-backed grandad chair.
‘I wanted to show you this,’ she says, opening a large leather-back album full of page after page of wedding snippings, drafting notes and sketches. ‘I’ve agreed the date with Gregory. Saturday the sixteenth of March.’
I know from the excitement in her eyes that she doesn’t mean next year. ‘Lara, that’s only a few weeks away.’
