We both take a tentative step in the door. Ash looks around, and I am watching everything through his eyes. One of the things about having a builder for a father is that every damn thing in our house is custom-made. From the TV stand to the dining table, every single piece of furniture—except for the sofa—has been built, altered, or at the very least installed by my dad. The only problem is that Dad has no cohesive style. So whereas there is some quite nice delicate woodwork around the kitchen island, it is totally overwhelmed by the hefty wooden cabinets he made from scratch using someone’s old staircase.
I dreamed so hard of having an IKEA dresser when I was fifteen.
“I like that,” Ash says, pointing to the pergola in the garden that Dad made when we were kids.
“Sure, because what this mid-century terrace house in Northumberland needs is a Spanish-style pergola,” I mutter to him. “But yes, it’s gorgeous. My cousin got married under it.”
Dad strolls over, tall and strapping, kisses me on the forehead, and shakes Ash’s hand with his thick workman’s fingers. He’s got skinny jeans on. The kind that funnel too tightly up his body and explode into a massive paunch and broad shoulders, giving him the look of an inverted triangle.
“A builder?” Dad says, nodding in approval. “Good honest work, that.”
“He’s notjusta builder,” I interrupt, and then, when I see Dad’s crushed expression, I quickly clarify, “I mean he’s notonlya builder. It’s not the only thing he does.”
“You know, before Mara got fed up with me, she had a real thing about builders,” my dad is now saying.
“What are you talking about?” I snap, and feel a gentle press on my arm from Ash. Telling me not to worry, I suppose. To let him go on.
Then my mother says, “Oh, they’re just flatmates, Neil. You’ve got that new boyfriend now anyway, don’t you, Mara? The one from Europe?”
“Vienna,” says Ash without skipping a beat. “He’s a cellist.”
I feel my cheeks redden. The first lie. Ash knows very well that Joe is not my boyfriend.
“Yes.” Mum nods, a sort of veil of relief washing across her face, which I am sure is because someone has confirmed it as not being the fantasy it actually is. I look over at Ash and mouththank you. And he raises a shoulder like it’s no problem at all.
The barbecue is set up in the garden. Everywhere, Dad’s and Mum’s friends—most of whom I’ve known since I was a kid—are drinking under bunting and silver balloons. Someone has made one of those rectangle frosted cakes with Mum’s face on it. M&S party food is laid out across two trestle tables. Two young girls are playing a dancing game on my old Nintendo Wii. An elderly neighbor watches on from the TV armchair, sipping on tea from Mum’s best china. Every time I look over at Ash, he seems a mixture of delighted and amused.
“Shall I introduce you to my brother?” I ask. “May as well get that out of the way.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Also, if you don’t mind, I’d like a drink.”
“Shit, sorry,” I say, motioning with my head to the chiller filled with beer, wine, and plenty of vodka. Once we’rewith drink, I take Ash over to see my brother, Ben, who is gesticulating wildly at a group of people—his audience—while his wife watches on with pride. I get a wave of joy when I see him. My big brother.
“My brother is very much your salt-of-the-earth northerner. Very straight down the line,” I whisper to Ash. And then I take a deep breath. “Hi, Ben!”
Ben spins around and beams at me, throwing his arms around me and tugging me in for a hug. He smells of beer and sweat and Lynx Africa. “Mara! The prodigal daughter returns. How’s things in the Big Smoke? Oh, wait. Didn’t you move to Brighton?”
“Broadgate,” I say.
“You look... different,” he says. “Nice to meet you. You’re the flatmate, right?”
Ash nods and they shake hands. “Ash,” he says. I watch with curiosity as Ben looks Ash up and down, apparently confused that this normal-looking guy would be on a weekend away with his kooky sister. I find myself moving slightly closer to Ash, as if he provides some kind of force field against Ben and his presumptions about me.
“So, what’s been going on, Mara?” Ben says. “We’ve not seen each other since Aunt Jenny’s funeral. Bloody hopeless, aren’t we?”
I nod. “Not much. Working. I went on holiday to Hungary.”
“Mum says you’re working at an art gallery or something? Mum!” he shouts out across the deck. “Where did you say Mara was working?”
“A museum or an art gallery,” she says, raising her hands as if it’s some kind of mystery.
I feel the heat creeping up my neck as I send aggressivedo not blow my covermessages to Ash.
“Well, it’s just a council-run property on the coast, really. Nothing fancy. It’s more of a community center,” I say, stammering, as I feel the weight of Ash’s confusion radiating from him.
“It’s a gem,” Ash chimes in, before swiftly changing the subject. “We’re going to take a drive up to Hadrian’s Wall, and maybe see Holy Island on the way back. But I really came to see the dark park.”
I want to hug him for changing the subject.
