‘You too, Dad,’ I whisper.
I don’t allow myself to cry until he’s shut the door behind him.
8
TORI
At breakfast on Saturday morning, we act like nothing happened and I can’t stand it. Mum doesn’t look as hungover as I’d have expected given her condition last night, which can mean one of two things: either she’s used to it, or she’s started the day with the hair of the dog. I don’t want to know, because whichever way, it’s making me crazy. Because I don’t understand. How can she do this to Dad? To him, to Will, to me? And, above all, to herself . . .
Of course we don’t talk about it. Mum and Dad ask about school, ask after Kit, ask if we want to come to Davos for February half-term, and the thought of a skiing holiday and Mum in all the Swissaprès-skibars gives me stomach cramps. Talking about Val seems like the lesser of two evils, so I let Mum bring the conversation around to him. She’s thrilled when I tell her again about him and the ball.
‘So are things official between you two now?’ she asks, reaching for her coffee cup.
‘I think we’re in the process of working that out.’
Mum smiles. ‘You make a lovely couple; Veronica says so too.’ She shakes her head. ‘I always thought Charlie would be the one, but it’s so lovely that you’ve found someone like Valentine, who’s on an equal footing with you.’
Will lifts his head.
‘On an equal footing?’ I repeat slowly. ‘Because Sinclair’s dad’s a baker?’
‘Of course that’s not what I meant.’
‘What did you mean, then? That he’s beneath me, or what?’
‘Tori, you’re twisting my words. I meant it positively,’ Mum exclaims. ‘Charlie’s a lovely friend, but Valentine is someone who can provide for you, if you see what I mean. I’m thinking about your future.’
‘I’m sure our daughter will be perfectly capable of providing for herself, Charlotte,’ Dad says calmly.
‘Of course she will, George. But life throws all kinds of things at you that are easier to deal with as a pair. And for families like ours, it’s important to have someone you can truly rely on.’
Sinclair. Her words bring Sinclair to mind, not Valentine. I suppose that should make me think. Anyway, Dad took her surname – his background wasn’t nearly as posh, which didn’t stop Mum falling in love with him. Why should it? His career in marketing might not be as fancy as her art gallery, but that doesn’t make it any less important. Besides working for his own clients, Dad also does the marketing for Mum’s business, and Veronica Ward’s. Mum would love it if Val took over Veronica’s firm one day and I stepped into her or Dad’s shoes too, no question. Not that I even know what I want to do at uni just now. If I had to choose between their two fields I’d be more likely to go for something like online marketing, but really my heart is set on English lit. Still, I’ll worry about that later. Not yet.
I can hardly swallow the scrambled egg that Martha’s made me. Dad’s just asking about our plans for the day when Will’s phone rings.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, and reaches for it. He goes pale as he glances at the display. ‘Can I get down? This is important.’
‘Of course,’ Dad says, but he sounds puzzled.
Will doesn’t even look at us, just hurries out of the dining room.
‘Where are you?’ I hear him ask, and his voice fades away.
‘Kit?’ Mum guesses.
‘Probably.’ I shrug my shoulders.
Will doesn’t reappear, and once breakfast is over, I go to look for him, feeling uneasy. The drawing room with its huge fireplace, where we welcome guests, is as deserted as our private sitting room. I finally find my brother in the conservatory next to Mum’s office and our small library. He’s curled up on the sofa under the Ólafsdóttir that Mum bought at auction a while back, with his elbows on his knees. He’s holding the phone to his ear with one hand and he’s wiping his face with the other.
‘No, I gave Henry the key,’ I hear him say. I stop in the doorway. ‘He knows about it. No, he won’t say anything, you can trust him. You can just ask him for the key and sleep in my room. Kit, please. It’s January. Listen, I’m serious. I’m worried about you. Or shall I send our driver over?’
Will goes quiet. When he speaks again, he’s keeping his voice down. ‘Stop it. I love you, OK? We’ll work something out, Boo.’
This conversation is clearly not meant for my ears. As I move away, one of the old floorboards creaks. Will’s eyes shoot up, but he relaxes a bit when he sees me.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper, but he just gestures for me to wait.
‘Call me when it’s sorted,’ he says. ‘Yeah, really, now. Bye. Love you too.’
