“Right.” Which made putting bread on shelves for a wage definitely feel a bit less than.
“Claire...” Andrew’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. “Look, I know you’ve been through a difficult time....”
Claire winced at the prospect of some emotive spiel from her brother. Or worse, yet another warning about how she shouldn’t be alone. “Look, I need to shower and change,” she said. “I’m soaked just from walking here from the post office. I forgot how wet and windy Cumbria is.”
“You didn’t get water in your ear?”
For a second she was propelled back to school days, when Andrew had been charged with Making Sure Claire Didn’t Do Something Stupid.
“No, but in any case, a few drops of water won’t actually—”
“Remember, the doctor said you could go completely deaf if you got water in your bad ear.”
As if she’d ever forget. “I’m going to shower,” Claire said, and left the kitchen without waiting for a response.
Upstairs she turned on the shower full blast and reached for the earplugs she’d been required to wear since she was four. Itdidn’t usually bother her; it was just her thing. Claire’s thing, to be deaf in one ear, missing its middle bones, having had countless surgeries and procedures over the years. No one in her family ever talked about it and hardly anyone knew. Hugh hadn’t even known. As for being deaf in one ear, Claire had long ago learned to listen carefully and pretend she’d heard something when she hadn’t. Usually it worked.
She showered and changed into yoga pants and a hoodie, gazing out at the shrubs and flower beds below. The hedges were clipped to military precision and the flower beds looked ruthlessly weeded. Absently Claire wondered how much her parents spent on gardening, and why, when they came to Hartley-by-the-Sea for a couple of weekends a year. Maybe.
The answer, of course, was obvious. Appearances.
“Claire?” Andrew knocked on the door but didn’t open it. “Fancy a takeaway?”
“From where? You’re not in Manchester, you know.”
“There’s a chippy in Egremont, if I remember correctly. Or an Indian place in Whitehaven. How about a curry?”
For the first time since her brother had arrived Claire felt genuinely glad he was there. Sharing a takeaway sounded so cozy, so normal. And she could use someone to talk to, even stodgy Andrew. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s have a curry.”
An hour later—takeaway in Cumbria was not, by any means, fast food—they were sitting at the kitchen table with Andrew dividing the basmati rice into precise halves.
Claire glanced at the fine china and crystal glasses Andrew had put out as she tore off a strip of naan bread. “Pretty fancy for a takeaway.”
“It’s always worth doing something properly.”
“Of course.” Andrew was definitely their mother’s son.
“I can’t remember the last time we were here together,” Claire remarked. Andrew sat back in his chair, reflecting.
“Your graduation from uni maybe?” He glanced around the kitchen with its top-end appliances. “It hasn’t felt like home for a while.”
“I know. It’s strange to me, in a way, that it ever was home. I thought Mum and Dad would sell it.”
Andrew’s mouth twisted wryly. “I think they like having a second home in the Lake District, even if we’re two hours away from the tony part.”
“Maybe. Funny, though, that they never really got involved here.”
“I don’t know.” Andrew ladled some chicken korma onto both of their plates. “Dad was busy in Leeds, and Mum was busy with you.”
Claire grimaced. “Yes, I know.” She’d been her mother’s full-time job. “So, were you sad to leave Minneapolis?” she asked as they both started eating.
“Not particularly. Were you sad to leave Portugal?”
“Not particularly.” They smiled at each other, strangely conspiratorial, and then being Andrew, he got serious again.
“Have you heard from Hugh?”
“Nope.” Claire swallowed a piece of chicken that seemed poised to stick in her throat. “I think I’ve been officially dumped.”
