‘Are you my grandson?’ I ask. He does have that air about him, with his scruffy jeans and ruffled hairdo, and the T-shirt that says Teenage Fanclub, which sort of gives him away.
He shakes his head. ‘We actually... used to be married, a long time ago.’
What a ridiculous thing to say. ‘You’re far too young for me.’
‘Well, yes. I am now, I suppose.’
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
It begins to rise again now. The worry that has been nagging at me for a while. ‘Have you seen my rings?’ I raise my left hand, agitation churning inside me. ‘I had two rings, and they’re missing. Someone must have taken them.’
As he starts to speak, my eyes stray to his wrist. He is wearing a watch, something silvery in steel. It looks familiar, somehow. I’m sure I saw it in a shop once, agonised over buying it.
‘I bought that,’ I say slowly, the memory returning to me in darts and flashes.
‘You did,’ he replies, following my gaze. ‘For my birthday, the year I turned thirty.’
I smile, feeling something warm beating in my belly. Happiness, I realise, because I so rarely get things right, these days.
Emma’s here now, but she doesn’t say hello. She is picking things off the coffee table, dirty cups and newspapers. I don’t know who they belong to. Not me: I can’t read the paper any more, because the words no longer make sense.
My sketchbook is open on my knee. I look down, but can’t make out what it is I’ve been trying to draw. A dog, maybe. But whose dog? There isn’t one here. So maybe it’s a watering can.
‘Have you seen my rings?’
Emma smiles, seeming not remotely concerned. ‘No, but we’ll look for them, okay? Why don’t you relax for a bit, while lunch is cooking?’
I used to cook quite a lot, but I’m not allowed to use the stove any more, ever since there was some sort of fire last year. There is now a big plastic sign that sits above it: DO NOT USE.
A man puts his head around the door, making me jump.
‘Are you here about the fire?’ I say, alarmed.
‘Mum, it’s Josh,’ Emma says. ‘There’s no fire.’
There is a memory fluttering at the back of my mind, to do with this man, but I can’t quite pin it down.
Then it comes to me. ‘Aruba.’ I’m sure he said we were going to Aruba: I have written it in my notebook.
His smile is gentle. People smile at me a lot nowadays, usually as a precursor to correcting me on something, or ordering me about. But I can tell this man’s smile is the kind I don’t have to worry about.
Suddenly, his face begins to blur with someone else’s. Emma’s father, perhaps? No, that can’t be right. This man is far too young. I really need to start writing these things down. Have I a notebook somewhere?
I tilt my head to get a better look at him, and a bulb in my brain flickers briefly to life, but then quickly blows again.
‘Aruba,’ he says. ‘Yes. We talked about going, once.’ But his voice scratches slightly, as though it’s hurting him to speak.
Maybe I’ll get some fresh air.
I stand up, then hesitate. I can’t quite remember the way to the garden. There are far too many rooms in this house. It reminds me of the hospital. I’m always getting lost.
‘Everything okay, Mum?’
Sometimes, Emma tells me to draw what I need. But that is ridiculous, obviously, because I’m not a child.
‘My rings,’ I say, lifting my left hand so she can see. ‘Someone’s stolen my rings.’
‘Ah,’ she says mildly, apparently not at all alarmed. Then, ‘Would you like some lunch?’
