‘Cool. Thanks, Dad.’
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘Guitar teacher,’ says Rufus, through a mouthful of sandwich.
‘The band know the guy,’ adds Charlie, finally meeting my eye. ‘He comes to a lot of our gigs.’
I remember Rufus mentioning it on Thursday. ‘Oh. Right, okay.’
‘I said I’ll pay for Rufus’s lessons,’ he says.
‘You don’t need to do that …’ I begin.
He holds up a hand. ‘It’s no bother. It’s my fault he needs lessons in the first place. If I could play better …’ He smiles ruefully.
‘Okay, well, thanks.’
His eyes soften as he looks at me. ‘We can speak again … about the house.’
I nod, aware my mother’s gaze is boring into me. He waves goodbye and leaves.
Mum turns to me. ‘What did he mean about the house?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, my voice breaking a little. I cough to disguise it. I don’t want to discuss it in front of Rufus. Selling the house, divorce, it’s all too final.
That evening we watchThe Third Man, with Mum asking questions every ten minutes because she can’t distinguish between the male characters or keep up with all the differing accounts surrounding Harry Lime’s death. At one point I look across at Rufus, who has paused the TV yet again while Mum makes another cup of tea, and roll my eyes, making him laugh. As a result it takes way longer than usual to get through a film. I can’t really concentrate anyway: my mind is too full of Charlie. We always planned to go to Vienna, where the film is set, but that’s another thing we never got around to doing.
When Rufus goes up to bed I drag the sound monitor and microphone into the spare room, where Mum will be sleeping, and prop it against the window. Harrison was supposed to come and pick it up this afternoon but hecancelled and said he’ll swing by tomorrow lunchtime instead.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks, sitting on the edge of the bed in her cotton nightdress, her hair pulled away from her face by a stretchy headband as she applies Nivea Creme to her skin. The smell instantly transports me back to my childhood.
‘Do you mind if I leave this running? Background sound for Rufus’s project.’ I haven’t told her about the Morgans’ conversation, so I don’t mention that I’m actually doing this in the hope I’ll catch them talking again. She might go over there and ask them outright. Either that or she’ll say I’m over-thinking it all and it means nothing.
‘Hasn’t Rufus got enough sound now?’
‘Might as well use up the rest of the tape,’ I say. ‘Please don’t press anything. I’ve got it all set up.’ Earlier I’d replayed the Morgans’ conversation and recorded it onto my phone. It’s not as clear as the tape, but I wanted a copy of it. I’m not sure why … it’s not as if there’s much, but I also didn’t like the idea of not having proof somewhere in case their conversation turned out to mean they’re involved in something murky.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ she mutters, lightly tapping Nivea onto her cheeks.
I glance out of the window at the ink-stained sky, never fully dark due to the pollution. I made sure to bolt the garden gate earlier. Jo promised Paul would find me a camera, and I’ll sleep a lot easier once it’s installed, although I feel safer knowing my mum and Rufus are in the house with me tonight. The night air is warm and sweet-scented: heat-soaked grass and jasmine.
I close the curtains and turn to Mum. ‘Are you sure you can’t stay tomorrow night as well? It’s a long way to come just for one night.’
She glances up at me, her face shiny. Without make-up she looks paradoxically older and younger. ‘You know I can’t stay long – the dogs …’
‘Yes, the dogs, I know.’ Mick looks after them when she’s away, so it’s just an excuse.
She reaches for my hand as I pass. ‘Is everything okay, sweetheart?’
The gesture is so unexpected, so unusually tender, that I falter. Mum is not one for outward displays of affection – at least, not to me. As a result, I can’t hug Rufus enough. Thank goodness he’s loving and lets me. She’s different with Rufus, I’m pleased to observe.
‘It’s all good.’
‘You seem sad. Is it Charlie?’
How do I tell her that it’s everything? It’s my marriage ending. It’s Rufus on the brink of adulthood. It’s the thought of an empty nest. It’s the loss of my identity. How can I explain to her that I feel as though I’m grieving even though nobody has died? She wouldn’t understand. She’d start talking about how I’m over-sensitive and how I must have inherited that trait from my artistic father, because, in her eyes, all the negative aspects of my personality must come from him.
I pat her hand. ‘I’m fine, Mum. Honestly.’
