‘Right.’ His jaw tightens.
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
He sighs heavily, which makes his huge shoulders shake. ‘I am. Of course I am. But, Lena, you won’t be earning enough to allow us to keep the house for ever. We do need to sell it when Rufus is eighteen.’
‘Do you need the capital from it?’ I wonder if that’s it. He’s run out of money now he has a new girlfriend to woo.
‘No, Lena. Like I said before, everything has gone up and running the flat and a three-bedroom house is expensive.’
We slip into another awkward silence. I can tell there is something on his mind, something he wants to say to me, but I know better than to probe. Charlie is a man of few words. That has always been part of the problem. For someone so creative and passionate, who has written incredible, heartfelt songs, he’s rubbish at having a proper conversation. He channels his feelings into his songwriting: I spent most of our marriage trying to work out how he was feeling by reading between the lines of his lyrics.
‘I know you’re attached to this house …’ he begins.
My eyes well up.
‘Lena?’
I sniff. ‘I’m being sentimental, that’s all. Ignore me. It’s just … I keep thinking of when Rufus was little. I miss it. I miss it all and …’ I falter.
‘I understand.’ He places his hand on top of mine where it rests on the table. ‘I really do. But it’s because you’re looking at it all through rose-tinted glasses now Rufus is about to fly the nest. It was hard work at times. Do you remember that massive tantrum he threw in the middle of Tesco? You were so embarrassed. You thought everyone was judging you for being a bad mother because you snapped at him. Or when he was tiny and we were so sleep-deprived because he was suffering with reflux? It was horrendous.’
I laugh, guilty. ‘It was. You’re right.’
‘Do you really want to go back to those days? Like,really?’
‘Well … maybe not thoseexactdays.’
He squeezes my hand and then removes his to pick up his lemonade. There is a pulse of silence, of shared memories, a life.
‘He’s a good kid,’ he says.
‘He is. And he’s happy now he’s left that school and those … bullies.’
Charlie doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a sip of his lemonade. He never wants to talk about what happened last year. I wonder if it’s because it marked the beginning of the end for us. I decide to change the subject. We’re getting on so well, for a change.
‘Did you know that the house next door was bought, in the end? Henry and Marielle moved in recently.’
He lifts his brows. ‘And what are they like?’
‘Ah, now, there’s a story.’
He grins. ‘Well, I’m all ears.’
It’s a relief to be able to tell him everything, and his presence is comforting. He sits very still, his hands cupping his glass as I fill him in, beginning with the overheard conversation last Thursday. As I get to the bit about Drew and all the stuff with his missing sister, I notice his expression cloud with uncertainty, which makes me falter a bit, but I carry on regardless until he’s totally up to speed.
‘Right,’ he says, with a frown, when I’ve finished. He scratches the stubble on his chin. ‘So you’re saying you suspect the new neighbours are, what, criminals? You do realize how that sounds?’
‘Well, I don’t know for definite what they’re planning. That’s the problem. But the creepy doll, the lying about having a daughter-in-law, the wall of newspaper clippings … it’s all a bit weird, isn’t it?’
‘You should never have gone into their house. God, Lena, what were you thinking?’
‘I knew they weren’t there. And the baby crying, I had to check it out. You’d have done the same.’
He grimaces.
I chew the skin at the side of my thumb. Charlie’s eyes are still on me and there is a sudden tension in the air. I break eye contact and turn away from him to take a tin of beans I don’t need from the cupboard.
‘Be careful, Lena.’
