Esther sits bolt upright. Her heart is banging so hard it feels like it could burst out of her chest.
‘I know it’s difficult,’ Miles goes on. ‘No, of course I don’t feel like that. It’s just the way it has to be … Daze, would you listen to me?’
Daze? She’s guessing that must be a Daisy? But it was Tabitha in his journal … She slips out of bed, unable to decipher his mumblings now as she reaches for the shoebox from under it. Maybe he’s written more stuff in his journal that’ll help her to understand what’s going on.
Off comes the lid. The journal’s still there but there’s something else too: a tiny parcel wrapped in red paper with a gold bow and a gift tag. A proper wrapped gift for someone!For me, maybe?Esther thinks. But then, why didn’t he give it to her?
To darling D, love M,reads the tag. His handwriting. Not her gift.
Esther exhales slowly, thinking about her life before Miles, when she still saw her friends and they all went out dancing together, like that nice girl Anya she was chatting to in the club; then her lifeafterMiles, when her friends started to fall away and of course they knew, because everyone knew what an almighty jerk he was.
With tears stinging her eyes, Esther picks up the tiny parcel and strides through to the living room, thinking, he did wrap it prettily, she’ll give him that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
JAMES
When your kid’s still little, climbing all over you and dangling off you, you assume it’ll always be that way. Okay, maybe not when they’re thirty-seven years old – but you think they’ll always bethere.That there’ll be endless time to talk about the silly things you talk about with them, all the teasing about their inappropriate footwear, their adoration of anything crumb-coated, their mockery of your musical tastes.
Then, seemingly overnight, all that cosy familiarity disappears. I miss those days with a force that shocks me sometimes – even those pain-in-the-arse days like Esther crying because she’d insisted on walking the South West Coast Path in flip-flops.
‘I told you to wear walking boots! What did I say, Est?’
‘You said it was a pavement.’
‘I didn’t say pavement, I said path …’
‘You did!’
‘When did I say it, Est? When did I say, let’s go for a gentle stroll along the South West Coast Pavement?’
There’ll be none of that today, though. On this crispand sunny Boxing Day we’re just going to hang out, like we used to. I’m smiling, I realise, as I emerge from the tube station and stride along the unusually quiet street. A walk with a stop-off for coffee and cake with my daughter. It’s so rare for Esther and I to go out together these days, just the two of us. Yesterday was fun with Rhona and Luc, but I did miss her, and I missed Lauren too, although we managed to chat a couple of times during the day.
You’re a lucky man, I tell myself. In a couple of days Lauren and I will be heading down to Cornwall and that’s going to be wonderful. Sometimes I can hardly believe the way my life’s turned out. I no longer feel like that permanently knackered, workaholic middle-aged man. I have more energy, I sleep soundly at night, and I wake up feeling shimmeringlyalive.And yesterday, when Rhona happened to mention one of Esther’s favourite childhood Christmas presents – ‘the Lego go-kart, d’you remember, James?’ – it gave me an idea for a work conundrum I’ve been wrestling with.
So yes, life is good. So good that I find myself swerving into a shop, not much more than a corner shop stocked with basic foods, a few shrivelled carrots and sprouting potatoes and a couple of buckets of flowers.
Are carnations horribly naff? I’ve always been led to believe so but, back in the summer, I noticed that Lauren grew and picked them to display in her kitchen. So I choose a bunch of pale pink ones and leave the shop.
Don’t even mention Miles today, I tell myself. The last thing Esther wants is me lecturing her and, anyway, it has zero effect. Is anything surer to make your young adult offspring want to do something than a parent telling them not to?
I’ve turned into Esther’s road now. It’s a smart street ofGeorgian townhouses divided into flats. They are all beautifully kept, with black wrought-iron railings, and the shops around here sell things like French-style macarons in pastel colours and speciality coffee (ground to order) from around the world. I look down at the small bunch of pink carnations as I approach Miles’s door. The prospect of doing something so simple as walking around with my daughter in the wintry sunshine triggers a rush of happiness in me. We still get on pretty well, and I’m grateful for that. Maybe I haven’t been a rubbish dad after all.
I inhale, press the buzzer and wait. Miles’s ground-floor flat opens right onto the street. I press it again and wait some more. No one comes. After a couple of minutes I pull out my phone, that default activity when a person doesn’t know what to do with themselves. I buzz the door yet again – still no answer – and wonder whether to message Esther to say I’m outside, and has she remembered we’re going out?
I flinch at the sound of shouting inside. That was Esther, I’m sure of it. More shouting follows and I can hear crying now. Alarmed, I jab the buzzer several times in succession, and am just about to call her number when the door flies open. ‘Dad!’ Esther says.
‘Est, what’s wrong?’
Her hair is unkempt, her face blotchy, her eyes pink and bloodshot. ‘We’ve just, it’s—’ she starts, swinging round as Miles appears behind her.
‘What areyoudoing here?’ he barks.
‘I’m here to see Esther,’ I snap. ‘Est, are you coming—’
‘We’re a bit busy right now,’ Miles announces, glaring at me. He drops his gaze to the bunch of pink carnations and lets out a withering snort, as if I’ve brought her a cabbage. Then he turns away and marches off to the living room.
‘Dad, I’m so sorry,’ Esther starts as I hug her. ‘I forgot we were going out for cake …’
