‘You know! To celebrate a new chapter in our lives.’
‘Right.’ He smirks, bemused. ‘But I thought we just …went to Paris?’
‘Oh, we did,’ I say quickly. ‘We absolutely did. We just went.’
He grins, squeezing my hand. ‘So what else does your book advise, now we’re all washed up and redundant?’
‘Hang on.’ I reach for it and flick through it, stopping at a random page. ‘“Redecorate your house,”’ I readaloud. ‘“Splash new colours around to cover the scuffs and scrapes of family life. It’s time to reclaim your home as your own personal space …”’
‘Can I just unpack my bag?’ He chuckles.
‘… Or how about this? “Now you’ll have time to pursue your own interests, why not take up a new hobby or plant a rose garden?”’
‘You have a rose garden already,’ he points out.
‘Yes, and now I’ll be able to lavishallof my maternal love and care onto it …’
He winds an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. ‘We don’t need instructions, do we? On how to survive without the kids?’ Frank doesn’t turn to books for answers. Ideas simply ping into his head.
‘No,’ I say, setting the book down, ‘we don’t. In fact … d’you fancy coming up to bed?’
He laughs. ‘What, at four o’clock in the afternoon?’
‘Well, we did in Paris.’
‘This isn’t Paris,’ he says in a mock-stern voice. ‘You’re wearing me out, Carly. I’m fifty, remember? An old man now—’
‘Hardly!’ I laugh and jump up, pulling him up by the hand.
‘Is this in your book too?’ he asks as we scamper upstairs.
‘Might be …’
‘“Keep the flame alive by seducing your man in the middle of the day when he’s been up since six”—’
‘Hey, I was up then too!’ Then we’re in our bedroom, tugging off our clothes and laughing at how deliciously naughty it feels, to be slipping into bed together. I still loveKilmory Cottage, but all the graft and struggles of our family life are embedded in these walls. Maybe we just needed a little break from the everyday, to remind us that we still love each other.
My phone trills, cutting into my thoughts. ‘Shit,’ I mutter.
‘Leave it,’ Frank says, and it stops. We kiss some more, and his body feels so good against mine; warm and taut, smelling delicious. And now his leg hooks over mine, and I want him so much, deep inside of me, and it makes me so happy that we still feel this way, even though we’re gnarly and old and he leaves beard trimmings in the sink and wears flattened old leather slippers that are frankly hideous and—
My phone rings again. ‘Oh, God. I’d better get it.’ I peel myself away from him and reach for it on my bedside table.
‘Your dad?’ he suggests.
‘Probably.’ It stops ringing as I pick it up. The two missed calls aren’t from Dad, but Eddie. Eddie whonevercalls. Bolt upright in bed now, I call him back. ‘Hey, love. Everything okay?’ Instinctively, I tug the duvet up to my neck as if he might be able to see his parents naked together – in the daytime! – and this’ll make it less disgusting for him.
‘Yep. I’m all right.’ His voice is tight. ‘How’re you?’
How amI?He never enquires about my wellbeing. ‘Fine,’ I start, uneasily. ‘We’re just back from Paris. It was lovely, really beautiful—’
But my son jumps in, cutting me off.
There are some things a parent never wants tohear.Mum, please don’t be mad,is one – usually when something’s been broken.
Eddie doesn’t say that now. Because it’s not about a broken thing or anything that can be fixed. I know him well enough to be sure of that. My heart is thumping hard as he clears his throat and says, ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘Oh, what’s that?’ The silence stretches, chilling my blood. He makes a terrible gulping sound and, oh God, I think he’s crying. ‘Eddie!’ I exclaim. ‘Are you okay, love? What is it?’
