Some evenings, instead of heading straight home, I go for a stroll on the beach to grab some time to myself. It doesn’t matter if Frank’s still at the garage or not; I find myself putting off even the possibility of the two of us being stuck in the house together. And when we are both there, a simmering ill humour pervades. But mostly, I haven’t even seen Frank in the evenings because he’s taken himself off to our rickety old garden shed – the shed he rarely ventured into before all this happened, but now he remains there after I’ve gone to bed.
It’s like Paris never happened. When I look through our photos, all happy and laughing on a boat trip on the Seine, it’s all I can do not to cry. Because Frank seems to have gone into himself, in a way I’ve never seen before.
However, at least our son has agreed to see us, finally. Somehow, the boy who is always frantically busy has managed to take a Saturday off.
We are here now, at noon as arranged, outside his flat. I press the door buzzer and wait. Frank is standing grimly beside me, arms folded across his chest.
We wait, but no one buzzes us in. I press it again, thinking that at least we’ll be able to have a reasonably helpful and productive talk today. The three of us, like a proper family.
By now, we’ve gathered that Lyla did the pregnancy test a couple of days before we came back from Paris. But when I asked Eddie when the baby is due, he started babbling, ‘I think in late autumn or winter or something?’ As if I was a teacher springing a difficult question on him in class. However, whatever’s happened, it happened bloody quickly. He only saw her once – that first nightin Edinburgh, after we’d dropped him off, presumably before he’d even unpacked his stuff. Fast work, Eddie! Whenever I asked him to empty the dishwasher at home he’d take at least three days to get around to it, if he did it at all.
We must be supportive, I remind myself. We’re not here to make him feel worse. I won’t throw frozen-peas-day in his face.
More importantly, his dad and I must show a united front. ‘Frank,’ I start, glancing at him, ‘can we please show Eddie that we’re on his side?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ he mutters.
My chest seems to tighten. ‘And can wepleasecheer up a bit?’
‘Oh, am I not being cheerful enough?’ he snaps.
‘You know what I mean—’
‘Sorry, should I be wearing a clown’s outfit and juggling balls?’
‘Don’t be silly—’
‘Want me to pull a rabbit out of a hat?’
‘Frank, don’t be like this!’ Anger surges up in me now. ‘It’s been horrible lately, the way we’ve been with each other. You’re barely speaking to me as if this is allmyfault. In fact I’ve hardly seen you. You’ve been hiding away in the shed every night …’ I look at him imploringly, but it’s like talking to a brick. ‘Please, Frank. Stop being so, so—’
‘I’m just standing outside our son’s house,’ he announces loudly, ‘waiting to be let in so we can find out how he thinks he’s going to cope with a baby, with this girl he doesn’t even know, and what’s going to happen when it’s born and how’s he planning to make enough money—’
‘Frank—’ I clamp my hand on his arm.
‘—and will he even see the child and have anything to do with it? And what about his young life that was supposed to be so brilliant and now it’s allfucked!’ Angrily, he jabs at the button multiple times.
‘Stop that!’ I swat his hand away.
‘He’s not answering, is he?’
‘No, but you’ll enrage him, doing that—’
‘Oh,he’sthe enraged one, is he?’
I stare at him in shock. ‘Isthatwhat you are then? Enraged, rather than being supportive and caring and—’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He turns away as if something fascinating has caught his attention up the street. Without warning tears flood my eyes.Don’t cry,I will myself.What will Eddie think if he opens the door to find you blubbing?A tear escapes as a man in a tweed jacket saunters by. Then along trots a woman clutching the lead of a tiny velveteen dog.
I blink away more tears, trying to pull myself together. ‘Maybe he’s forgotten we’re coming,’ I murmur, now recalling the last time we visited. Like today it was almost lunchtime. It had taken Eddie ages to buzz us in, and he’d appeared on his landing with his hair all rumpled and a pillow crease imprinted on his cheek, clearly having just rolled out of bed.
Frank mutters something under his breath.
‘What?’
‘I said we’ve really messed up, haven’t we?’
‘No,’ I exclaim. ‘No, of course we haven’t.’ I inhale deeply, trying to think of how to lighten things between us. ‘That rabbit-in-hat-thing you said?’ I start. ‘It’s magicianswho do that. Not clowns—’ I break off as a young woman in a billowing overcoat sweeps towards us. She stops at Eddie’s building, and we step back dutifully as she fishes out keys from the depths of a pocket.
