Another night, as I prepare a quick dinner: ‘When you’re making a vegetable base like that, you need to chop the shallots and carrots really finely, to make amirepoix—’
‘Eddie, it’s just a pasta sauce.’
‘—and you should braise it gently for a very, very long time, in butter.’
I form a rictus smile. ‘Thanks, love. I’ll do that.’ He’ll settle down, I tell myself. It’s just that he has no job to go to and nothing much to do. Meanwhile Frank has returned to the shed.
‘I could burn it down when he’s out at work,’ I suggest, during a Monday lunchtime walk with Prish. ‘AndEddie’s robe—’
‘Oh, is that back in action?’ she asks, trying to stop a laugh. I suppose itisfunny, in a demented sort of way. And I can’t help smirking when I glimpseThe Empty-Nester’s Handbooksitting there on the bookshelf.
However, one morning I’m not laughing at all as Frank and I stroll along the seafront together. ‘Fancy walking to work with me this morning?’ I’d asked. ‘We never get the chance to talk properly anymore.’
Although a little nonplussed, he’d agreed. Three weeks since Eddie came home, and I was desperate to have some time alone together.
‘Can you believe this has happened to us?’ I ask now, glancing out over the choppy sea. The ferry is making its way towards Arran, and the island is shrouded in mist.
‘Not really, no,’ Frank replies.
‘D’you think Eddie’s all right? I mean, I worry about his mental health—’
‘He’ll be fine when he gets his phone back,’ he says sharply.
I bite my lip. ‘Maybe. I hope so. Why won’t Lyla post it?’
Frank merely shrugs and grunts.
‘We could pick it up when we go over to collect his stuff,’ I add. ‘When d’you think we should do that?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘D’you think he’s going to give up the flat? I’ve tried to ask but he just shuts me down. I guess the guys will want to find another flatmate—’
‘Can we stop obsessing over what Eddie’s doing or not doing?’ Frank blasts out.
I stop and stare at him. ‘I’m not! I’m just …wondering. That’s all.’
We start walking again in silence. My heart is thudding, and my chest feels tight. ‘The thing is,’ he announces with startling force, ‘it’s not really our job to be in charge of his life, is it?’
I take a breath, trying to stay calm. I can’t face an argument now, not right before I head off to work. ‘I know it’s not,’ I reply. ‘But it’s the way things have turned out.’ I turn away from Frank, barely able to look at him now. Instead, I glance down at the beach where several dog walkers are walking together in a group. Their dogs are running and playing, delighted to be in a pack. And then I see a familiar woman in a tracksuit striding along the seafront. It’s Janine, Calum’s mum, who has a stream-of-consciousness way of speaking, and who of course knows all about Eddie’s baby.
‘Who’d have thought it?’ she announces, catching her breath.
‘I know!’ I force a smile.
‘Remember that time at your barbecue, you were saying he had quite some growing up to do? But boys are like that, aren’t they? Late developers, lagging behind …’ By ‘growing up’ I’d meant helping in the house, and perhaps ingesting some fruit now and again. Not making a baby. ‘You do your best to help them along their way,’ she goes on. ‘But they have to get there by themselves, don’t they? It has to come fromthem, not us. Look at Calum, nearlydropping out of uni. Couldn’t take the pace. And now he’s flying, loving his life …’
‘I’m glad he’s doing so well,’ I say, glancing at Frank. He’s been standing there, as mute and unmoving as the sea wall.
We part ways and finally, the man speaketh. ‘What was all that about?’
‘You know Janine. She just goes on a bit.’
‘Maybe she’s right though,’ he adds. ‘Maybe we should’ve kept out of things with Eddie.’
I stare at him. ‘What’re you talking about?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he blusters. ‘The stuff we get involved with—’
