‘No, of course not! Just time away from … all this.Youknow. This house. That’s all.’
‘Yeah, and I think I do too,’ he announces, marching over to the chest of drawers. He yanks open a drawer with such force, the chest wobbles and Mum’s green glass vase topples over, landing sharply on its side.
‘Frank!’ I charge over and pick it up, examining the small fracture in the glass. ‘It’s broken.’ But when I see what he’s doing, the vase no longer matters. Because now Frank is tugging things out of drawers, seemingly at random: jeans, boxers, T-shirts. He reaches up to the top of the wardrobe and tugs down the battered old leather holdall he took to Paris.
Something seems to crumble inside me as he throws it onto the bed and starts to stuff his clothes into it.
‘Sorry about your vase,’ he mutters.
‘It doesn’t matter! What are you doing, Frank?’
‘Going away for a bit.’
‘Away? What d’you mean? Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ He throws in more clothes and then zips it up forcefully. ‘Somewhere. Anywhere away from here.’ He looks at me, brown eyes wet and filled with anguish.
‘How long for? When will you be back?’
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he flings the bag over a broad shoulder and storms downstairs, and then out of our house, banging the door behind him.
I stand there in our silent room, unable to go after himor do anything at all. Instead, I just hold Mum’s green glass vase and stare down at it. It’s cracked, irreparable. Like our marriage, it seems. And it feels as if my heart is broken too.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Somehow I manage to stagger through the working day. Apart from Marilyn, who was thrilled to hear about the night’s escapade, we’re all a little hungover. Prish and Jamie reassure me that Frank’s overreacted because pressures have been running high. He needs a little cooling-off time, that’s all. Meanwhile books are returned and borrowed. Thelma Campbell comes in to order a reference book about Victorian ferneries. A confused-looking young man, who appears from time to time, installs himself in the comfiest chair and has a doze. I wake him gently and hand him a coffee. ‘Thanks,’ he murmurs with a smile.
Later, my heart is filled with hope as I march home along the blustery seafront. It’ll be okay, I tell myself. Frank just had to let off some steam, and why not? We all have to do that sometimes. But by seven o’clock, when he’s usually home from the garage, he still hasn’t shown up. By eight, I’m frantic. I call and call and call. Frank doesn’t pick up. Dad is clearly unbothered and Eddie seems to have barelynoticed; too busy anticipating the return of his phone. ‘I literally can’t take this one out in public,’ he announces over dinner, and I manage not to point out that he never goes out anyway.
‘Diddums,’ Dad says.
Eddie stares at him. ‘Diddums? What does that mean?’
‘No need to be rude,’ I exclaim, clearing the plates.
‘I’m not!’ He shrugs dramatically. ‘Oh, and you do remember Lyla’s coming to stay tonight—’
‘Is she?’ I stare at him.
‘Yeah, I told you, didn’t I?’
Oh, sorry! I’ve just been a little preoccupied with your dressing-gown-burning father who seems to have left me.‘I think you did,’ I murmur.
‘Another person moving in? Getting a bit crowded around here, isn’t it?’ Dad asks, forkful of spaghetti halfway to his mouth. I look at him, wondering how I’ll ever manage to raise the issue of him moving back to his own place. Because really, there is absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t. However, I suspect he’s enjoying being a spectator here, with all the activity and bizarre events: the burning of clothing, the breakdown of my marriage. Makes a change fromCash or Crash.
‘Lyla’s not moving in,’ I say, more forcefully than I intended. ‘Just visiting.’ I glare at Eddie. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yeh-ah,’ he says, still eye-rolling me at twenty-two years old. Imagine, assuming that someone might move into Kilmory Cottage without clearing it with me first!
In the sanctuary of the kitchen, I replay recent events, making a mental list of what I should have done.
Not gone for a drink after work.
Not had any fun whatsoever.
Definitelynot had the library lock-in.
Or at least called Frank to tell him, and not expected a perfectly clear note to remain where I’d left it. Because nothing is where it’s supposed to be around here anymore. Dad puts kitchen things in weird places and, although Eddie’s made a perfunctory attempt to tidy his room in preparation for Lyla’s arrival, he still hoards mugs and glasses and suddenly we’ll have no bread, and the cheese I’d planned to use for a lasagne has all been guzzled. My expensive shower gel – a gift from Jamie – was all used up during asingleshower, the empty bottle tossed close to (but crucially not into) the bathroom bin.
