Jack arrives a little later than I expect, forty-five minutes after our call. I meet him at the door in case Mum should choose this moment to reemerge. Who knows what further aspersions she would attempt to stain my character with.
When he sees me, he pulls me into a long hug, and, though I’m dry-eyed, I give a few convincing sobs into his chest and allow a small dribble of saliva to wet his shirt. Just to make it convincing.
When we pull apart, he smiles at me with such concern, my heart contracts with love. He insists on helping me with my bags and boxes, so I trail behind him to the car, rounding my shoulders as though I carry the weight of the world upon them. I take one final look at thehouse as he loads the car. Mum’s curtain twitches. Old habits die hard, apparently. I resist aiming a sarcastic wave at the window, but only because Jack is here.
“I’m sorry I’m a bit late,” he says as I climb into the leather seat beside him. “I stopped on the way to get you these.” He reaches into the back and produces a bunch of daffodils. “Thought they might cheer you up.”
It’s not often that I’m rendered speechless, but as I open my mouth to thank him, the words don’t come. I’ve never received flowers before. For all his many qualities, Freddie was not big into gifts. I’m mortified to find that real tears have sprung to my eyes.
“They’re lovely. Thank you.” I mean every word.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he says gently as he navigates the traffic.
I’d rather not ruin this moment with lies—and Iwouldhave to lie to him, reveal my relationship with Mum has never been as rosy as I’d made it out to be—so I shake my head.
He nods and is quiet. I can’t take my eyes off the daffodils. They’re wrapped in plastic, cheap probably, but they are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
“Did something trigger it?”
My hand tightens on the cellophane. He is—it seems—going to insist on going there anyway. I think of the burning fury in her eyes as she told me about Dad, the wildness to her expression as she spoke of Marcie, and there’s no doubt in my mind that she came as close to violence tonight as she ever has.
“Not really. She’d just drunk too much.”
“Do you think there’s a chance of reconciliation between you?”
I consider how he might react if I answered in the negative: how his eyes might soften if I made much of how Mum has burned all her bridges now, how he might place a gentle hand on my arm if I positioned myselfas the long-suffering daughter of a woman who never cared, but I stop myself as Freddie’s words come back to me:Family’s important…they’re all we’ve got, in the end.
And I suspect—just a hunch—that Alice would not have spewed abuse. Not on that fundamental relationship between mother and daughter. She was endlessly kind, endlessly forgiving.
“I’ll give her a few days to cool off,” I say. “It’s good I’m out of the house for now. But yes, I hope so. I’m all she’s got. I’d do anything for her.”
Jack nods, and we lapse into silence once more.
Twenty-eight
Jack’s sympathy islike a drug. I find myself wanting more and more. He doesn’t allow me to carry any of my bags and boxes, instead ushering me up the front path while he struggles behind me. “You’ve been through enough today,” he says when I protest. “Let’s just get you inside.”
And so, clutching my daffodils, I find myself in Jack’s front hall again, but with one crucial difference. This time, I’m here to stay. This time, I do not have to gorge myself on details with the hurried air of a visitor. I can luxuriate in it: take in the detail of the cornicing, the delicate floral wallpaper, the gleaming floor tiles.
But I cannot get carried away. It would be easy to get caught up in the glamour of it all and forget the terribly sad reason that brought me here. I check my posture, hunch so I am almost curling in on myself. It’s the perfect setting for it. The hall is so large that I must look impossibly lost, impossibly small, standing right in the center of the floor with the stairs rearing up behind me.
For his part, Jack appears to relish the role I’ve given him. This opportunity to step up: to be the knight in shining armor I so desperatelyneed.Men love to be needed, after all. That’s what Marcie always used to say. There is a nervous energy to him as he takes my coat, as he watches me digest my surroundings, like a little boy bouncing on the balls of his feet, desperate for approval.
I give it to him, making my voice soft, breathy. “It’s so beautiful.”
His open expression shutters slightly. “Thank you. I can’t take any credit for it. My parents did it up, and Alice added some bits here and there.”
“Your parents lived here?”
His lips tighten. “They did. And my dad’s dad before him, and so on.”
“Inherited?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yup. It’s a lot for one person.”
“Have you lived here long?”
He gives a mirthless laugh, then sighs heavily. “I grew up between here and Dorset. I moved out in my early twenties, after uni, and then my father started the process of handing it over to me. Irrespective of whether I actually wanted to live here. It doesn’t…it doesn’t hold the best memories for me. But that’s my lot, and I’m aware I sound horribly spoiled complaining about it.”
