“The fuck?”
“Ed!” Peter barked.
“I drove all the way here, to see someone, and then Cal rang and wouldn’t calm down, and so I had to drive all the way fucking back and pick him up, and now we’re here. I haven’t slept much. Give me a break.”
I wondered why I wasn’t curling up in a ball on the floor with all this shouting. I wasn’t. Instead I was standing here laughing, the surreality of it all mixing gently with something else. Something warm inside my chest.
Calm.
Safe? I thought I was. I was safe here, and it was the weirdest feeling in the world. This was a house, and I’d been here for a mere what? Twenty-four hours? Yet now I was making myself comfortable at the kitchen table and being handed a cup of tea? Fuck. All this tea was probably not good for me. I had always limited myself to two cups of coffee a day, and…
“All we need now is Auntie Patel to burst through the door, and the party will be complete. She promised to make me kulfi this weekend,” Ed ground out, still slouched on the chair, letting his hand fall heavily onto the kitchen table as I got violently jerked out of my thoughts.
“Not pistachio. Not the pistachio one. Mango.” Peter. Calm. Talking.
“The fuck. Pistachio is the best.”
“If you don’t stop shouting, then Mrs Patel will walk in here with her wooden spoon, and there will be no stopping her. And also? Mind your language, boys. We’re trying to make a good impression here.”
“On Oliver? Dad, I think he might have seen everything already. After living in that house, I think he’s seen it all. I mean, that room where all the girls were shagging?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I piped up, like I actually knew anything about…anything.
“The editing is slick. They’ve done a rough cut in places, but it works. Gives the viewer a sense of urgent unease where needed. Clever. Also, they left stuff in that shouldn’t have been shown. Not really. Like the girls definitely shagging in that bed.”
“Ed is studying film,” Peter said with a forlorn look on his face, motioning to Ed. Like he’d given up on everything. Yet there was something there. The tiniest of smiles. Happy. He looked. Yes. Happy.
“Runs in the family.” Ed sighed. “Have you met Mum?” He motioned to the box on the shelf behind him, as I once again found myself yanked back into the conversation.
“Yes. Good morning, Mary,” I said without thinking. Oh hell, no. I wanted to take that back, sat here being rude and inappropriate again. But Ed just grinned.
“Welcome to the madhouse. Mum always said she’d come back to haunt us, so we’re keeping a close eye on her. No shenanigans allowed, Mum!” He talked like he was talking to the goddamn box.
“Yeah, did you know?” Cal picked up where his brother had left off. “If you swear near Mum? The floorboards upstairs creak. It’s bloody freaky.”
He fell silent and pointed at the ceiling. Right on cue. A creak.
“Bullshit,” I said. Cal just stared at me, again motioning upwards. Another creak.
“Mum does nothing of the sort.” Peter sighed. “It’s an old house. It creaks.”
“Mum does. It’s real. And don’t forget to rinse stuff before putting it in the dishwasher. She makes the ceiling light flicker. It’s right weird sometimes.”
“Oh shush,” Peter boomed. “Enough.”
“Bro,” Calvin said excitedly, like he wasn’t listening to anything. His hand was on my arm. Shaking it almost violently. “You need to come to football. Midday. Five-a-side, just a bunch of friends from school. We’re all at uni now, so it’s like…we don’t have enough people. Come!”
“You can’t call him bro, man,” Ed filled in, punching Cal on the arm. “Ollie is like, our…you know. New dad.”
“I’m not your dad,” I got out, panicked. For heaven’s sake. “I’m like…thirty.”
“Cool. Not too old for football then. You know how to play? Have you got trainers here? What size are you?”
He suddenly had his head under the table, then grabbed my foot off the floor to inspect it. “Size eleven work? You can borrow mine. It will be good. I have all the gear, and Dad’s going to pickleball anyway.”
“I’m not going,” Peter said, suddenly looking like a truant child.
“Just because you went on TV and flaked out doesn’t mean you don’t go and do what you love. You live for pickleball. It’s Saturday. You’re going.”
