I do too. I download it and save it to a folder on my phone. The first and only photo I have of him.
The bus slows down and I look up to check to see where we are, being cautious that I don’t miss my stop. As it is, I’ll only get in after three and I have to be up for work again a few hours later.
I don’t reply to Darius, not wanting to wake him. Instead, I stop putting off the inevitable and open the message thread with my mother. She’s grown tired of having her calls ignored, her annoyance clear in her messages.
Mum:I’m not calling you again, Oliver. Here are the details. You will be there. After that, if you want togo back to ignoring your family, so be it. But don’t let your father down again.
I’d laugh at that final comment if it wasn’t such a stab to the heart. Panic claws at my chest and I shut my eyes and think of blue eyes and dimples, breathing through the prickly sensation that washes over me.
When I dare look at the thread again, I see that she’s also sent an image. It’s set on a white background, a grey dove motif top and centre, green foliage around the edges and black swirly writing in the middle.
The date, time and location of my father’s funeral.
I read it again. Click out of the message and lock my phone. Open it again. Enlarge the image, run a finger over the words, then shove my phone in my bag with a groan.
I’ll deal with it in the morning.
Chapter 8
Darius
My father’s home in Birmingham sits fifteen minutes outside of the city. A large Georgian mansion with tall windows overlooking the rolling front lawn, and a long cobblestone driveway, lined on either side with thick evergreen trees. It’s a property he bought shortly after marrying my stepmum because Birmingham is where she’s from and where most of her family still live. Though they split their time between here and their two properties in London, and occasionally the one in Spain.
Every Friday night is a repeat of the last. I either drive up or take the train, arriving in time for an evening meal, after which, providing my father doesn’t have other business to attend to, I sit with him in his office and catch up, maybe play a game of cards. Then I retire to the guest room set aside for my use before heading home the next morning.
“Darius, good to see you again,” my stepmum says as I open the front door and step into the large, ornately decorated entry hall with its high ceilings and minimalist decor. She’s dressedin an immaculate pair of white jodhpurs and an equally fresh polo shirt. Her brunette hair is tied into a high ponytail, and her makeup is flawless as always. She’s a beautiful woman, and though we don’t know each other well, she’s polite and offers me a warm smile whenever she sees me.
She saunters past me, and I throw down my overnight bag at the front door and make my way in the same direction into the dining room, where my eyes land on my father, seated at the head of the table.
“Darius!” he exclaims, standing when he sees me. I walk over and hug him, getting a return pat on the shoulder before he’s pulling away and taking his seat again. Laptop open in front of him.
“Hi, Dad. Busy day?”
He flips the screen down, then pushes the device aside.
“Always. But I’ll see to it later. Let’s eat. We’ve a wonderful slow-cooked beef shin tonight.” No doubt cooked and delivered by the home cooking service that prepares our meals every Friday night.
We chat while we eat; the conversation moving from the weather, to what my stepmum wants to do with the garden, to their holiday plans for the rest of the year. Which is when my father says, “We’re thinking of hiring that villa again in Portugal in the new year. Get some winter sun.”
“Oh, nice,” I reply, bringing a forkful of mash and beef to my mouth.
“I offered to buy the place from the old man who owns it, but he declined my rather generous offer. Again.”
“Dad,” I chuckle. “That place has been in his family for decades.”
My dad puts down his knife and fork, steepling his fingers in front of him, elbows resting on the table.
“I know, but you love that place. I thought it would be nice to have it inourfamily.”
Reaching out a hand, I tap my father’s forearm.
“That’s kind. But not necessary.”
“That’s what I told him,” my stepmum says, a glass of red wine in her hand. “But you know your father. Always wanting more, never happy with what he has.” She gives him a sly smile before taking a sip of her wine. My father grumbles but seems unperturbed by her comment.
“I’ll book it and ask him again in a few months.”
I roll my eyes, then pick up my own wine glass.
