Her gaze darts to her son before meeting mine. She sniffs, wiping at her eyes. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” She steps to the side, gesturing for us to enter the house. “It’s been tough without him, but I’m taking each day as it comes.”
Inside, the place is warm and airy, with large windows at the back that look out onto a concrete patio and a small lawn, complete with a garden shed and thick sleepers that map out what I presume to be a vegetable garden. There’s a huge tree in the bottom corner, the remnants of a rope swing tangled around the thick upper branch.
“All the food for the lunch is prepared,” Mrs Cross says as we enter the dining room that connects the entry hall to the kitchen. There’s a long table pressed up against the wall, a lace clothcovering the platters of sausage rolls, pork pies, scotch eggs, and other assorted savouries.
“This all looks good, Mum,” Oliver says. “Dad would have liked it, especially the sausage rolls.” She looks at her son, a flicker of fondness crossing her features before she turns and enters the kitchen and busies herself making tea.
Oliver and I help her carry the teas and a plate of biscuits to the lounge, where there’s a set of matching brown armchairs and a two-seater settee in a similar shade. Mrs Cross sits in one armchair and Ollie and I take the two-seater. Though it’s a generously sized sofa, we sit close enough that our legs touch.
“How have you been?” Oliver asks, and my heart melts because he is really trying here.
“I’m okay most of the time. Some days I wake up and forget that he’s gone. Those days are the hardest because the reminder that he’s no longer here stings just as bad as it did when the doctors told me he’d passed.”
Oliver looks at his hands. He’s fiddling with his fingers, digging his nail on one hand into the nail bed on the other. Moving back slightly on the sofa, I reach behind him, slide a hand beneath his suit jacket and press it to his back. Oliver leans into my touch, dropping his hands to his thighs.
“The house is very quiet now that I’m here alone.” There’s a subtle shift in Ollie’s posture at the obvious reminder that he no longer lives here, and an even bigger shift when she adds, “But Alister has been a godsend. Making sure I get out, tending the garden, helping with the arrangements. I’m so lucky to have him.” I don’t know who Alister is, but the mention of his name has the muscles in Oliver’s back tensing.
Mrs Cross takes a sip of her tea, and I reach for mine on the small table beside me. But instead of taking a sip, I hand it to Oliver, who is clearly holding his breath, his entire frame wound tight.
“Drink, puppy,” I whisper, forcing him to take the tea from me and watching as he breathes in and out before bringing the cup to his lips.
Mrs Cross observes the exchange, sipping from her own cup.
“We wondered what happened to you after you left, Oliver. You said you were going to London, but we never heard what you were doing there or if you’d be back.”
“I told you I wouldn’t be back. That I was done.”
“You were angry, we all were after the things you said. We thought you’d realise that – ”
Oliver stands abruptly, his heel stubbing into my toes as he does. “I need to use the bathroom.” He hands me the cup he was holding, and I watch his back as he retreats from the room, his footsteps heavy on the wooden stairs leading to the first floor.
“He was always such a temperamental child. Constantly causing trouble,” Mrs Cross remarks. “Has his father’s temper. But none of his father’s graciousness.” She tuts, then stands, gathering up the half drunk cups of tea. “I fear not much has changed.” There’s this building flame in me that is burning with the need to defend him. To defend that man who is so much more than whatever bullshit they think he is.
“He’s amazing. He works hard. He has goals, has big plans for his future. He’s kind and honest and so incredibly sweet. And it’s sad that you don’t know that about him.”
Mrs Cross stills her movements, her eyes locked onto me. There’s a deep frown on her forehead. She goes to respond, but the sound of the front door opening steals her attention. Moments later, a man walks in. He’s probably in his late fifties. He has dark hair streaked with grey, a well-kept beard, broad shoulders and light olive skin. It’s his soulless green eyes belaying the warm smile on his face that has me tensing as he steps closer.
He addresses Mrs Cross first, pulling her into a one armed hug and kissing each of her cheeks.
“I brought these for the lunch,” he says to Oliver’s mum, handing her a tray of miniature chocolate cupcakes. She accepts it, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
“These were his favourite, thank you. Take a seat in the lounge. I’ll pop them in the dining room and make a fresh pot of tea.” She doesn’t introduce us before she walks away. The stranger’s eyes fall on me and I don’t miss the way they rake up and down my figure before he reaches out a hand.
“We’ve not met before. Alister Davies. And you are?” His grip on my hand is firm, his demeanour controlled – not unlike the kind of men my father associates with. The kind who try to intimidate with their size and their authority. I instantly dislike him.
“Darius Thorne-Sutton. Friend of Oliver’s.” Some unknown emotion flashes across Alister's features and he blinks it away as quickly as it arrived.
“I’m so glad he decided to make the trip. We’ve missed him.”
“How do you know the family?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.
“Long time family friend. I grew up with Martin – Oliver’s dad – we were neighbours right until he got married and moved in here.”
Alister gives me a once over again – a look that I feel like a spider crawling down my spine – before he steps closer and touches his hand to my forearm.
“So, you’re Oliver’s friend.” He towers over me, no emotion behind his cold, dull eyes. “Where isourOllie?” The way he says ‘our’ makes my stomach coil up tight. Alister looks behind him and then back at me. His hand is still on my arm and I shake it off. He lifts it as if he’s going to touch me again, but he doesn’t make contact because he’s being pulled away, his body hitting the wall behind us.
“Donotfucking touch him!” Oliver is in his face, his arm pinned to the older man’s throat. His shoulders are tight, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched. His mother comes rushing out of the kitchen, shrieking at Oliver to let Alister go.
