81

Toby had grown used to waking up alone in his big, empty house. He celebrated his aloneness by tuning the radio to Radio Three and letting classical music flood every room in the house. His kitchen was as clean and uncluttered as it had been before he went to bed the previous night and the five hooks in the hallway bore only his own coat, his own jacket and his own scarf. He’d taken to having a paper delivered daily, now he knew that nobody would get to it before him, and he hadn’t switched on the television since Melinda had moved out the week before. He performed a strange but very enjoyable dance as he prepared his breakfast in his pyjamas. And then he broke wind, very loudly, delighted by the absence of anyone to offend.

He considered his plans for the day ahead. He would walk down to the High Road and buy some fresh flowers for the house. Then he would go to Budgens and pick up the ingredients for his cake. Somewhere in his dusty collection of memories of his father he had an inkling of a fondness for fig rolls (or was it garibaldis?), so he would pick up a pack or two of those. And then he’d get a new teapot from the pound shop, as he’d just discovered that the teapot he’d always assumed was his was actually Ruby’s and had disappeared with her two weeks ago.

When he got home, he’d put some real coffee on to brew and bake a loaf of bread, not because he wanted either coffee or bread, but because he had two more viewings that morning and he wanted the house to smell delicious. He’d done six viewings over the weekend and the house had been on the market for only three days. He enjoyed showing people round the house. Half the time he knew they couldn’t afford it, that they’d only come to nose round, to see what the weird house on Silversmith Road actually looked like, but he didn’t care. He was so proud of it that he saw his role more as that of a curator than a home owner. He wanted as many people as possible to see his beautiful house before it was sold and locked up against the world again.

After the viewings he’d make his cake (he didn’t want to mess up the kitchen beforehand) and while it was in the oven he’d have a bath and a shave, then he’d put on some clean clothes and some new shoes, and go downstairs to await the arrival of his father.

His day was carefully constructed to leave no time at all for milling about, faffing around or thinking. He focused on the precise nature of the icing he’d make for his cake and the exact hue of the lilies he’d buy. His father’s arrival was something so vague and unthinkable that he couldn’t bring himself to contemplate it, until his father was actually standing right in front of him, on his door step. Until he really, really had to.