It was mid-morning and the house was quiet but, Emily fancied, it had become a watchful place. It was as if the spirits of its occupants gathered behind their respective closed doors and listened out for each other.
She clopped downstairs from her room in clogs. Every step was familiar. Having lived here all of her life, Emily knew every grain of the floorboards, every ruck in the carpet. She found it difficult to imagine ever living anywhere else.
In the weeks since her father had been at home, there had been subtle, almost unnoticeable changes, but changes nevertheless. Now there were two of them ensconced at their laptops scouring the net for jobs. Spring was coming and it was growing marginally warmer and, occasionally, when Emily opened her window, where there had been silence she could hear the urgent click-clack of his keyboard directly below hers.
Tapping on her father’s door, she poked her head around it. ‘Hi.’
Tom was at the makeshift desk, which he had contrived with a bit of hammering and a sheet of MDF when he had moved into the room. Unsurprisingly, it was ugly and not very convenient. Piles of books and papers fanned around his feet. The window was open and, when Emily pushed the door wide, the papers threatened lift-off and he grabbed at them.
‘How are you doing, Em?’ He did not look round.
Her father swivelled. ‘Who to?’
Emily reeled off a publishing house, a magazine company and a theatrical agency. Plus, the joker in the pack, Condor Oil, who were advertising for an in-house copywriter.
The last had caused her to wake, sweating, in the early hours. What if the near-impossible happened, the arrow hit the target and she found herself at an interview dressed up in office garb?
‘Condor Oil is offering a good salary and benefits.’ The remark was addressed more to herself than to her father.
‘Perhaps I should apply.’ He turned back to the screen.
‘And what are you doing?’
‘Oh, this and that. I’ve been checking up on your grandmother’s investments,’ he said, which surprised Emily for her father rarely discussed the family’s finances with her or Jake. ‘We rely on them to pay for the care home …’
She observed his back and was made aware again that the balance between parent and child was shifting in an alarming manner. The loss of his job had hit him hard, and he seemed so sad and shrunken in spirit. It wasn’t just her imagination that his sweater hung more loosely on him. Until recently, she had considered him pretty much invincible – the father who sat at the head of the table, who whistled in the garden and humped heavy objects around, whose job gave him a moral authority and glamour.
Putting what she hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder, she bent over to look at the graph displayed on his screen. ‘And what’s this?’
When it came the answer was suspiciously nonchalant. ‘A bit of spread-betting on the banks. Nothing serious.’
‘Banks! You always say you want nothing to do with them.’
Her father’s voice sounded strange. ‘Might as well get some mileage out of the situation. Get one’s own back on the system.’
‘OK. Explain.’
Tom dropped his hands into his lap. ‘It’s a sort of informed guessing game. I agree to bet five pounds a point, say, on the share price of Barclays going up or down. I have to choose.’
‘And?’
‘In Barclays’ case, I reckon it’s going up. In February when things were not so good it was four pounds. Just now, there seems to be a bit of a rally in the market and it’s climbing. When it reaches four pounds fifty I’ll have made two hundred and fifty pounds. More if it climbs further.’
Emily’s relationship with fiscal prudence, indeed with money, was enduringly frosty but she knew enough to recognize a suicidal venture. ‘Dad, please don’t do this. It’s mad even for professionals.’ She gripped his shoulder hard. ‘It’s gambling. And it causes trouble. I’m sure Tod’s father got into trouble this way.’ She thought of the muttering in the press and media and wished she had paid more attention. ‘Are you sure the market’s rallying? You could lose a lot of money.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control. It’s not very much money, a couple of hundred pounds.’ He looked away and she knew it hurt him to say, ‘I’ve got the time.’
For a wild second or two, she wondered if her father had had a breakdown. This was not him, gambling with graphs and banks. Maybe boredom had driven him to the edge of the cliff. Then, with a slightly sick feeling, she realized he had struck some crazy deal with reason. If he couldn’t hold his job, at least he could do this, was probably what he was telling himself, and she was so fearful she could barely speak. Her grip was tight enough to force him to turn and face her. With all the urgency she could muster, she said: ‘Dad. Please. Think about it. Not a good plan. It’s a very, very bad plan. What happens if you lose?’
‘I’ve set up a stop-loss limit. And I close each night. It’s a couple of hundred pounds. Nothing big.’
That was her father all over. Determined. Emily knew it of old and had reason to fear it. It was responsible for many sins – insisting they walk to school at least twice a week and absolutely no Sky television. Oh, and the other fun one, signing the whole family up for skating lessons at the local ice rink on Saturday mornings – to which he had not turned up.
‘Does Mum know about this?’
‘No. And you mustn’t tell her. This is private. I want to surprise her. I’m doing all right at the moment.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘It feels good, too.’
‘Dad …’ she chose her words carefully ‘… are you doing this because you’re not earning any money and as the man you feel you should be?’
He hesitated. ‘Good question, if a bit obvious, but no.’
But she knew she had hit on something. To her surprise, Emily heard herself utter, ‘You can’t do this to Mum.’
Now the blue eyes were stormy and suspicious. ‘Do I have your word, Emily?’
Mum? Dad? Emily wasn’t used to managing secrets at this level. And, although she always maintained she was on her father’s side, when it came to a choice she was torn. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I won’t say anything. But how long have you been doing this?’
His eyebrows shot up. Excuse me. ‘A couple of weeks.’
‘And have you made or lost money?’ She sounded just like the appalling Miss Burte on Economic Application in Minor Germanic States, for Heaven’s sake. When he failed to answer, she continued, ‘Dad. This has got to stop. Promise me.’
Still he said nothing, sitting with his hands folded in his lap. Emily gazed down at the crown of the dark head, now flecked with grey. Never before had she engaged with her father on this level, and putting a brake on him was a hurtful process that pulled up those old demarcations by the roots.
The bareness of his/Mia’s room almost broke her heart. Save for the narrow single bed, the terrible desk, old-fashioned wardrobe and his corduroy jacket draped over the chair, there was not much evidence that he occupied it in any profound way. It was as if he was only perching there before moving.
The idea made her feel sick.
‘Sorry, Dad.’ In anguish at his loss of face, she put her arms around him and hugged him. She would have given much to be dealing with the old, overbearing paterfamilias again. ‘I shouldn’t interfere.’
Tom switched off the screen. ‘Actually, your mother hasn’t gone to work this morning. She’s – she’s sacking Zosia. I don’t want to go downstairs to witness the carnage.’
‘Sacking Zosia?’
‘’Fraid so.’
As they spoke, the front door closed quietly, finally. Tom looked at Emily. Emily looked at Tom.
‘It will kill your mother,’ he said, and his self-hatred shocked her.
Together they descended to the kitchen where, her back to the door, a dressed-for-the-office Annie was stowing saucepans in a cupboard.
‘Mum?’
Annie stopped what she was doing but did not look round. ‘It was awful, if you must know,’ she said, in a choked voice. ‘Zosia cried. I know it isn’t anyone’s fault, but I feel we’ve let her down.’ As she turned Emily saw her cheeks were wet. ‘Zosia’s a friend.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom.
Emily looked from one to the other. ‘Whose decision?’
‘Does it matter?’ Her mother’s cheeks stained a faint pink. She flicked a look at Tom. ‘It was a joint one.’ She brushed back the lock of hair that tended to tangle over her forehead when she was agitated. ‘I gave her a month’s money and Pat Hillaby’s number. She might get work there.’
‘A month,’ said Tom.
Annie glared at him.
Emily had clocked the gesture, the very tangled hair and, at the same time, something else. ‘Mum, where’s your ring?’
Her grandmother’s diamond ring. Huge. A five-stone beauty of considerable value on which Emily’s eyes had frequently lingered. Riches I hold in light esteem … Of course she held riches in light esteem, but the ring was something else.
Annie had gone silent.
‘You haven’t lost it, Mum?’
Her mother flapped a hand, another familiar gesture. In the past, Emily had interpreted that as don’t bother me but, with maturity, she had come to regard it as a sign of acute distress.
‘Annie?’ inquired Tom, with an edge to his voice.
‘Yes.’ Another nervous stroke of the hair. ‘My ring?’ She sent an agonized gaze in Emily’s direction. ‘I’ve sold it.’
‘What?’ He sounded as if a cattle prod had been applied to him.
‘To pay for the cooker.’ To Emily’s horror, tears ran down her mother’s cheeks. ‘I don’t know what Mum would say.’ She wiped her face on a sleeve.
Tom grabbed Annie’s wrist. The shrunken figure of upstairs had vanished. ‘You can’t have.’ He examined the now naked right hand with its strip of extra white skin on the fourth finger. ‘You didn’t have to do anything so drastic.’
‘Yes, I did. It’s my fault we have the cooker.’ She cast it a virulent look. ‘I had to do something.’
‘Oh, Annie,’ said Tom. ‘I can’t bear it.’ He turned away. ‘I can’t bear it.’
Emily’s feelings of bereavement for the ring were not entirely straightforward for she had hoped she might inherit it. The shameful thought popped fully formed into her mind: but neither would Mia.
Her father was saying, ‘You should have asked me. We could have done something.’
Her mother sounded resigned. ‘I didn’t do it to make you feel bad, if that’s what you’re thinking. I could have done, but that isn’t the point. I did it to get us out of a hole.’
‘You should have told me.’
‘Tom, the cooker is paid for. We don’t have to worry about it any longer.’
‘Mum, Dad,’ said Emily. ‘There’s no point.’
As one, they swung round and faced Emily.
‘Don’t interfere, Em,’ said her mother.
‘Emily, I don’t think this is your business.’
At first, Emily was inclined to take enormous offence. It was her business: it was everyone’s business in this house. They would all have to live with the fallout. Then her parents turning on her in this united fashion when, for once, she was entirely blameless, struck her as funny. She suppressed a grin.
Almost without a beat, her father returned to the fray. ‘And will you enjoy a cooker that’s cost more than the national debt?’
‘You know I won’t. So there’s no need to rub it in.’
Emily reckoned she was eavesdropping on a private conversation and edged towards the door.
‘What on earth made you choose it in the first place?’ demanded her father.
Her mother shrugged tiredly. ‘Trying to make it all work. Trying to whip up enthusiasm.’
Glancing back, Emily caught a snapshot of her father opening and shutting the new cooker’s oven doors, and her mother’s bent head as she stuffed a sheaf of notes into her briefcase and snapped it shut.
Oh, my God, she thought. What else could happen to this family?
Jocasta had been sleeping in the spare room and at night after work she packed her belongings, sweeping clothes out of wardrobes, books off shelves, and arranging for her share of the furniture to be taken away.
They argued once or twice over who should have what but mostly not. In a rare show of guilt, Jocasta stuck to her original declaration and insisted that Jake must have the house. As a gesture of goodwill, she would continue to pay her share of the mortgage until the legal side was sorted out.
It took several weeks, and the pretty house was increasingly denuded, but no more so than Jake felt.
As she was finally leaving Jocasta tossed at him, ‘Jake, you mustn’t blame yourself.’
Her cool, patronizing nerve left him gasping. Beat a dog when it’s down. Since Jocasta had stuck her knife into his ribs, Jake had barely functioned. He woke up feeling as if the lenses had been wrenched from his eyes and checked more than once in the mirror to verify that the man he could see reflected was still him, Jake Ian Nicholson, who breathed, ate and partially slept. Despite all this, he had not thought to blame himself entirely. It was the one thing to which he clung. ‘Get lost,’ he said.
‘I intend to.’ She looked round the sitting room with its comfortable furniture and fashionable lighting, and her gaze rested fleetingly on a pink-dungaree-clad Maisie parked in her chair. ‘Don’t worry.’
At that he caught her arm and searched her face. ‘Honestly, were you never happy with me?’
Yes, she had been. He knew she had been. At times. At first. Before Maisie.
She wouldn’t look at him. ‘Jake, don’t.’
‘Tell me.’
‘No, not really.’
‘Liar.’ He was desperate to wring some kind of concession from her.
‘As I said, not really.’
Her indifference lashed him like a whip. ‘And you really think you’ll be happy with this man?’
‘With Noah?’ She seemed a little startled at the notion. ‘Probably. Possibly not. How do we ever know? But I’m taking the risk.’
This was not the response of a woman gagging to throw everything over for a lover, and Jake derived a primitive satisfaction from her lacklustre tone. With a bit of luck, Noah would fare no better than he had. With a bit of luck, Jocasta would make him as miserable as she was making Jake.
He watched and asked sourly, ‘And what makes you think you can stay in the US?’
‘The bank has arranged everything. I’ve been promised a transfer. In fact, it suits them, and they’re used to dealing with visas et cetera.’
Jocasta shrugged herself into her black cashmere coat. It was cut to fall sharply from the neckline and emphasized what Jake considered her Parisian fragility – a beautifully shaped head set on delicate, bony shoulders.
He snatched Maisie up from her chair and held her out. ‘OK. You don’t want me. But what about your daughter?’
Jocasta’s hand froze. ‘I don’t want to leave Maisie exactly, but that’s the way it’s turned out.’ She touched Maisie’s cheek with a finger and whispered, ‘I’m not a natural mother, baby. I know I’m not.’ She turned her gaze on Jake. ‘It’s something I’ve had to face up to.’
‘What I can’t get you to understand is that it’s not all about you but about Maisie and her needs. How’s she going to manage without a mother? I don’t believe you don’t care about her and what matters to her.’
He carried Maisie over to the window and the pair of them looked out at a couple of plastic bags being whipped along the street by the breeze. Her mother would be a constant absence in Maisie’s little life – and he could have killed Jocasta for it.
The coat fastened, Jocasta picked up her bag and briefcase. ‘Can I kiss you goodbye, Jake?’
He ignored her. ‘Look, sweetie-pie, there’s a big dog over there.’
‘Jake …’
‘Say “dog”, Maisie.’
‘Jake!’
He swung round so swiftly that he jerked Maisie’s head and, instinctively, cradled it against his chest. The agony of the past weeks rose to the surface. ‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Hurry away.’
Jocasta went pale. ‘There’s no need to sound so … dangerous.’
‘How lucky you are that everything bounces off you.’
She licked her lips. ‘If you mean I refuse to see things in the sentimental way you do, Jake, then I suppose that’s true. But I’ve faced facts, made a decision and, one day, you’ll thank me.’ She rattled the chain on her key-ring. ‘I just thought it would be good to say goodbye in a civilized way.’
The minute quaver in her voice told Jake that Jocasta was not quite as cut and shut about the matter as she would have him believe – and new, alarmingly atavistic, emotions boiled in his chest. ‘You’ve decided to break up this family, Jocasta, and if you imagine I’m going to let you kiss me goodbye, you’re mad.’
Jocasta recovered herself and shrugged. ‘Then I’ll go. Our lawyers will keep us in touch and I’ll come over and see Maisie as often as I can.’