I’d rather not stay. I don’t see the point. I feel in the way, like I’ve brought back one bag too many. Trish is aware of my hesitation.
‘Don’t tell me you only drink tea.’
‘Coffee’s great.’
The kitchen is dreamy. Right out of a magazine. It’s not lifeless like the hall or the sitting room. A few used mugs sit beside a half-full cafetière, the rich aroma of coffee shaking the room awake. A fresh baguette lies on a chopping board, half eaten, and crumbs are speckled onto the gleaming white island. Loose papers in a haphazard pile lie beside an open MacBook Air.
‘Oh, this is beautiful,’ I say, pointing at the wildflowers arranged in a basket on the table. Cornflower blues and sunny oranges poke out from the richest ruby reds; a gift, no doubt, as I can’t imagine anybody would buy this for themselves. They remind me of the bouquet Giles and Ingrid bought for me all those months ago: a flash of a memory. Did I put them on display? I seem to recall hiding them in a cupboard.
‘Take it when you leave,’ Trish says, her glasses now on the end of her nose as she closes down tabs on the MacBook and folds it shut. ‘I can’t bear flowers of any sort. Not indoors, anyway.’
‘Oh, me too.’
Trish dips her chin and stares at me from over the rim of her specs.
‘It comes from me mum. And me nan,’ I say, shaking my head at how abstractly I’m behaving. ‘Sorry – I mean, I think flowers are beautiful, to look at. Especially outside, like you mentioned. But I don’t like them in me own house, or flat. You see, me mum lost her dad when she was a little girl. When he died, neighbours kept buying me nan flowers. She’d leave them in the paper wrapping, slinging them on the kitchen table or by the phone in the hall, sometimes on the floor. Me nan’s a proper tough cookie but she couldn’t deal with the flowers, sort of like if she acknowledged them it’d cause her to wobble. She had no time for that. Tough as she was, though, she didn’t have the heart to tell people to stop, they were only doing their best, being kind. Anyway, it was me mum who’d pick the flowers up, put them in a vase. They didn’t have many vases – I mean, their house was dead small. So sometimes she cut the stems and put them in a tall glass or left them soaking in the sink. To this day, me mum won’t go near a florist. She hates the smell and what it reminds her of. Sad, dark days. I guess it rubbed off on me.’
‘Hmm.’ Trish goes to the sink, rinses a couple of mugs and pours us both a coffee. She removes her glasses and chain from around her neck. ‘Sounds like your mum and I have a lot in common after all.’
She lights a hob on the island cooker and takes a clean pan out of the dishwasher, heating it up with a generous splatter of oil.
‘Does your mum make eggy bread?’
‘No. She’s always on a diet.’
In the middle of beating two eggs with a fork, she suddenly stops what she’s doing to look through the open doorway. I follow her gaze. John has moved from his armchair and crossed the hall. There’s a distinct lack of background noise in this house: no telly blaring, no radio muttering, no buses hurtling past. I hear a door open, close and lock, and a minute later, a toilet flush. Trish is watching Freddie scroll through his phone. John unlocks the door and goes back to where he came from. Trish’s shoulders soften. She returns to beating the eggs.
‘Pills work for Johnny,’ she tells me, slowly, each word clipped. ‘But they don’t work for Freddie.’
She adds milk to the beaten eggs and goes a bit crazy with the salt and pepper.
‘I take them to sleep,’ Trish continues, ‘but Johnny takes them both day and night now. Doctor’s orders. He’s doing well. Unlike my baby. I’ll never trust him on his own again. Pass me that bread knife, will you, dear?’
I oblige and Trish slices the baguette up with terrific speed before dipping each piece into the eggy mixture and tossing it into the hot pan.
‘What happened?’ I ask, the sizzle making me jump. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to—’
‘Overdosed. Says it was an accident. Freddie’s always needed an extra eye on him, you see: a strong arm around his shoulders. And he’s had that, in abundance, his whole life. It’s exhausting, Chloe. But essential. It never occurred to me that Jack would be the one I’d lose. Not for a second.’
The bitterness in her tone makes me think that somehow, she’s blaming herself for Jack’s death, which is ridiculous, but also achingly sad. I imagine sitting in this kitchen under different circumstances. Maybe I’d be talking to Trish about my job, or listening to tales about hers: what she really thinks about Jeremy Vine and Piers Morgan. Maybe I’d get a slice of eggy bread. Jack would be chatting to his dad in the lounge, kicking his brother jovially and telling him to get off his lazy arse, to put his phone away. I wonder what Jack and John chatted about? I want to ask Trish, but I can’t. We aren’t there. I can’t force her to reminisce just because I’m creating a fictional scenario in my head.
‘Did you keep anything?’ Trish asks, flipping the eggy bread. ‘Of Jack’s?’
‘No, I promise everything is there. Every sock, every belt.’
‘Chloe, I didn’t mean you couldn’t keep something. I asked because I was interested to see what you’d kept, if anything. But forget it. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it matters,’ I cry. ‘I would’ve kept a t-shirt. Any t-shirt. I’ve been sleeping in them, you see, since he … But I stopped doing that about a month or so ago. I didn’t wanna stop; I wanted to sleep in them forever, just in a very different life. Sorry, that was way too much information.’
Turning the heat off, Trish slips the eggy bread onto a plate and squeezes a huge dollop of ketchup on the side. Holding up one finger tells me silently that she’ll be back in a minute.
The coffee is strong; the caffeine jitter tickles my knees, my knuckles.
Breezing back into the kitchen, Trish pulls out a chair and plonks down beside me.
‘How’s work going?’ she asks, clasping her hands together on the table and crossing her ankles. ‘A teacher, yes?’
‘Good. Better than ever. I’ve applied for a permanent post. We recently had a school production and it really lifted me spirits,’ and I stop. Minutes ago, this woman confided in me how her husband and son are battling with serious depression and there’s me making my life sound like a fucking episode of Glee. Trish gives another, ‘Hmm,’ a little higher pitched than last time.
‘And how’s your family? Do you get back to Liverpool much?’
‘I try. Me brother got married in the summer.’
She nods slowly, and rocks, like she might be thinking about Kit’s wedding, imagining herself there. When she stops still, she squints, searching for the words to her next question. Her eyes close briefly before pinging open and locking tight with mine.
‘Thailand!’ she exclaims, clicking her fingers. ‘Tell me more.’
How does she know I went to Thailand? And why does she want to know what I did there? Did I tell her when I left the flat in the summer? I can’t recall giving her details. It’s a haze.
‘Was it a backpacking sort of trip?’ Trish quizzes. ‘I would’ve thought you were a bit past it – too old for that sort of thing, yes? I can’t imagine Jack splashing out on a fancy hotel, though – he was never one for lounging by a pool. I’m curious.’
‘Oh!’ She meant with Jack. ‘It was just a holiday.’
‘What sort of holiday?’
‘Erm … a normal one.’
‘What’s normal, Chloe? Some believe a Caribbean cruise is normal, others Butlin’s in Bognor. Elaborate, dear.’
‘Well, we roamed.’
‘Around the city? The temples? The beach?’
‘Everything, everywhere. Bangkok first and last, a few islands in between. We drank loads, ate loads, didn’t have much of a plan, but you know, just kept moving. Did whatever we felt like. ’Cause we could. It was amazing.’
‘Why did you go?’
‘Why does anyone go on holiday? To escape. Spend time with your fave people. Person.’
Trish straightens in her seat and, using her fingers, counts out what I’ve told her like a list.
‘So … you and my son ate, you drank, and you had no plan.’
‘Yeah. And – like I said – it was amazing.’
Trish gives a short, clipped, ‘Hm,’ and moves to the island to tidy up. She removes her wedding ring, placing it on the closed MacBook, and runs the tap, rinsing and scrubbing the frying pan rather than loading the dishwasher.
‘I can show you some photos on me phone?’ I suggest. ‘But they’re kind of boring. Just typical holiday snaps, you know. A few bad selfies with sweaty faces and a waterfall a bit skewwhiff in the background. And I’m sure you don’t wanna see photos of me toes on a sun lounger. Or Jack’s toes for that matter.’
Trish turns off the tap. ‘He really did have the hairiest toes, didn’t he?’
‘Hahaha, oh God. Yeah!’ I stand, get closer to the island, closer to Trish. ‘And you know what I remember most about that holiday? Not the pad thai or the strolls along the beach at night-time, but Jack’s laugh. That big, bellowing, boss howl that came from right here,’ and I punch my own stomach. Trish is nodding and it steers me on. ‘And I can’t get this image out of me head, this annoying, excruciating image—’
‘Of Jack?’
‘Oh no. Of me. We were in Koh Phangan. I know, I know, it’s famous – or infamous – for those full moon parties, but we weren’t into that. Like you said, Trish, a bit past it. Too old for that sort of thing.’
Trish widens her eyes at me, drying the pan with a tea towel.
‘Anyway,’ I go on, running away with my own words, ‘we stayed at this hotel. It was built on giant rocks, and all the rooms were like mini chalets, dotted around winding paths. Our room had a balcony with a hot tub – a hot tub – and of course, the resort offered Thai massages. So off we went, through the winding paths, towards a beach hut where two ladies were waiting with two empty mats, as if they knew we were coming. Jack and me lay on our front, heads facing towards each other, trying not to make the other one laugh. I mean, it was picture perfect, the swish of the water meeting the sand, the breeze kissing our skin … Then, it started to hurt. The massage. Like, really, really hurt. I tried so hard to keep a straight face, you know, not wince. But it got worse. The lady got stuck into me thighs and legs, pulling them in all sorts of directions. I was fuming. There was Jack, all zen, getting what I always imagined a Thai massage was, but for some reason, I was getting the shit beaten out of me. At one point, the lady yelled, “You tense!” And I yelled back, “You think?!” I mean, she obviously knew what she was doing, but she grabbed me leg again and hoisted it up to me ear, really going for it. I squealed and Jack opened his eyes, catching me in the most upside-down-inside-out unflattering position, rolls of flab from me hips crushed into me belly, me bikini bottoms right up me bum, and as I tried to breathe through the pressure … I farted.’
‘You farted?!’
‘Yeah! And Jack. Oh! He howled. His laughter practically shook the beach hut into pieces! He was like this God of All Laughter, each chuckle causing mass vibrations, and I can hear it now, like an out-of-body experience, watching meself on the mat, and Jack just howling.’
I sit down, my cheeks hot, flushed. I didn’t mean to tell the whole story.
Trish massages a little dollop of hand cream into her palms and puts her wedding ring back on. She looks deep in thought, as if she’s trying to picture something. Then she laughs: a silent belly laugh, causing her to shake. She shuts her eyes and holds onto the sink, bowing her head and letting the laughter come in gentle waves.
‘You farted?’ she squeaks.
‘I didn’t mean to!’
Then she throws her head back, cackling, louder with each laugh. Just listening to her makes me feel like I’m being tickled, and it’s infectious, so I slap my hand over my mouth to control myself. Trish’s howling now, not too dissimilar from Jack, a trait he definitely inherited from her. My eyes are wet and I fight back the tears, laughing at my own embarrassment, but laughing with Trish – actually with her. She holds out her hand to me, so I stand and take it. We’re crossing our legs, bent sideways, crunching each other’s hands, laughing. She catches her breath and says, ‘Ooooh,’ before another wave sends her laughing again.
Eventually she breathes a long sigh, which I reciprocate. We’re knocked for six.
Trish composes herself, re-spikes her hair, pinches her cheekbones. Ever the professional. She taps the sink with her fingertips.
‘Yes,’ she whispers to herself, then looks to me. ‘I get it now.’
‘Get what?’
‘Well, you’re the reason I hardly saw my son in the last few months of his life.’
‘Oh, God!’
‘Chloe. I knew everything about my son. Everything. He was an open book, never had a single secret.’
‘You’ve got Florrie to thank for that,’ I say, shocking myself.
‘Yes, I do have Florrie to thank for that. We only learn by making mistakes. Jack took a long hard look at himself after what he did to her. Gave him the ability to make better choices moving forward. He used to be such a people-pleaser as a child. Drove me mad. He didn’t need to be anything other than his totally brilliant self.’
I smile, feel a glow of warmth.
‘I didn’t realise until after he died,’ Trish goes on, ‘that I hadn’t seen that much of him during the first part of this year. Time goes so quickly – you know how it is. It’s taken me a while to figure it out, but now I know he had a secret. You.’
My smile drops so spectacularly that I practically hear it smash.
‘A secret?’ I ask.
Trish nods.
So there it is. Confirmed. I should get Patricia Carmichael to record that on my phone, have it as clear evidence that what I thought was the biggest thing to ever happen to me was quite the opposite to Jack. How had I judged my own life so spectacularly wrong? All this grief, all this pain: what’s it been for? A fantasy? God, I almost lost my best friend, my career, ruined my brother’s wedding for my mum …
‘There’s more coffee,’ Trish says.
‘No, thanks. You don’t need me hanging around.’ I know now that I’ve lingered long enough, and I’m ashamed. ‘Look, I owe you a fair amount of rent. Please don’t think I’d ever rip you off. And I know I’m here to sign a tenancy, but it’s probably best if I find somewhere else to live; get a clean break. Please send me your bank details. I can transfer today. All I ask is that you give me time to find—’
‘Chloe?’ I hear from behind me. John. He places his empty mug on the island, silently. ‘You weren’t a secret. Jack was just making sure you’d be ready. It wouldn’t have been a picnic.’ He flicks his head in the direction of where his wife is standing and on cue, she rolls her eyes.
‘Jack must have loved you very much,’ John adds.
Trish lets out a sigh as if John has lowered the tone, polluting the air with the ‘L’ word. She leaves the room, giving me a careless tatty-bye-toodle-oo wave, and heads into the lounge to join Freddie.
‘I wish you were right, John,’ I say, softly. ‘I hope you’re right.’
I say goodbye with an air of false confidence, like I can see myself out, and leave John alone with the wildflowers and coffee aroma. As I reach the front door, I hear Trish telling Freddie to mute that damn thing, and then silence crash lands.
‘What was the business with the Thai man, Chloe?’ Trish shouts, matter-of-fact. I can see her from the hallway, Freddie’s head in her lap, stroking his hair. ‘That photo. I recall you talking about it, just after he died, but I can’t remember the details. Do you know about this, Freddie?’
Freddie doesn’t respond. I think he may be asleep.
‘Just a touristy photo Jack took when we were in Bangkok. Quite a common snap.’
‘Oh. What a letdown.’ Trish twists her head around to display her disappointment and John leans against the kitchen door, his arms folded. ‘I thought you were going to tell me something magical.’
I laugh a little, kindly. ‘You and Jack. Two peas in a pod.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was always saying there must be something behind the picture. I’d love there to be more of a story for you all. But there’s not. I even went all the way to Bangkok to try and figure it out—’
‘Wait, Chloe. Jack was always saying there was something behind the picture?’
‘Always.’
Trish and John share a glance.
‘Knowing Jack,’ she says, ‘he probably meant there was something behind the picture.’
‘Huh?’
‘Our darling boy was a great many things,’ John says, tenderly, ‘but he was not cryptic. There was nobody more transparent than Jack. He simply said what he meant. But I don’t mean to patronise, love. I’m sure you knew that.’
‘So you think Jack meant that there’s something – an actual something – behind the picture?’
Trish brings her shoulder to her ears, slowly, then releases, turning back to play with Freddie’s hair.
Something behind the picture?
Some … thing?
If so, what?