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‘Here. Let me.’
The tall man in the doorway bent and scooped Michelle into his arms without apparent effort.
Michelle opened one eye. ‘Wuss? Whos?’ Then she opened both eyes. ‘Hey! It’s you!’
The tall man offered a quick smile. ‘Yeah. Hi. Nice to meet you. Which way’s the bedroom?’
Michelle’s eyes were closing again. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But I’m on top.’
‘I know where it is,’ said Connie. ‘Follow me.’
When Michelle was safely on her bed, Connie removed her friend’s shoes and covered her with a blanket. The tall man stood back and watched, arms folded. Even though he was silent, Connie found herself very aware of his presence. Not that he made her anxious; more that he filled the space in a way that made everything else seem to shrink into insignificance. Whatever room he entered, thought Connie, he’d immediately draw everyone’s eye. Even if you had your back to him, she decided, you’d feel compelled to turn around.
‘Hello.’ She took a deep breath and held out her hand. ‘I’m Connie.’
‘Connie.’ He returned her handshake. ‘I’m Patrick. Aishe’s cousin. All the way from sunny London.’
His gruff accent reminded Connie of a British movie she’d seen, where a bunch of young men had to pay back a debt to an East End gangster called something like Harry the Axe. Or Knife. Or some other sharp implement. Patrick didn’t make Connie feel afraid, but she sensed that if he did want to frighten you, you’d stay frightened for some considerable time.
Patrick glanced out into the hallway. ‘Didn’t tell Aishe I was coming, as you probably gathered. Not that it matters. I’d be about as welcome as herpes either way.’
‘How did you find this house?’ Connie frowned. ‘Did you phone Gulliver?’
‘I had Michelle’s address, too. She’s a friend of my cousin’s girlfriend. Another cousin,’ he added. ‘Aishe’s brother, as it happens.’ He noted Connie’s look of bewilderment. ‘Anyway, when no one was home at Aishe’s, I thought I’d try my luck here.’
‘I’m sorry we’re so late,’ said Connie.
Patrick shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’m jetlagged. No fucking idea what time it is.’
He opened the door and gestured for Connie to go through. ‘Come on. We’d better get you home, too.’
‘Oh, I’ve been invited to stay,’ said Connie, as they walked back to the living room. ‘Which is probably for the best, as I don’t think Michelle will be keen on getting up early to the children.’
She clapped her hand to her chest. ‘The children! Have they been all right?’
‘Baby woke up just after I got here,’ said Patrick. ‘I settled her back down, no trouble.’
‘You settled her?’
Patrick nodded. ‘Threatened to eat her. Worked like a charm.’
Connie wasn’t entirely sure if he was joking.
In the living room, Aishe was standing by the fireplace. Her posture was stiffly upright and she straightened still further when Connie and Patrick entered. Gulliver was lying full length on the couch, feet up on the arm. He was blinking as if he’d just woken up.
‘Sorry,’ he said to Patrick. ‘Didn’t mean to go to sleep.’
Patrick walked to the couch and pushed at Gulliver’s feet. ‘Shift,’ he said, and sank down into the space Gulliver made for him. Patrick rested his head briefly on the back of the couch and then turned his gaze to Aishe.
‘Big night?’ he said.
Connie was hovering in the doorway. There was a palpable atmosphere between Patrick and Aishe, and Connie had neither the energy nor the inclination to get caught in whatever drama seemed likely to erupt any second.
‘If you all don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I’m going to bed.’
Aishe began to stalk towards her. ‘And I’m going home. Come on, Gulliver. Move.’
Gulliver hopped off the couch, but then frowned. ‘What about Patrick?’
‘What about him?’
‘Can’t he stay with us?’
‘Where would he sleep?’ said Aishe. ‘In the bath?’
‘Mum, come on!’ Gulliver was clearly embarrassed by his mother’s rudeness.
‘I didn’t invite him, Gulliver! And we have no fucking room!’
Patrick expelled a long breath and hauled himself up off the couch. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find somewhere.’
‘Mum! It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning!’
‘Do not swear at me!’
‘Stop it!’ said Connie. ‘You’ll wake the children!’
To her surprise, she found she had their full attention. ‘Patrick,’ she said. ‘You can stay here. There’s a second spare room. I’m sure Michelle won’t mind. Gulliver, thank you for babysitting. Come back in the morning for your money.’
Connie met Aishe’s eye, and her newfound confidence slipped a notch. ‘Is that OK?’
Aishe stared back at Connie in silence. Her whole body, which had been rigid with tension, suddenly sagged. To Connie’s surprise, Aishe reached out and gave her a quick hug.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a bitch.’
Connie opened her mouth to protest, but Aishe had already ducked through into the hallway.
Gulliver was about to start after her, but instead he walked back to where Patrick was standing and offered him his hand. Patrick shook it. Connie admired the young man’s bravery. From the look of him, the older man had the strength to crush every one of Gulliver’s hand bones to dust.
‘Come round tomorrow,’ Gulliver said. ‘After one. She’ll be at the animal shelter.’
‘No, I want to talk to her,’ said Patrick. ‘What time’s she back?’
Gulliver shrugged. ‘Six?’
‘I’ll come for dinner.’ Patrick said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll bring it with me.’
Gulliver failed to keep the big smile off his face. ‘Cool!’
They heard the front door slam. Gulliver grimaced. ‘Better go before Mum locks me out.’
He took off down the hall and the front door slammed a second time.
‘Like mother, like son,’ said Patrick to Connie. ‘Except he seems a shitload more relaxed. Mind you, nations on the brink of nuclear war would be more relaxed than Aishe.’
He checked his watch and raised an eyebrow. ‘You must be dead on your feet.’
‘No, I passed that point long ago,’ said Connie. ‘I’m now into the final stages of decomposition.’
‘Come on, then.’ Patrick touched his hand lightly to her shoulder. ‘Show me the spare room and where the coffee’s kept. A strong cup of coffee in hand, and we’ll be able to cope with any fucking thing.’
––––––––
MICHELLE SHUFFLED INTO her living room at nine-thirty, still wrapped in the blanket, to find Rosie playing peek-a-boo with Connie, and Harry watching Moana while sitting on the knee of a large, dark-haired man. Nobody gave her a single glance, so she shuffled off to the kitchen in search of coffee.
‘Morning,’ she said when she returned, cup in hand. ‘I think.’
She sat in an armchair and stared hard at the dark-haired man. ‘Did I imagine this, or did you pick me up and carry me to my room last night?’
He turned his head and smiled. ‘Yeah.’
Michelle made a face. ‘My. How embarrassing.’
She looked at Connie. ‘Was that the most embarrassing thing that happened to me last night?’
Connie paused, hands halfway over her eyes.
‘I see,’ said Michelle. ‘In that case, you must swear never to tell me, as long as you live.’
‘You were fully clothed, if that makes you feel better,’ said the man.
‘Not even a little bit,’ said Michelle. ‘You’re Patrick, right? Darrell’s landlord-cum-cousin-in-law? She’s shown me photos, in case you’re wondering. I didn’t see you on America’s Most Wanted or anything.’
He made a face. ‘It was easier when I was only Darrell’s landlord. Now she’s one more member of the family to worry about.’
‘Anselo told me she’d buggered off back to New Zealand,’ said Michelle. ‘Any news?’
‘Shh, Mommy!’ said Harry. ‘I can’t hear!’
Patrick and Michelle exchanged a smile. Patrick lifted Harry off his lap and sat him on the couch, then came to stand by Michelle’s armchair.
‘You have a little boy, too, don’t you?’ said Michelle.
Instead of replying, Patrick peered down into her cup of coffee.
‘I’ve already drunk about a gallon,’ he said, ‘but my body clock’s still ticking in another fucking time zone. Want another?’
Michelle made an apologetic face. ‘I think I just drank the last of it.’
‘Local caf?’ he said.
‘Fifteen-minute walk.’
Michelle took a deep breath just to test how she felt. ‘If you can wait for me to very slowly and carefully shower and change, we could all go?’
Patrick tilted his head and assessed her. ‘You look in pretty good shape, considering.’
‘Wonderful. Promise you will never elaborate on “considering”.’
Michelle pulled the blanket around her and stood up. ‘Connie?’
Connie had picked up Rosie from her play mat and was stepping slowly from side to side, jiggling the baby on her hip and softly crooning a song to which Rosie was listening intently.
‘Connie?’ Michelle said again. ‘Do you want to come with us to the café in town? We’ll take Harry and Rosie,’ she added, in case Connie thought she was being asked to stay home and do yet more child-minding.
‘Oh, I’d better not,’ said Connie. She smiled at Rosie, who beamed back gummily. Michelle felt a twinge of resentment.
‘She really likes you,’ said Michelle. ‘Little pill is usually horrible with women.’
Connie brought Rosie up to the armchair. Rosie eyed her mother with the expression she usually reserved for puréed greens and arched backwards in Connie’s arms.
‘Or maybe just with me,’ said Michelle, crossly. ‘Like I said, little pill.’
Connie smiled and chucked Rosie’s cheek. Rosie let out a happy cackle.
‘I’ll look after her while you get changed,’ said Connie, ‘but then I had better go on home.’
Michelle hesitated. ‘Do you want to go home?’
Connie looked her in the eye. ‘Phil will be expecting me.’
Michelle fought down an urge to grill her friend about what she intended to say to Phil, what she would do if Phil confessed, and whether or not she’d like Michelle to hunt Phil down and slice off his man-parts. Connie needed to deal with this in her own way, in her own time, and if Connie decided Phil’s man-parts needed slicing, then she’d work out her own way to do that, too.
But Michelle found she had to say one thing. ‘Just because Becca said it doesn’t mean it’s true.’
‘I know,’ said Connie. ‘And my first reaction was that it was impossible. But then I thought — how much do we really know about the people we’re close to? I have secrets that I’ve barely admitted to myself, let alone to Phil.’
Michelle felt her insides flip-flop with a mix of sinking dread and sharp expectancy, a sensation that had become a frequent visitor over the last few days. What secrets had Chad uncovered about himself, she wondered? And what would that mean for her? Her gaze took in both her children. For all of them?
‘Call me,’ she said to Connie. ‘Or, if you need to, come back here and stay.’
‘Thank you,’ said Connie. ‘You’re a good friend.’
She paused to forestall Rosie who, resentful that Connie’s attention had been diverted, had made a lunge for her ear.
‘But whatever the outcome,’ Connie went on, her hand gently restraining Rosie’s small fist. ‘I do not intend to run from it.’
After they’d waved Connie off in a cab, Patrick lifted Harry onto his shoulders and they set off to walk to the café. Michelle shot frequent, slightly anxious glances at her son, who was sitting up so high his head came close to scraping the lower branches of some of the roadside trees.
But Harry was all smiles, and Michelle wondered if he was absorbing a sense of security from the man below. Patrick was very sure of himself, Michelle observed. You could tell by the upright way he carried himself, and the forceful, bordering on impatient way he strode along the pavement, at a pace that Michelle, in charge of Rosie’s stroller, was struggling to match.
It was a level of self-confidence that would be easy to mistake for arrogance, Michelle thought. But she got the impression he wouldn’t find it threatening to admit he was wrong. Arrogant people constantly had to prove their superiority, whereas she didn’t sense that Patrick believed his financial success or even his physicality set him above anyone else. She imagined that his tolerance for fools, idlers and pretentious twats was probably low. But then, whose wasn’t?
Outside the café, Patrick swept Harry, giggling with delight at being temporarily airborne, down from his shoulders and set him on his feet. With one hand Patrick then pulled his own sweater up over his head and off with a speed that suggested the garment had been trying to throttle him.
‘Phew,’ he said as he straightened his shirt. ‘Back home, I’d have on a coat as well. Does this place ever get cold?’
‘No idea,’ said Michelle. ‘I haven’t spent a winter here yet.’
And who knows if she’d get to was the thought she pushed quickly from her mind.
Along the front of the café was a wide veranda, on which were a few tables. Michelle peered in the front door and saw that the café was packed with the usual Saturday lunch crowd.
‘Well, there are advantages to a place that’s freakishly hot in November,’ she said, parking the stroller by the nearest free outside table. ‘No impediment to al fresco dining.’
Patrick went in to order. Michelle settled Harry with colouring book and pens and offered Rosie a rusk, which she snatched with a squeal of outrage, as if Michelle had been concealing it from her on purpose.
‘You know, I wish you were older,’ said Michelle. ‘Then if your father decided to play silly buggers, you’d go straight for his jugular, wouldn’t you?’
‘Hola!’
Angel, on his recumbent bicycle, waved as he pedalled past. On his head was a red and white bandanna, knotted behind so that the ends hung down the back of his neck like spotted pigtails. It gave him the look of a Mexican bandit who had run away to join the circus.
‘What the fuck was that?’ said Patrick as he resumed his seat. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t swear around the kids.’
‘Why not? I do,’ said Michelle. ‘And that was my landlord. You and he should meet and swap landlordly intell.’
Patrick let out a long breath and Michelle glanced at him, curious.
‘That’s not the kind of intell I need,’ he said.
Xavier appeared and placed their coffees on the table.
‘Grazie,’ Patrick said to him. ‘I know it’s not Spanish, but it’s the best I can do.’
‘You can speak to me in Klingon for all I care,’ said Xavier, ‘so long as you leave a tip.’
‘Was that a threat?’ Patrick said to Michelle as Xavier bustled off. ‘Is he going to spit in my huevos rancheros?’
Michelle sipped her coffee and gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Anyone who makes coffee this good and strong,’ she said, ‘I’d suck down their spit and ask for seconds.’
Patrick laughed. ‘Darrell said you were funny.’
‘Funny ha-ha?’ said Michelle. ‘Or now-I-have-to-hunt-Darrell-down-and-kill-her funny?’
‘The former.’ Patrick stopped smiling. ‘But I’m tempted to do the latter myself.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what the fuck’s got into her! I mean — running off to New Zealand? Has she gone mental?’
Michelle was torn. Part of her agreed with Patrick. But despite the recent glitch, Michelle still considered Darrell to be her best friend. Friends, no matter how nutso, were to be defended.
‘She needed somewhere she could feel safe,’ said Michelle.
‘But why?’ said Patrick, indignant. ‘She’s surrounded by family at home!’
Michelle gave him a steady look, and he rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, all right. Fair point.’
Patrick glanced towards Harry and lowered his voice. ‘Anselo’s shitting himself that she’ll have the abortion there.’
The bald use of the word made Michelle wince, but Patrick was never going to be one for the polite euphemism.
‘She won’t.’ As Michelle said it, she realised why she believed it. ‘Darrell could never bring herself to be responsible for any kind of death, no matter how sanitised and legal the procedure. And no matter how terrified she is of the consequences of not doing it. But she needs time to get that straight in her head.’
‘I still don’t understand why she couldn’t deal with it with Anselo,’ said Patrick. ‘I know what you’re saying about family — too much pressure. But they could have kept it between the two of them, surely?’
‘Even that would be too much pressure for Darrell,’ said Michelle. ‘She needed truly neutral ground. She needed to be away from everyone who might want to persuade her. Or judge her.’
‘Darrell makes that face, too,’ said Patrick, after a moment. ‘Her mouth turns right down at the corners, like in a cartoon.’
‘I’ve been a shitty friend,’ Michelle said. ‘At the risk of sounding like a Greek myth, all I’ve done is shove babies right down her throat.’
She glanced fondly at Rosie, who was inexorably reducing the rusk to a substance Michelle knew had adhesive qualities to rival super glue and could only be removed from surfaces by the application of a pneumatic drill.
‘I’m certainly not the world’s best mother,’ Michelle said, ‘but I’m so glad I became one, I can hardly stand it. That’s what I was trying to tell Darrell, but it just came off as a harangue. I couldn’t find the right words to describe it.’ She smiled at Patrick. ‘But you know exactly what I mean, don’t you?’
Xavier appeared again, this time with plates of food. He said nothing but gave Patrick a single nod, which caused Patrick to peer more closely at his eggs.
‘Fuck it.’ He picked up a fork. ‘Because I’m starving, I’m going to assume that everything moist and glistening started life in a shell.’
Michelle cut up Harry’s waffle and offered Rosie a spoonful of scrambled egg, which she rejected by arching her back and glowering. Michelle knew it was unfair to ask Harry to share his waffle, so she pulled out a piece of sourdough toast from under her eggs and offered that instead. Rosie snatched it gleefully in a rusk-encrusted hand.
‘Although occasionally I do wonder,’ said Michelle, looking down at her diminished plate, ‘if the sacrifices are worth it.’
It occurred to her that Patrick had gone quiet. Despite his claims of starvation, he wasn’t eating, but pushing his eggs around with the fork. His eyes were on the plate, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.
‘You all right?’ Michelle said.
Patrick hesitated. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I’m not exactly sure why, and it’s pissing me off. It’s one the reasons I came over here. Wanted time to think.’
Michelle gave a small prayer of thanks that Harry was a methodical eater, who ploughed away slowly and silently until he was finished. Rosie might contribute the odd shriek, but another piece of chewy sourdough would solve that. Michelle wanted Patrick to be able to speak uninterrupted. She was secretly glad that someone who seemed so in control of his life had problems, too.
‘I don’t know if Darrell mentioned Clare,’ said Patrick. ‘My wife?’
Michelle nodded. Darrell had indeed told her about Clare. It was she not Patrick who owned the house Darrell rented. Darrell had described Clare as gorgeous-looking, smart and amusing, but with a disconcerting tendency to flip into attack mode when you were least expecting it. ‘It’s like you’re happily listening to a nice soothing piece of classical music,’ Darrell had said, ‘and without warning, it switches to the weet-weet-weet theme from Psycho.’
Darrell had concluded that Patrick was possibly the only man in the world with the strength to take on Clare. ‘Still,’ Darrell had said, ‘he must find it like living with Cato from the Pink Panther movies. One moment, tea. The next a karate chop to the vitals.’
‘I love Clare,’ Patrick continued. ‘I admire her, and I respect her. But since we had Tom—’ He looked both defiant and embarrassed. ‘I’m starting to resent her. But that’s the problem. I’m not sure why.’
‘What do you mean by resent her?’ said Michelle. ‘What’s she doing that’s making you feel that way?’
‘It’s like—’ Patrick was struggling to find the words. ‘She’s always been ambitious. Shot up the career ladder. Stayed at work till the last minute when she was pregnant. Hated the thought that people might think she was a gold-digger for marrying me — had to prove she could make her own money, be successful on her own merits. You know what I mean?’
Michelle nodded. ‘I share a few of those traits myself.’
She saw that Patrick wasn’t really listening and shut up again.
‘So now that she’s a mother,’ he was saying, ‘it’s like it’s become some sort of fucking competition. Can Clare King be the greatest mother in all the world? She’s determined to do all the right things and better than anyone else. Tom will be healthier, smarter, and more talented and successful than any kid in the known universe. That’s her plan.’ He lifted his hand in a helpless gesture. ‘Trouble is, she’s also determined to do it all herself. It’s like it’s her and Tom are this tight little unit, with me hovering around the perimeter like a spare wotsit at a wedding.’
Michelle hid a smile. ‘Call me crazy, but I think that might be the cause of the resentment right there. You’re feeling left out.’
Patrick glowered at her. ‘You make me sound childish. Raising a baby’s not like musical chairs.’
‘Have you talked to her about it?’
This time Patrick glowered at his eggs instead. ‘She’s so determined this is how it has to be,’ he said. ‘Not sure I can persuade her otherwise.’
Which meant no, thought Michelle. What was it with men and talking? She recalled what she’d said to Anselo: we’re afraid that if we let our fears out into the open, somehow that will ensure they come true.
Michelle watched Harry making his way steadily through his waffle. So like his father to look at, she thought. But in personality, Harry was his own self.
Had she tried to mould him? A little. But she’d stopped short of trying to make him something he wasn’t. But had she ever wished he had a different personality, one that would make life easier for him? Oh, yes.
‘Secretly,’ she said to Patrick, ‘every parent would love to find a way to ensure their children are never vulnerable. If we could, we’d make our kids so emotionally and physically robust that nothing and no one would ever hurt them. It’s because the thought of them being hurt, even a little, is appalling. It’s our worst nightmare, to the power of ten. It pushes every primordial button we have.’
Patrick stared at her. ‘You’re saying that Clare’s become a control freak because she’s afraid?’
There were benefits to being hungover, Michelle decided. The throbbing behind her eyes and the surges of nausea had been a useful distraction from the anxiety that continued to churn up her insides.
Chad was coming home tomorrow. She didn’t know exactly when but her instinct was that he’d come home for the children’s dinnertime, the way he always used to. He’d be there for their bath and bed, and then they’d be alone together, for the first time in four weeks. And she couldn’t even begin to imagine what he’d say to her.
‘The scariest thing in the world,’ Michelle said to Patrick, ‘is having no clue how it’s all going to turn out.’