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It could be worse, Patrick reasoned as he drove down the 101 to San Francisco airport. He could be on the M25 to Heathrow. At least here the sky was blue and the air balmy, and even though the trip was a bit tedious, you didn’t feel like you were in a caravan of post-apocalyptic refugees shuffling across some blighted plain.
Still, he was annoyed. Mainly because he couldn’t quite work out how Michelle had persuaded him to trek all this way, first thing on Thanksgiving morning, to pick up her in-laws. He didn’t even know her fucking in-laws, he muttered, as he indicated to take the airport exit. He hadn’t even met her husband, for whose benefit he was supposedly doing all this!
‘It’s a surprise,’ Michelle had said. ‘Chad hasn’t seen his parents since we moved.’
In Patrick’s experience, family who arrived unexpectedly had a good chance of being as welcome as half a cockroach in a reheated penne arrabiata. But Michelle had seemed sincere, and she was clearly desperate. Despite that, Patrick was sure he’d said no. Yet some-fucking-how, here he was.
San Francisco airport was miniature compared to LAX, for which Patrick was grateful. He checked the arrivals board and saw that the Lawrences’ flight had been delayed by an hour. He blew out a breath and went in search of coffee.
He found an Italian café. At this early hour, on Thanksgiving, the domestic terminal was practically deserted. There were a couple of people at the café’s tables, an older woman reading and a young man slumped down on the tabletop, head on his arms, apparently asleep. Patrick took his coffee and his custard tart — bad for his cholesterol, but fuck it — over to a table.
He drained his espresso in two quick mouthfuls, but as he was lifting up the custard tart he took a closer look at the very blonde head of the young man asleep on the table.
‘Fuck me,’ he said, prompting the older woman to stare at him, schoolmarm fashion, over the top of her book.
Patrick ignored her. Walked over to the young man and shook his arm.
Benedict jerked upright with a rattling intake of breath. It took him a few seconds for his eyes to focus. When they did, the image he had in front of him — a dark-eyed, grinning giant — was so completely inconceivable his brain refused to process it.
‘Morning, sunshine,’ said Patrick. ‘Been here a while, have you?’
Benedict glanced around blearily. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’
‘It’s nine in the morning,’ said Patrick. ‘On Thursday. If that helps.’
Benedict was now convinced that he was the victim of some enormous cosmic joke.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Patrick. ‘Thought you’d already legged it?’
Benedict screwed up his mouth. ‘I tried. Difficulty is, when you have no money, your options become limited. To get to London on a flight that I can afford, I’ve had to go on standby, which has meant waiting around here overnight. I have a flight now – from New York. And I’ll be getting there via Dodge City, Kansas, Dubuque, Iowa and Wilkes-Barre/Scranton, the gateway to north-eastern Pennsylvania and the Pocono mountains.’
‘Ouch.’
‘So what are you doing here?’ said Benedict again.
Patrick stared down at him with an appraising smile Benedict found most unnerving.
‘Among other things,’ said Patrick, ‘I’m about to offer you a last-minute reprieve from the death sentence of domestic air travel.’
Two coffees, a prosciutto sandwich and a slice of torta della nonna later, Benedict was still saying no.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘For so many reasons. Besides, I’ve said all my goodbyes. You can’t go back after that. Not even if you’ve forgotten your hat.’
‘You didn’t say goodbye to Gulliver,’ said Patrick.
Benedict reddened. ‘No. Well. I intended to write.’
‘Better make it quick,’ said Patrick. ‘He’s off to London with me on Saturday. To live.’
Benedict paused, forkful of torte halfway to his mouth. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘We’ve got him into a good school,’ said Patrick. ‘I think it’ll suit him.’
‘What about Aishe?’ Benedict said quietly.
‘She’s a bit old for school.’
Benedict put down the fork, torte uneaten. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘She’s selling the house. After that?’ Patrick shrugged. ‘She’s a grown woman. She’ll make her own decisions.’ He checked his watch. ‘Come on,’ he said, getting up. ‘I’ll be in five fathoms of shit if I miss the in-laws.’
‘Er,’ said Benedict, rising to his feet in alarm. ‘I don’t recall saying yes.’
Patrick picked up Benedict’s rucksack.
‘I’ll shout you a flight to London direct,’ he said. ‘Business class.’
Benedict tapped his foot for a bit. Then he said, ‘I have nowhere to stay.’
‘And that, I can guarantee,’ said Patrick, handing him his rucksack, ‘is dead last on the list of things you need to fret about.’
Patrick’s personal concern was that he wouldn’t recognise the Lawrences from the photo Michelle had shown him. As it turned out, Virginia looked exactly like her picture, pearl choker and all. Chad’s father, on the other hand, looked like he’d been put through the preliminary stages of embalming. You could see that he’d once been a tall, strapping man, but now his skin sagged off his bones like wet washing on a line, and he walked bent over at the shoulders, as if his head was too heavy to hold upright.
Patrick introduced himself, hoping that Michelle had let them know he was coming to pick them up. Whether she had or she hadn’t, Michelle’s mother-in-law was too well bred to show surprise. It was only when Patrick offered his hand to her husband and received a bewildered stare in return that a frown creased Virginia’s forehead. But she recovered, and accepted Patrick’s hand with a delicate grasp of her own, and a small, tight smile that reminded Patrick of his own mother, putting on what she referred to as her committee face.
‘And you’re English, too,’ said Virginia to Benedict, after Patrick had introduced them.
She made it sound like an unfortunate genetic defect, thought Patrick. Which he supposed was how others might see it. The French, for starters.
‘Do you have any luggage?’ said Patrick.
‘We have one suitcase,’ said Virginia. ‘With, er — a few things of my husband’s.’
Patrick, who had been apprised of the situation by Michelle, decided the suitcase couldn’t contain anything too controversial. They wouldn’t have let it through airport security. At least, he hoped not.
‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘And welcome to the sunny Bay Area.’
‘Although I gather the rainy season is imminent,’ said Virginia.
‘Is that so?’ said Patrick. ‘Well, then, we’d better get a fucking move on.’
Michelle had asked Aishe and Gulliver to come mid-morning.
‘I’ve told Chad you’re coming,’ she’d said on the phone. ‘And Patrick, too.’ Michelle paused. ‘Chad was a bit surprised about that.’
‘Good training for him,’ Aishe had said. ‘We’ll see you at ten.’
At ten-fifteen, Aishe found herself in the Michelle’s kitchen, cutting crosses in the stalks of Brussels sprouts while, beside her, Gulliver was doing his best to chop the skin off a particularly firm pumpkin.
‘Fuck!’ he said as the knife slipped. He slid a glance towards Michelle, who was covering a large turkey with foil. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise!’ said Michelle, checking the oven temperature. ‘Chop, chop!’
Aishe watched Michelle put the bird in the oven. ‘Is that going to be ready in time?’
‘Don’t care!’ said Michelle. ‘Haven’t got time to care! Too stressed!’
‘Can I make a cranberry sauce?’ said Aishe, putting the finished sprouts to one side.
‘I don’t know!’ Michelle gazed at her, wildly. ‘Can you?’
Chad, Rosie on his hip, poked his head around the kitchen door. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Perfect!’ His wife beamed at him. ‘I’m making pumpkin pie!’
‘Really?’ said Chad dubiously.
‘Yes! It’ll be excellent!’
Chad hesitated. ‘I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?’
‘Yes!’ Michelle said. ‘Because we’re all absolutely fine!’
When he’d gone, Aishe got a bottle of Riesling out of the fridge, poured a glass and silently handed it to Michelle.
‘I also know how to make pumpkin pie,’ Aishe said.
‘Oh, thank God,’ said Michelle.
The front doorbell sounded. Michelle leapt, causing her wine to slosh in her glass. She then tilted back her head and downed the whole glass in one gulp.
‘Mercy!’ She gave her head a brisk shake. ‘Oh, well, here we go. Show time!’
Michelle knew Chad would leave her to get the door. But when she opened it, she didn’t know whose appearance startled her more. Lowell’s, or—
‘Benedict!’
‘Yeah, I found him in a gutter,’ Patrick explained as Michelle kissed Virginia and Lowell and ushered them all inside. ‘He was making one of those cardboard signs to hang round his neck.’
Benedict glowered. ‘It wasn’t that bad. I’m sorry to gate-crash,’ he said to Michelle. ‘I’ll be quite happy with bread and butter.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Michelle, under her breath. ‘It may come to that for all of us.’
She sent Patrick and Benedict off to the kitchen. And then came the part she’d been dreading. No point in delaying, she decided. She led Virginia and Lowell down the hall and flung open the living-room door.
‘Look, everyone! Look who’s here!’
‘Gin-Gin!’
Harry jumped up off the floor, where he and his father had been building yet another train track, ran to his grandmother and clamped himself around her legs.
‘Darling!’
To Michelle’s astonishment, Virginia sank down onto her knees, her eyes brimming with tears, and clutched Harry to her in a fierce embrace.
Oh, my Lord, thought Michelle. She’d missed them that much.
Heartbeat quickening, she girded herself to look at Chad. But he had eyes only for his father. Michelle saw that if there’d been any initial shock on Chad’s face, it had been replaced by an expression of such profound love and grief that she caught her breath.
Saying not a word, Chad got to his feet and enveloped his father in a crushing hug. Michelle had a moment of extreme anxiety that Lowell’s frail bones might snap under the pressure. But instead of diminishing, Lowell seemed to swell and straighten, and the arms that went around his son’s back were strong and sure.
It was only when Rosie, standing upright in her playpen, gave a shriek of protest at the lack of attention that Michelle realised her cheeks were damp. She swiped the tears away roughly and hurried over to scoop up her outraged small daughter.
She brought Rosie over to Virginia, who now had Harry in her arms. Rosie, seeing Harry within lunging distance, made a lightning grab for his hair.
‘No, you don’t, you little pill,’ said Michelle, swinging her out of reach. ‘And if you don’t behave, I will banish you to bed, you hear?’
Her daughter glared at her, but something in her mother’s tone must have registered, because she buried her head in Michelle’s shoulder and kept it there, making small, cross mewing sounds like a disgruntled cat who’d had the dead mouse it was playing with peremptorily removed.
Michelle watched Chad lead his father over to the couch and the two men sat knee to knee, talking in low voices. Looking back to her mother-in-law, Michelle observed that her arms were trembling a little under her grandson’s weight.
‘Put him down, Virginia,’ she said, ‘and take a seat yourself. You must be bushed.’
Virginia did not protest. But when Harry was on the floor and she in a chair, she frowned up at Michelle. ‘Don’t you need help in the kitchen?’
Michelle deposited Rosie back in her playpen, where she expressed her displeasure by smacking her Tickle Me Elmo and plush cow together as if they were Sumo wrestlers who’d been forced into a death match.
‘I think I have more help than I can handle,’ said Michelle with a smile.
Then she suddenly realised that Aishe might not be as pleased to see Benedict as she had been. She had a vision of the set of Global knives that had been a wedding present. Michelle had sliced through a whole chicken, bones and all, with one of those.
‘But perhaps I’d better go and check,’ said Michelle and hurried out.
She found Patrick leaning back in a chair at the kitchen table, swigging a bottle of beer. Gulliver, she noted, had a can of soda in front of him. The boy scowled as Michelle came in.
‘You said I could have a beer, didn’t you?’
Michelle made a face. ‘Well, I may have – what’s the word? Oh, yes. Lied. Sorry.’
Patrick chuckled at Gulliver’s outraged expression. ‘Life lesson number one,’ he said. ‘Shortly to be followed by lessons two to infinity.’
Michelle saw that Aishe was tipping cooked pumpkin into a food processor. Michelle was about to ask how she was getting on when she became aware of a certain rigidity in Aishe’s spine, which suggested that it would be prudent to leave her alone.
She moved over and bent closer to Patrick. ‘Where’s Benedict?’ she whispered.
‘Benedict?’ he said, making no attempt to keep his voice low. ‘He’s taking a shower. I told him it’d be OK.’ He raised his eyebrows in sudden doubt. ‘Was it?’
Michelle was filled with a rush of affection that she suspected was highly irrational. She decided not to give a damn, and bent and kissed Patrick soundly on the cheek. Then she laughed, because he blushed like a schoolboy.
‘Thanks for everything,’ said Michelle.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Patrick, gruffly. ‘Thanks for letting me mooch around. I’ve been here far too long.’ He glanced across at Gulliver. ‘Time to go home.’
Michelle frowned. ‘You have talked to your wife since you arrived, haven’t you?’
Patrick expression was the kind familiar to any woman who’s suggested a man may have forgotten to do something: stout denial overshadowed by desperate fabrication.
‘Course!’ he said. ‘I’ve texted her every day!’
That prompted even Aishe to turn around and exchange a look with Michelle.
‘Why is that bad?’ Gulliver caught the look and frowned. ‘I text girls all the time!’
Now Aishe looked at Patrick. ‘Are you sure boarding school wouldn’t be a better option?’
‘Christ, no.’
Benedict was in the doorway, hair damp, wearing clothes that couldn’t exactly be described as clean, but were no doubt less dirty than anything else he had.
‘The only way to stop a boy at boarding school thinking about sex,’ he said, ‘is to whack him constantly about the privates with a lacrosse stick. Actually, now I come to think of it, that would probably only make it worse.’
Michelle moved to the fridge. ‘Beer?’
‘Thanks.’ Benedict pulled out a chair at the table next to Gulliver. ‘What?’ he said, noting the boy’s expression.
‘Life lesson one,’ said Patrick.
‘Ah.’ Benedict took the beer from Michelle. ‘Let me guess. Life’s not fair?’
‘She promised me a beer,’ Gulliver said in a mutter.
‘She,’ said his mother, ‘still needs help in the kitchen. Potatoes.’ She pointed at the bag. ‘Peel them.’
‘So much for being a guest,’ said Gulliver, scraping back his chair extra slowly, to ensure his point was missed by no one.
‘No, I’ll do it.’ Benedict got to his feet. ‘I’m the interloper here.’
‘God!’ said Michelle, who’d just checked the time. ‘I’m panicking again! What do I need to do? Tell me! I’m blanking!’
‘Get the chestnuts out of the jar,’ said Aishe. ‘Dry them off.’
‘Chestnuts. Jar,’ said Michelle. ‘I can do that.’
The phone rang.
‘No-o!’ yelled Michelle. ‘Go away!’
But she snatched it up anyway. ‘What?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Darrell. ‘Bad time?’
‘Thanksgiving!’ said Michelle. ‘Food! Hordes! Panic!’
Then she said, ‘Where have you been?’
‘I can call back later?’ said Darrell.
‘No! It’s been eons! What’s happening? Spill!’
‘I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest condensed version now,’ said Darrell, ‘and the unexpurgated one later. OK?’
‘Yes! OK! Hurry up!’ Michelle clamped the phone between her jaw and her shoulder so she could wrest the lid off the jar of chestnuts.
‘OK,’ said Darrell. ‘I went back home to New Zealand, which you know. Very unhappy, which you also know. Anselo tracked me down and flew over to meet me. Quite a lot less unhappy. Then I introduced him to my parents—’
‘Poor lamb.’
‘I know! Then we went on a big trip all around New Zealand to recover.’
‘Camping?’ Michelle shoved the chestnut jar towards Patrick. ‘Can you get this freaking lid off?’
‘No, Anselo hates camping.’
‘Hello? He’s Romani!’
‘Still hates camping,’ said Darrell. ‘So then we came home. Then we got married! The end!’
Patrick offered Michelle the opened jar. Michelle waved it away impatiently and shifted the phone to her other ear.
‘Whoa! Back the truck up! You’re married!’
‘Yes!’
‘You got married without me being there?’
‘No one was there,’ said Darrell. ‘Except us two, of course. And the marrying lady. Oh, and the witness guy.’
‘That’s two other people who weren’t me!’ said Michelle. ‘You are a terrible best friend!’
‘If it’s any consolation, we’ve been threatened with excommunication from the family if we don’t have an enormous reception,’ said Darrell. ‘So, you can come to that.’
‘Hmph,’ said Michelle. Then she jumped. ‘Hey! What about—?’
‘The baby?’ said Darrell. ‘Still there. Shotgun wedding. And I won’t be able to drink at the reception, which is a huge bummer.’
‘Anselo must be ecstatic,’ said Michelle. ‘You really made him suffer, you know?’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Darrell. ‘Don’t talk about it. I’m in a happy bubble.’
Michelle heard what sounded like Anselo’s voice in the background.
‘You don’t happen to know where Aishe is, do you?’ said Darrell. ‘Anselo called her place, but there’s no answer.’
Michelle looked across. Benedict and Aishe, she observed, were working efficiently, but moving around the kitchen like two magnets with their wrong ends facing each other. Every time one came near, the other would slide off on a tangent.
‘She’s right here,’ said Michelle. ‘Aishe—’ She held out the phone. ‘It’s your brother.’
Aishe stared for a moment, then slowly wiped her hands on a dish towel before reaching out to take the receiver. After a quick glance around the room, she moved out into the hallway.
‘Hi,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Hi,’ said Anselo. There was a pause. ‘Um. How are you?’
She could not even begin to tell him, thought Aishe. So she said, ‘I gather you’re married. And that you’re going to be a father.’
‘Fuck,’ said her brother, with feeling. ‘When I hear those two things, especially the latter, I want to crawl into a foetal position. Is it meant to be this terrifying?’
Aishe had to smile.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘You’ll never feel completely safe ever again. But you know what?’ she added. ‘It’s all worth it.’