Gigi

Oliver had phoned the night before and invited himself to lunch after a visit to his grandfather, requesting his favourite salad and offering to bring dessert. The salad was modelled on something they’d ordered almost daily on a holiday to the Amalfi coast, years ago, when Megan had still needed a buggy and the boys had exhausted themselves running up and down the steps in Positano: farro, and tomatoes and basil, with Parmesan.

Gigi had countered that James was also due a visit from her, and that she’d meet Olly there and they’d drive back to hers in tandem. She’d been out early to shop for food; made and refrigerated the salad, and laid the table, stepping back to admire the white linen cloth and two fat peonies in a small Ikea tealight glass. It all looked fresh and modern and pleasing. She loved that about the flat. That magazine look she’d never managed to achieve anywhere else.

Sometimes, when she considered her domestic renaissance, she had the fleeting, worrisome thought that she might have achieved the same relief leaving Richard had given her if she’d just painted the whole of the old house in Farrow and Ball Skylight and smashed all her old, dated china so she could replace it with Sophie Conran. Maybe she was that shallow.

At Clearview, James had been the same. Not worse and not better. Present-ish. Happy enough. Olly had been jumpy. Turned to look every time the door to the day room opened. Only half paying attention to his mother’s conversation with his grandfather, interjecting just slightly off topic, a beat too slow.

She’d stuck her head in on Iris, when they were leaving, but she was asleep and Tess wasn’t there. Gigi was glad. She should be somewhere else on a Saturday morning, that lovely girl. Not hiding from the world in here.

Adam was in the front garden when their two cars pulled into the drive. Gigi swore softly under her breath. He was wearing gardening gloves, scruffy jeans and a shirt buttoned up just one button out, so the hem hung unevenly and his collar gaped slightly. He was pruning and weeding – the brown wheelie bin was open next to him. He looked up with a smile when Gigi parked, and then looked momentarily confused by Oliver. He wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve and stepped out of the flowerbed, pulling off his gardening gloves.

‘Hello.’

Oliver proffered his hand and Adam took it, shaking it warmly. ‘I’m Adam.’

‘I thought so. I’m Oliver. Gigi’s son.’

‘Good to meet you.’

‘You too. Hard at it?’

‘Not really. Staying on top of it is what I go for, when it comes to gardening. My wife had the green thumb …’

It was a stark and odd sentence, presupposing knowledge on Oliver’s behalf that he didn’t have. Oliver didn’t really know how to respond, and Gigi didn’t know how to rescue the encounter.

‘We’ve been to see Oliver’s grandfather.’

Adam nodded, smiled sympathetically. ‘How is he doing?’ Gigi saw Oliver notice that Adam did possess knowledge about Gigi and her life, and cursed quietly again to herself.

‘He was okay, today. Thanks.’

‘That’s good.’ The moment when Adam ought to have turned back to his task came and went. Oliver was now regarding him with real curiosity. Of course. She ought to have known that he’d sense something.

‘We’re just going to go up, then …’ She started towards her entrance.

‘I’ve been promised lunch.’ Oliver smiled. For a ghastly moment, Gigi thought Oliver was going to ask if there was enough for Adam, ask if he’d like to join them, but he didn’t.

Adam turned, then, raising an arm in goodbye. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said again. ‘Enjoy your lunch.’

‘What’s his story?’

Gigi had wittered once they’d got into the flat, attempting, she supposed, to distract him. He’d uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, admired the peonies and taken off his jacket, making himself comfortable in the armchair while she took things out of the fridge. But then he’d asked.

‘He’s a really nice man, Ol. He was widowed. A few years ago now. I think.’ She felt such a fraud adding the ‘I think’.

She badly didn’t want to tell Oliver about Adam. And she wasn’t quite sure why. She was closest to him of all her children. Apart from Em, he was the most understanding, she knew, the most compassionate about what had gone on between her and Richard.

She wasn’t embarrassed. Or ashamed. Was she? He was the least judgemental of her kids, too.

Maybe she already knew it was over. Maybe that was why.

Oliver looked at her speculatively. Like he was deciding which direction to head in. Made his mind up.

‘He seemed really nice.’ Then, ‘Now, where’s that salad you promised me? I am starving.’