“Cheers, son,” Mark says as Jake picks up his empty dinner plate from the table beside his armchair and adds it to the pile of dirty dishes he’s carrying.
Kira follows in Jake’s wake, collecting the glasses before they both disappear through the living room door. Thirty seconds later I hear the clunk of the dishwasher door being pulled open and the clash-clang of plates, glasses and saucepans being roughly stacked. Since Mark and Jake’s argument they’ve pretty much avoided each other. They’ve been cordial but any warmth between them has gone.
“Good dinner, love,” Mark says as the stairs creak under the weight of Jake and Kira’s steps as they disappear up to their bedroom.
I wait until the sound of footsteps on the landing fades away before I speak.
“Mark?”
He grunts in reply. Neither of us has mentioned the fact that I went to Wilkinson & Son earlier today. When he got in from work I was peeling veg in the kitchen. He gave me a perfunctory kiss on the forehead and then, just as I was about to tell him about my day, he went upstairs to get changed. We haven’t had a moment alone since.
“I heard back from the doctor’s today.”
His eyes remain fixed on the flickering screen directly in front of him. “Did you?”
“The test results are back. From my blackout.”
The program he’s watching freezes onscreen as he hits the pause button. “Oh?”
“The receptionist couldn’t tell me whether they’re good or bad, just that I need to discuss them with the doctor. And I’ve got to wait until next week for an appointment.”
“Next week? Bloody hell. Well, it can’t be anything serious. I’m sure they’d see you quicker than that if it was something to worry about.” He studies my face. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”
“I’m scared it’ll happen again.”
“Oh, love.” He grunts as he pushes himself up and out of his armchair. I half-rise, hoping he’ll give me a hug. Instead he slumps onto the sofa beside me and rests a heavy hand on my knee. “You haven’t said anything about it so I assumed you were coping.”
I almost smile. It won’t have crossed his mind to ask me how I feel about what happened. Once the A&E doctor gave me the all-clear and Mark realized I was in no immediate danger he filed the experience away in a box in his head marked Claire amnesia episode and then went to work the next day. Because I haven’t mentioned it since there’s been no need for him to reopen the box. It must be so nice to live in his black-and-white world where you only have to react when people tell you there’s something to react to, when you don’t spend your whole life second-guessing how the people you love feel.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You should have said something.” He tightens his grip on my knee. “I do care, Claire. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I place my hand over Mark’s and meet his gaze. He doesn’t look away and, as the TV glows in the corner of the room, something—sadness, hope, regret, I can’t be sure—swells in my chest. I used to be able to read Mark’s emotions as though they were my own but I have no idea what is going on behind his eyes. All I can see is my own concerned face reflected back at me.
“Can I talk to you about something else?” I ask.
He tenses. He thinks I’m going to mention Stephen. I can just tell.
“Can you make things up with Jake? Please.”
His hand slips from my knee and he leans back into the sofa. “Do we have to do this now? I’ve had a hell of a day at work and I just want to relax.”
“But he’s not happy, Mark. We had a chat the other day, in the garage. He’s worried about his relationship with Kira and I know he’s hurt by the things you said last week.”
“Jake’s hurt?” He shifts across the sofa and angles himself toward me. “Seriously, Claire? He gets drunk and causes a scene at the press conference and you’re having a go at me? What did you expect me to do—pat him on the back?”
“We could have handled it differently. Instead of flying off the handle we could have—”
“Done what? Sat down and had a nice chat? Taken him to a counselor? Because that worked out well for you, didn’t it? You stopped going after three weeks.”
“Why are you having a go at me, all of a sudden?”
“Because you’re the one that’s brought it up! Jake is a nineteen-year-old man, Claire. He’s not a kid. I’m not going to mollycoddle him. He needs to hear it how it is.”
“You squared up to him. You goaded him. And you’re supposed to be the parent. You’re supposed to—”
“Don’t tell me what I’m supposed to do!” He leaps off the sofa and glares down at me.
“All I’m saying is that, if you’d have listened to me in the first place—if you toned it down instead of exploding whenever you get angry—then we wouldn’t be in this position.”
“What position?”
“Billy wouldn’t be missing.”
Mark freezes, hands still clenched at his sides, eyes fixed on mine, his lips moist with saliva. It’s as though someone has pressed pause on our argument.
“I’m sorry.” I can’t get the words out fast enough. “I didn’t mean it. I was angry. I’m not saying it was your fault. Mark! Mark!”
I continue to shout his name as he walks out of the room. Seconds later I hear the back door slam.