Alice rests the little postcard against the base of her bedside lamp and gazes at it. It is exquisite. A tiny pencil sketch of her and Romaine standing side by side with their arms around each other. They’d posed for him in the kitchen; it had taken him all of ten minutes, and he’d captured them exactly. Romaine’s extraordinary curls, the pudge of her wrists, the crooked ends of her smile. And Alice’s long legs, the way her hair springs back off her hairline, the tired glamour of her face. But mostly what he’d captured was the love between the two of them. The matiness. Because Romaine was very much her buddy. They lived life at the same rhythm; they danced to the same beat. If Romaine were thirty years older and not her kid, they’d probably be best friends. And that was what poured out of Frank’s lovely drawing. Alice and Romaine. BFFs.
He’d spent the evening with them, wedged between Romaine and Kai on the sofa watching fifty greatest something or others on Channel Five. But by the time Alice had come downstairs from putting Romaine to bed (far too late, as always), Frank had gone to bed. The little postcard was all that had remained of him, and a small scrawled note that said: ‘Off to bed. School night! See you in the morning.’
She’d felt both deflated and relieved. Of course he must sleep in his own bed tonight. Had she not just this morning made up her bed with man-repelling Monsoon Home cushions? But equally she’s aching for him. She picks up the card and traces her fingertip over the pencil markings. He’s made her look beautiful. Willowy and hollow-cheeked with a piercing gaze. Is that how he sees her? she wonders. Not a badger-haired housewife with a spare tyre and dark circles around her eyes? But a woman who could give Catherine Deneuve a run for her money?
She sighs and looks behind her, imagining Frank in her shed, on his bed. Possibly naked. Then she imagines that same bed tomorrow night, empty, the shed cold and locked. Life returning to normal. Who knew how long it would be before she would hold a man’s body again? What were the chances of a single mum of three living in a small seaside town miles from anywhere, who left the house only to chase dogs around a beach and stand outside schools, meeting a half-decent man who wanted to have sex with her ever again?
She makes it as far as the back door before sanity reclaims her. She lets her hand drop from the door handle and takes a deep breath.
Kai appears behind her as she turns round.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she says.
‘What you doing?’
‘Just locking up,’ she says. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Nothing. Just getting some water.’
He pours himself a glass from the tap.
‘You all right?’ he says, turning to appraise her.
‘Yeah. I’m fine.’
‘You seem . . .’ His eyes trace a thoughtful arc across the room, then zoom back to her. ‘A bit mad.’
She laughs. ‘Mad?’
‘Yeah. I mean, not, like, crazy mad. Just a bit distracted.’ He looks towards the courtyard. ‘Is it him?’
‘Him?’
‘Yes. You know. All this lost-memory stuff. Having to deal with it?’
‘Well, yeah. I suppose, a bit. It’s been strange, hasn’t it? Having him around. But’ – she steps towards her son and wraps her hand around the back of his neck – ‘this time tomorrow it will be over. He’ll be gone. Life will go back to normal.’
‘Do you want that?’
She looks at him sharply.
‘Do you want things to go back to normal?’
‘I suppose. I mean—’
‘I like him,’ he cuts in. ‘If it turned out that he wasn’t a murderer. You know. Or even if he was.’ He laughs.
‘Oh,’ says Alice. ‘Good.’
‘Night, Mum.’ He gives her a bear hug. ‘Love you.’
‘I love you, too, baby.’ She kisses his cheek and he smiles at her and then he’s gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen with the buzzing fridge and the darkness and the dogs.