Hey, Dan, read the back of the postcard. The front showed a manky-looking alpaca – or llama? – amidst tufty grass with mountains in the background. Bolivia is awesome! Went to Salar de Uyuni – tons of flamingos and mad cacti. Soaked in hot springs under moonlit sky necking singani (white grape brandy – lethal). Off to a national park somewhere tomorrow – apparently you can go sandboarding! And see jaguars! Love Tiggy x
It was hard to read the postcard without a stab of envy, but Dan contented himself with the fact that, as the Easter holidays progressed, entries on the Patrick spreadsheet were accumulating thick and fast. He dealt with a dodgy radiator and a broken light fitting for a couple of the tenants, and was delighted to hear there had already been several viewings on the Whitecliffe Road flat that he’d spent so long painting. ‘No takers yet, but there’s lots of interest,’ the estate agent oozed. After the success of the art trail with Ethan, he’d taken Bea for a bike ride the very next day, and promised Gabe that he would sort out another skateboarding session soon – solo this time. He also offered to babysit for Zoe on Friday night, for which she eagerly thanked him.
The goals he had set himself, the list of Patrick’s best qualities he had drawn up – great dad, loving husband, successful businessman – Dan was able to look at them now and think yes, he was filling the gap. He was stepping into the absence and being there when it counted. Not such a loser after all, he told himself with a nod of satisfaction.
In short, he was feeling – dare he say it? – pretty pleased with his own efforts as he parked outside his parents’ house on Thursday afternoon, ready for another shot at the casual drop-in. Caring son? Tick. This time he had come prepared with a bunch of flowers for his mum, a book he was lending his dad, and a load of photos on his phone to show them, of Bea on her bike from earlier on. She and he had spent quite some time beforehand decorating said bike to look like a unicorn and she had pedalled along, shouting, ‘Fly, Mirabelle, fly!’, which had been outrageously cute. He couldn’t help noticing people smiling and pointing out the unicorn-bike, plus its adorable rider, to one another. But then he found himself thinking about Jemima, Lydia’s daughter. Was she a unicorn-lover too, with a similarly rich imaginary interior life? Did she and Lydia go out for bike rides together? Was she exuberant like Bea or a more introverted type like Ethan?
The questions persisted all morning with no easy answers. Should he phone Lydia again? he wondered. Ask if he could meet Jemima? Maybe he could dig out some photos of Patrick for her, put a potted biography together, just so that when in the future Jemima asked – as she was sure to do – some serious questions about her dad, Lydia had something to show her. Besides, it would be an excuse to contact her once more, he thought eagerly, before remembering Zoe and immediately feeling disloyal. He sighed, knowing it would be a huge betrayal: of her and his own brother as well. What was he getting himself into here? Whose side was he on anyway? And yet doing nothing didn’t seem an option, either – it felt like the coward’s way out.
Arriving at his parents’ house, he was distracted from the dilemma when he noticed that the picture he hated of him and Patrick had been moved back to centre stage in the display once more. He slid it behind a large photo of the grandchildren while Liz went to put the flowers he’d brought in water, then sat there in the overheated living room being the dutiful son while she told him her news. He’d forgotten how long it could take her to tell a fairly boring story about some fairly boring people that he had never met, nor had any inclination to meet, but he did a passable job of looking interested and engaged all the same. Or so he thought anyway, but he must have drifted off for a moment or two because suddenly she flung her hands up, exclaiming, ‘You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?’
‘I am,’ he protested.
‘I know you’re not, because I just told you that Arthur next door got engaged to a golden retriever and you said, “That’s nice”.’ She folded her arms across her chest, eyeing him suspiciously. Liz Sheppard had always had a laser-like gaze, able to spot from a mile away the telling signs that a son was bunking off school, not eating his vegetables or keeping something from her. ‘He’s not engaged to anyone, by the way, least of all a dog,’ she clarified. ‘But now I’m wondering what’s going on with you, up there.’ She tapped the side of her head and gave him her most penetrating look. She wasn’t quite shining a bright torch into his eyes, but she might as well have been. ‘Go on, let’s hear it. What’s on your mind?’
‘Mum! It’s nothing.’ He really needed to work on his poker face.
‘Is it a girl? Is it? Only I was saying to your dad the other night, it would be nice if you could find someone new. Move on from Rebecca, once and for all.’ Then her lips clamped together with a guilty expression as if she had spoken out of turn.
‘What?’ asked Dan. ‘Why are you looking like that?’
‘Ah . . .’ Liz and Derek Sheppard had been together since they were sixteen and were of the generation that stubbornly insisted marriage was for life, however disappointing the relationship might turn out to be. She had never said as much, but Dan knew that she’d been deeply troubled by his divorce, seeing it as a failure of catastrophic proportions. ‘Well, now.’
‘Mum, just say it. What’s happened?’
Liz shifted slightly in her seat, folding her hands in her lap. ‘I bumped into her dad on the High Street last week, who told me she . . . well, she’s having a baby.’
There was a moment of silence as Dan remembered Rebecca’s last cryptic post on Facebook. Big day tomorrow! Presumably she’d been going for a scan or something. Not a job interview. He swallowed. ‘A baby.’ His stomach churned. How could she? he thought. How could she?
‘I don’t want children,’ she had told him, the last time he had broached the subject, some years after Gabe’s birth. In fact it must have been when Patrick announced that he and Zoe were expecting baby number three, when Dan’s feelings about fatherhood had become a permanent ache. It turned out that Rebecca hadn’t changed her mind on motherhood, though; far from it. ‘I just don’t want to be a mum,’ she’d said. ‘Sorry, Dan. But I think it looks really boring, to be honest. And bloody hard work.’
Dan had accepted her decision – you couldn’t force someone you loved to have a child they didn’t want, after all – but in private had felt devastated. Because seeing Patrick and Zoe with their children didn’t look boring at all to him. It looked really lovely. Joyful. Meaningful.
‘Must be strange for you,’ his mum said, her forensic stare now one of concern.
Strange – that was one word for it. Cheated – there was another. So maybe Rebecca had wanted kids all along, only not with him. Having a baby with hunky Rory was a far more appealing prospect, obviously. ‘Yes,’ he managed to croak, trying not to show how much it hurt. ‘Oh, well. Nothing to do with me any more.’
She wasn’t a touchy-feely sort of mum, Liz – she’d always been more inclined to whack her boys with a tea-towel, growing up, rather than shower them with displays of affection, but she reached over now and squeezed his hand, which was about as sentimental as she ever got. ‘There’s someone much better out there for you,’ she said. ‘I know it, Daniel. You’re a good lad, I’ve always said so. Our family has gone through a terrible time lately, but there are better days ahead, you wait. We’ll get there, eh?’
‘We will,’ he said, comforted by her uncharacteristic tenderness. Then he changed the subject. ‘Let me show you some photos of Bea, before I forget,’ he said, pulling out his phone. Seeing her face soften with fondness and love as she scrolled through the pictures, it dawned on him belatedly that she and his dad also stood to be greatly affected by the discovery of Lydia and Jemima. This was another grandchild for them to dote on, another piece of Patrick for them to love. Surely they’d want to know her, to fold her into the family? Wouldn’t it be wrong of him to deny them this?
He stared down at his knees, his thoughts in a tangle. Living with his secrets felt like being trapped inside a lie, betraying people he loved. But what was he supposed to do?
‘So whatever he says to the contrary, Gabe has to be in bed, lights out, the works, by nine o’clock at the absolute latest, okay? Otherwise he will be vile tomorrow and we’ll all know about it.’
‘I am deeply insulted,’ said the vile one, who was trying to balance a tennis ball on his head across the room.
‘Don’t worry, I have my cattle prod,’ said Dan. ‘I’ll make sure he gets enough beauty sleep.’
‘Hey,’ grumbled Gabe as the tennis ball fell off his head and rolled along the carpet. ‘I don’t need beauty sleep, actually. Yuck. Who wants to be beautiful?’
‘Ugly sleep then,’ said Zoe, pulling a face at Dan. She was having a rare girls’ night out with her friends and staying over at Clare’s, which she’d been looking forward to ever since Dan had offered his babysitting services. Putting on a proper face of make-up and spritzing herself with perfume had been surprisingly uplifting, but now that she was all dressed up and about to leave, she was having nervous flutters about the whole idea. There was a part of her that was desperate to drink cocktails and strut her stuff on a sticky dance floor, just let go and leave her grief at the door for one night – but there was a different part of her that was scared about doing so. Scared to be out in the bright lights, surrounded by people drunkenly having fun, when she was this bruised and damaged version of her old self, vulnerable to everything.
Besides, what sort of a look was it for a grieving widow to be dancing the night away? What did it say to the rest of the world: that she didn’t care? She was dreading bumping into one of the school mums, for instance, and having it whispered around the playground that she was a heartless bitch. Earlier that day she’d been back to the GP and confessed her worries aloud on this score, but Dr Gupta had been very clear. ‘You are still allowed to be happy even while you’re sad,’ she’d said firmly, looking Zoe straight in the eye. ‘In fact I really encourage you to find happiness whenever you can. It doesn’t demean or define your grief in any way. Quite the opposite. Moments of happiness will be what get you through this time and out the other side, okay? Now then.’ She’d steepled her fingers together, her gaze steady. ‘How about the therapy we discussed last time? Have you taken any steps to talk to a professional?’
‘Not yet,’ Zoe confessed, remembering how the booklet was still at the bottom of her handbag, where it had been stuffed two weeks ago.
‘I think it would help, if you can take that step. What have you got to lose?’
‘Anything else?’ Dan asked now, and Zoe jerked back to the present.
‘Um. No. I’ll be back by ten tomorrow morning. Any problems, check with Ethan first, then ring me. Bea will hopefully stay asleep now, but if she has a bad dream, try reading her a story in a slow voice. She might wet the bed – sorry – but if it’s the middle of the night, just grab a sleeping bag from the cupboard; let me show you—’
‘Don’t worry, I can manage,’ Dan interrupted, putting a hand on her arm as she made a move towards the stairs. ‘Honestly. It’s only a night. I’ll look after them. Go and have a good time.’
‘What if there’s a burglar?’ called Gabe, who was now trying to roll the tennis ball along his arm. He had been practising this all week, with the result that there had been a constant backdrop of small thudding sounds and disappointed groans coming from whichever room he happened to be in.
‘There won’t be any burglars, but if any are mad enough to try, we’ll water-pistol them out of your window,’ Dan replied, which earned a delighted ‘Cool!’ in response.
Zoe wished she wasn’t going at all now. Burglars, wet beds, over-excited children . . . There were too many things that could go wrong. Plus she was already having second thoughts about her dress; it was a clingy black number that clung a bit too tightly after all the crisps she’d been eating, and she’d just remembered that it had a habit of riding up her thighs. Also her roots were coming through where she hadn’t been to the hairdresser’s lately and . . . Oh, what was the point? She should stay home, she wasn’t ready for this.
‘They’ll be fine,’ Dan said, reading her expression. ‘Go on, shoo. Go wild, have fun and don’t come back tomorrow without a storming hangover at the very least.’
She smiled faintly. Sod it, she was only going out with her old uni friends; they wouldn’t care about her dress or her hair, she reminded herself. Also, if she ended up a mess, they would have her back, just as she’d have theirs. ‘Okay. Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll do my best. See you in the morning. Bye, boys. Be good!’
And then she was walking through the door with her overnight bag and breathing in the cool evening air. The street lights were gleaming smudgily through the darkness, she could smell the topnotes of amber from her perfume, and a frisson went through her suddenly at the sheer novelty of being out on her own at this time of night. It had been ages. Months. She could do this, she told herself, as she clutched her bag a little tighter and set off.
Several hours later Zoe was in a club called Market, slightly unsteady on her feet after necking too many Happy Hour bargain drinks. To her relief, the evening had been really fun so far. First, they’d had dinner in a Mexican restaurant, where everyone had swapped funny stories (even her!) and caught up on the gossip, and then, since arriving at the club, they’d been dancing like they were eighteen again, making up daft routines and pratting about. Dare she say it, she actually felt wonderfully normal again, as if she’d been allowed out of her misery prison for a brief carefree holiday. It was so good to lose herself in the music and dance! Now she was at the bar, still absent-mindedly swaying to the beat while she waited to be served.
‘You’ve got very sexy legs, darling,’ she heard, and turned to see that a man wearing a horrible fake-leather jacket had appeared beside her.
‘Pardon?’ she said. He had a sweaty face and his eyes kept flicking from side to side as if he was on something. Mid-forties, scrawny, weaselly-looking, she thought.
‘SEXY LEGS. YOU.’ He jabbed a finger at her. ‘YOU’VE GOT SEXY LEGS.’
Zoe stepped back because spit was flying in her face. ‘Oh, right. Thank you,’ she said automatically. Then she turned towards the bar, willing the barman to look at her and take her order, fast. Also wishing that she hadn’t just said thank you to the weasel, like it made any difference what he thought, like she was grateful.
‘Very sexy. Wouldn’t mind having those legs wrapped around me,’ he leered.
She ignored him. He wasn’t easy to put off, though, looming closer.
‘Oi. I’m talking to you. I said, I wouldn’t mind having those sexy—’
‘I heard what you said.’ She put her elbow down on the sticky bar, trying to establish a barrier between his space and hers, wishing he’d go away. Her fleeting joyfulness was in danger of evaporating. ‘But I’m not interested.’
He leaned against her shoulder; she could smell his gross sweet aftershave mingled with the stink of beer. ‘You’re not interested?’ he repeated. She wasn’t looking directly at him, but felt his mood change in the next instant. An angry exhalation, followed by: ‘Well, fuck you, then. No need to get up yourself, darling, I only said you had nice legs. Jesus Christ. Tight bitch.’
Once upon a time she might have been cowed by his nastiness, but life had been so dire recently that she no longer felt anything could touch her. You think that will upset me? Think again, mate. ‘I don’t give a shit what you think about my legs. It’s not your place to comment on them,’ she retaliated, but he wasn’t listening.
‘I gave you a compliment, and that’s all you can say: not interested?’ He was shouting now, full blast, spit raining everywhere. ‘When you’re dressed like that? Prick-tease, that’s what you are. All I’m trying to do is give you a compliment. Why do you have to be such a bitch?’
God, she hated it when men thought you owed them the goddamn world just because they had made some pervy comment about your body that you hadn’t even asked for in the first place. ‘I don’t want your compliments. Don’t you get it?’ she yelled back, suddenly furious. Out came all the anger she’d been squashing down since Patrick’s death, a torrent of hot rage. How dare he? ‘I’m not a bitch, I’m not a prick-tease, I’m having a night out with my friends. What part of that do you not understand? Four mojitos and a gin and tonic, please,’ she added frantically, seeing the barman glance her way.
‘Fucken’ bitch,’ said the man, but at least he staggered away from the bar and left her in peace, no doubt intending to latch straight onto some other woman, in the hope of a better reception. Ugh. Good riddance.
She felt her strength falter with the relief of his disappearance. Her hands trembled as her anger subsided and she had to grip the bar, tears prickling her eyes. It’s okay. You’re okay, she told herself. Don’t get upset about a waste of space like him. All the same, his whiplash flip to aggression had been horrible. She wanted to go home all of a sudden. Her skin was too thin for confrontation, and she felt bruised from the encounter. Plus her feet were killing her and the music was too loud. She wished she could transport herself to the safety of her sofa this minute, with the comfort of having her babies sleeping soundly mere metres away.
‘Four mojitos and a – what was it, a vodka tonic?’ the barman bellowed just then.
‘Gin and tonic, please,’ she replied, dabbing a tissue to her eyes and hoping her mascara hadn’t smeared. It was half-one in the morning, the latest she had (deliberately) been up for weeks, and she felt shattered. Gloom enveloped her as she replayed the unpleasant encounter in her head. Was this how it was going to be from now on, as a single woman? Dealing with disgusting idiots, with nobody waiting for her at home? She wondered if she would ever be held by a man again, ever feel that mutual spark of attraction, and decided probably not; she was destined to be loveless and alone from now on.
‘Hey! You okay?’ Clare goosed her from behind and Zoe jumped. ‘Having a good night? Oh, I love this tune!’ she cried before Zoe could answer.
‘Me too,’ said Zoe, trying to sniffle back her sadness and pay the barman at the same time. Deep breath. Forget the weasel. You were having fun before. Remember?
‘Really good to see you out and about, babe,’ Clare yelled. Her cropped fair hair was pulsing red and purple in the flashing lights, her lipstick had smudged. ‘Ooh, is that for me? Thanks! You all right?’
‘Yeah,’ said Zoe, doing her best to smile. Nobody liked a wet blanket on a night out, she reminded herself.
‘I’ll help you carry the drinks,’ Clare said, grabbing a couple of the glasses. ‘Then let’s get back on the dance floor!’
Zoe gulped in a breath. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts. ‘Right behind you,’ she said.