The reverberations of the phone call with Rebecca continued to slam through Dan over the next few days. He felt numb with shock, as if nothing touched him. He didn’t see or speak to anyone, just dazedly went and bought tins of cream emulsion and white gloss and set about repainting Zoe’s kitchen like a robot, every brushstroke a silent But why? in his head. Had it all been a massive wind-up? If so, why had Patrick let it get so out of hand? Why, when Dan lost his cool and pushed him away, didn’t Patrick own up, say that it was a stupid joke? Granted, it wouldn’t have been amusing, but at least they could have put the matter to bed, so to speak, rather than leave things festering. Rather than have Patrick stalking off alone into the night – towards his death, as it turned out.
He’d been in a weird mood all evening, though, come to think of it. Preoccupied and kind of brittle. He’d teased Dan about Tiggy, insisting that she must fancy him and vice versa, despite Dan demurring that Tiggy really wasn’t his type. ‘Ah, you won’t be saying that after dos cervezas, though, will you?’ he said, elbowing Dan. ‘Eh?’ Then Patrick’s phone had beeped with some message or other, after which his tone had changed abruptly. ‘Don’t listen to me, though, Dan. I’m a fuck-up, really. You go off and shag your way round the Andes while I just fuck it all up here.’
Patrick did get like this sometimes when he was drunk – Eeyorishly glum and prone to negative introspection – but Dan had just assumed he was wasted and hadn’t paid too much attention. Patrick’s life was the ideal after all: what did he have to complain about, really? Clearly something must have been going on in his head, though, for him to have come up with that whole story about Rebecca.
His thoughts returned to the phone call Patrick had been in the middle of when Dan arrived at the pub that night, how agitated his brother had seemed. Had Patrick been under some enormous strain that he wanted to talk about, but didn’t know how? Had his brash claims later on been a misguided cry for help?
Dan hated that there were still so many loose ends around his brother’s death, so many uncertainties. He hated not knowing what had happened to him that night, how Patrick had ended up in the river at all, and why. They’d all assumed it must have been a tragic accident – that or a violent mugging – but now Dan found himself wondering anew. What torments had Patrick been suffering that he hadn’t been able to speak about? Why had he acted so badly, so out of character?
I’m sorry, he texted Rebecca on Saturday morning, feeling a pang of remorse for his tirade. Sorry too that he had shown his true colours at the end of the phone call, with the nasty pay-off about her pregnancy. He had never thought of himself as a cruel person until now. Really sorry, Bex. I should have had more faith in you. Patrick must have made it up to hurt me – I don’t know why. That was my last conversation with him, so it’s been on my mind. Sorry I said those things to you. I’m a bit of a mess. Hope you are well and happy.
There. Humble and fulsome. She probably wouldn’t reply – maybe she’d even blocked him – but at least he had apologized. And painting the kitchen was proving to be soothing: a straightforward, fairly mindless task and another act of atonement for the tangle of events that had been Patrick’s end. Afterwards, yes, he was glad he’d bothered to put in the effort. He’d given the entire kitchen two coats of cream paint with white gloss for the woodwork, and it was, although he said so himself, one hell of an improvement. The walls gleamed in the April sunshine and the room felt lighter, brighter and a more hopeful place to be. Call it a new beginning, he thought, with a ripple of pride in his own work. A clean slate. Zoe would be delighted when she returned on Monday.
For the finishing touch, he went out to the supermarket and picked up bread and milk for them – thoughtful, he praised himself – as well as an Easter egg for each of the children, as a nice surprise. Then, because it only seemed fair, he chose an egg for Jemima too, feeling a strange tightening in his chest as he added it to the trio. Well, why not? She was family after all, this mystery little niece of his. And yes, okay, because he had been looking for a reason to get in touch with Lydia again since the night of Jonathan’s party. He had been unable to stop thinking about her; his memories vivid of the two of them dancing so wildly, the lurid cocktails they’d dared each other to try, and her body so close to his, the smell of her coconut shampoo. I have a horrible feeling I might have embarrassed myself last night – I blame those cocktails! Lydia had texted the morning after and he’d agonized over his response, wanting to be witty and charming in reply, yet ultimately feeling that he had to keep his distance. Great night! was all he wrote in the end, bland and nothingy. She hadn’t messaged again.
Still, at least he had an excuse to get in touch with her now, and it came wrapped in shiny foil. I have something for Jemima, he’d texted. If you’re working, I could drop it off at the shop?
Lydia had replied shortly afterwards: Week off! You could drop it round at the flat instead? – and then added her address.
So here he was now, parking outside her apartment block and walking up to the main door, his heart actually thumping, he realized, putting a hand to it as he pressed the bell. Was this really the good idea it had seemed, back when he’d stood there in front of the shelves of confectionery? Would Lydia answer the door, glance down at the Easter egg in his hands and give him a look that said, I see straight through you, mate? He’d never had a good poker face, frankly.
‘It’s Dan,’ he said, when he heard her voice over the intercom, then the door mechanism buzzed and he was able to push it open and walk in. Her flat was on the first floor, she’d said, so he went up the stairs, chocolate offering in hand. When he reached the landing she was standing in her open doorway, wearing a red dress patterned with blue birds of paradise, with her hair coiled up in two twists on either side of her head. The style made him think of Princess Leia, which was faintly erotic in itself.
‘Hi there,’ she said. Her feet were bare, the toenails painted pastel blue, he noticed. ‘Do you want to come in?’
‘Er . . .’ He hesitated, holding up the Easter egg. ‘I just wanted to drop this round, but—’ Why was he talking himself out of the invitation? ‘Yes please,’ he said, as a small pirate came barrelling up to him, complete with eye-patch and felt-tipped stubble. Jemima, presumably. Her upturned nose was the spit of Bea’s, he noticed. ‘Hello there,’ he said. ‘I mean – shiver me timbers, who in the name of Davy Jones is this terrifying pirate?’
She held up a bendy foam cutlass with impressive menace; unmistakably Patrick’s daughter, with her hard stare and sweeping dark eyelashes. The thought made him feel strange. ‘Arrrr!’ she growled.
‘Jemima’s going to a party later this afternoon,’ Lydia explained. ‘Get out of the way, love, let Dan come through the door. And watch that cutlass, will you – I don’t want you to stab anyone, let alone someone who’s turned up with a present.’
Jemima’s one visible eye lit up immediately. ‘Question: did somebody say . . . present?’ she asked.
‘Do you know, I think they did,’ Dan replied, finding it almost impossible to keep a straight face. On first impressions, this new niece of his was pretty adorable. He held up the Easter egg on his palm, as if tempting a pony with a sugar lump.
Jemima’s gaze swung from the Easter egg to her mother, then back to Dan. ‘For me?’ she asked, hopping from foot to foot.
‘For tomorrow,’ Lydia said. ‘From . . .’ She hesitated, caught Dan’s eye and then said, ‘From Uncle Dan.’
‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’ Jemima cried, bouncing up and down. Then she stopped and glanced suspiciously from Dan to her mum again. ‘Wait. Question: is he your new boyfriend or something?’
Dan almost choked at such an ambush of a question. ‘No!’ said Lydia, turning pink.
‘No,’ Dan agreed gruffly, hoping his face wasn’t betraying his feelings.
‘Hmm,’ said Jemima, apparently unconvinced. ‘Only Dylan at school said his mum is always bringing round these uncles and then they turn out to be her boyfriends.’ She swung her cutlass through the air, then whirled away down the hall. ‘Anyway, bye,’ she yelled over her shoulder. ‘Thank you!’
Lydia cleared her throat, rolling her eyes. ‘Sorry about that. She’s over-excited about the party and showing off. Um, did I offer you a coffee?’ She put a hand to her face. ‘I’m all flustered now. Why are kids so embarrassing?’
Dan laughed. ‘I think it’s in the job description. Coffee would be great, please.’
He followed her along a narrow hallway, painted bright pink and hung with photographs of Lydia and Jemima, as well as a Lego Batman poster and some splodgy finger-paintings. Through an open door on the left Dan caught sight of a cosy living room, with jade-green wallpaper patterned with palm leaves, a bookcase stuffed with paperbacks and a dark-purple sofa, heaped with cushions. A sewing machine and piles of fabric took up one table, along with an old-fashioned sewing box, a bit like his mum’s. Further on was a small modern kitchen with prints and postcards all over the walls, plants ranged along the windowsill and the sweet, heavy smell of syrup in the air. ‘We’ve been making flapjacks, sorry about the mess,’ Lydia said, flapping a hand at a pile of washing up by the sink. A tray of caramel-coloured oaty flapjacks sat cooling in a tin nearby. ‘Do you want one? They’re a bit gooey. Between you and me, I think my assistant was somewhat heavy-handed with the golden syrup.’
‘Yes please,’ he said, his gaze darting around the walls. Some of the things up there struck him as odd – why would anyone stick old dressmaking patterns on the wall? he wondered – but others told stories: a Good Spelling certificate on the fridge; aged black-and-white wedding photos, presumably of Lydia’s parents; and a large map of Sydney, with a small framed handwritten list beside it. Favourite places to take Lyddie, he read, feeling curious. Bronte Beach. Murphy’s Café. Rosie’s Threads . . .
‘So you’ve recovered from last Saturday then,’ Lydia said, cutting the flapjacks into rectangles.
Dan turned back from the list, feeling as if he’d been prying. ‘Yes, just about,’ he said. ‘The six o’clock emergency call from one of Patrick’s tenants the next morning was pretty sobering.’
‘Oh no, nightmare,’ she said, laughing in sympathy. She slid four flapjacks onto a plate. ‘Here – tuck in. I’ll make some coffee. Does that happen a lot, then? Emergency calls around the clock from irate residents?’
‘More often than you’d think,’ he replied, biting into the flapjack. ‘Oh, wow,’ he said, as its sweetness hit him. ‘These are good.’ His phone started ringing just then and he pulled it out of his pocket, only to see the words Pain In Arse on the screen. You are kidding me, he thought, trying not to grind his teeth in frustration. ‘Talking of which,’ he said, feeling certain that Rosemary would be phoning about some non-existent problem again, like the squeaking floorboards incident, and that it wouldn’t be unreasonable of him to ignore the call. But then he remembered how lonely she had seemed last time and sighed, knowing that he was a pushover. ‘Here’s one right now. Excuse me a minute.’ He swiped to answer it. ‘Hello?’
‘Daniel? It’s Rosemary Verlaine here. I’m ever so sorry to bother you at the weekend like this, but . . .’ Her voice quavered. ‘I’ve gone and fallen over and I’m finding it quite hard to get up again.’
His cynicism vanished at once. ‘Rosemary! Are you hurt? Should I call an ambulance?’
‘Heavens, no, I don’t want to make a fuss, only I tried ringing Alan – you know, my nephew – but he’s not picking up the phone. I think he said they were going to Marbella for the Easter weekend, you see, so he probably doesn’t want to hear from a silly old woman on his holidays, but . . .’
She sounded upset, tearful even; a different person from the charming, chatty Rosemary he knew from past visits. ‘I’ll come over,’ he said, before she had to ask. He’d have to go back to his flat and grab her keys from the box of Patrick-related stuff so that he could let himself in, he thought quickly. ‘I’ll be about forty minutes; can you hang on that long? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I called an ambulance – got someone to you sooner?’
He was dimly aware of Lydia looking anxiously at him, while Rosemary replied. ‘Thank you, Daniel, you’re very kind. No need for any bother with ambulances or anything. I’ve just slipped and bumped my head, but I’m not dying on the floor, I promise. Sorry to be so tiresome, dear, only I didn’t know who else to call.’
Dan sighed. His parents were like this too. Even when his mum had been seriously ill with pneumonia a few years ago, she’d fretted endlessly about ‘being a bother’ and ‘making a fuss’, and now Rosemary was doing the same. But if he rang an ambulance and they arrived before him, she wouldn’t be able to let them in, by the sound of it, and they’d have to break the door down. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ he promised.