Coming Home (31 page)

‘Hey, Evie,’ he said, as he let me in. ‘Good to see you.’ He slid his arms around me and kissed me slowly and deeply, as if I were a rare delicacy he was savouring. His kitchen table was covered in photographs and mountings—he’d been mounting up his swan shoot. I noticed but didn’t absorb the fact that his pictures were stunning. I pulled away. Our eyes met and I could see the question in his: why are you here? What have you come for?

‘You won’t believe what happened today,’ I said. ‘I went up to Warwick. I saw Tom again.’

‘Wow. How did it go?’

‘I had to listen to him telling me what a great father Dad was.’

‘And that’s a problem because?’

‘Well, you know how he practically ignored me after the accident?’ Luca nodded. ‘Well, all the stuff he never did with me, he did with Tom. Homework. Stories. Bike-riding.’ Luca raised one eyebrow. ‘All that stuff.’

‘Oh.’

‘Anyway. What’s done is done. I made my peace with
him. I’m glad I saw him again. We talked about our new “sibling”. I just can’t believe there’s going to be three of us. He wants me to see his mum but, apart from that, I think all the worst is over now. There can’t be any more secrets, can there!’ I threw my hands in the air and walked to the patio doors. ‘Can we go out? Onto your terrace? I really need some fresh air.’

‘Sure … but hold on,’ said Luca. ‘Have you eaten? I don’t know about you, but I could eat a horse. Why don’t you make yourself at home while I run down and grab something for supper?’

I sank, suddenly feeling drained, onto his sofa, while he nipped down to Tesco Metro. He burst back into the apartment, plastic bags rustling and pulled out chicken breasts, a jar of
tikka masala
sauce and a bottle of wine.

‘Gourmet, it ain’t,’ he said, opening the wine and handing me a glass, ‘but it should fill a gap, and I think I’ve got some rice somewhere.’ While he chopped an onion, got the chicken sizzling in the pan and put on the rice, I talked him through the conversation I’d had with Tom.

‘I’m really proud of you for going,’ he said. ‘I think it’s great if you two can pull something positive from all this mess.’

We ate outside. Luca got us each a fleece and moved his small kitchen table onto the terrace. We ate with the sounds of Woodside below us and the moon and stars above us. I loved that he’d cooked; I loved eating outside. After we’d eaten, Luca took my hand and led me to his bedroom.

‘Leave it,’ he said, nodding to the table, the dishes. Maybe it was the wine, maybe the emotion of the day but, ultimately, Luca was charming, I was tipsy and, well, I do believe I was finally over James.

I
woke the next morning and forgot, for a minute, where I was. The room was distinctly lacking in flowery wallpaper, for a start, and the bed sheets were charcoal grey. Early morning sunshine dripped lazily through the slats of a set of unfamiliar white shutters, and I realised that I was naked.

Slowly, I ran through events of the day before. The Dirty Duck. Tom. Luca. Oh yes, Luca. I could hear him clattering about in the kitchen. I squirmed in embarrassment. Sex with Luca had seemed like a good idea last night, even when he’d stopped to double-check—‘Are you sure this is what you want, Evie?’—and it had been great. But in the bright light of day I couldn’t help wondering if I’d been a bit of a fool.

Before I had a chance to locate yesterday’s knickers and drag a brush through my hair, Luca appeared with a mug in his hand and a local property magazine tucked under his arm. I smiled when I saw it: was he trying to tell me something?

‘Here you go,’ he said, placing both on the bedside table next to me. He was wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt. I liked his bed hair. ‘How are you feeling?’

Suddenly shy was how I was feeling, but I didn’t want to admit it. ‘Great,’ I tried, making sure I was covered entirely by the duvet.

‘Right, drink up,’ he said brightly, ‘then I’m taking you out for breakfast.’

He left the room, then popped his head back around the door, smiling cheekily. ‘By the way, Evie? Um … do you think you could get used to this?’

Luca slipped his arm around me and pulled me close to him as we stepped out of his building into crisp, morning air that hit my brain like an excess of wasabi. The sky was so blue it could have been a summer’s day, but it was so cold our breath came out in dragon puffs. Bundled up in coats and gloves, we walked to the shops near the station in silence. Luca strode out confidently and I wondered what he was thinking—most likely about what he was going to have for breakfast.

Myself, I was wondering how the pavement, the cars, the trees and the grass verges could continue to look the same when my life had changed so much. I hadn’t done a good job of processing my thoughts, of filing them neatly.

In the space of a few weeks, I’d gone from being Evie-who-lives-in-Dubai—a fact that had previously defined me—to Evie-who-has-no-dad-a-brother-and-quite-possibly-a-slightly-mad-mother, not to mention Evie-who-appears-to-be-sleeping-with-her-ex. I didn’t want to let myself believe that Luca saw it as anything more than a fling for
old times’ sake, but I couldn’t suppress the little jig of hope that had started fluttering in my belly. I saw now that James had never been right for me. Luca made me feel so good about myself—we got on so well. Could we make it work? Should we even try? Could I move back to England? As we trudged up the hill, my emotions swirled. Was I jumping the gun to even think about a future with Luca?

‘I just need to go to the ATM,’ I told Luca when we reached the shops. ‘Why don’t you go ahead?’

He was waiting at a table in Caffè Nero when I got there—a lone young man amid a sea of latte-sipping, blue-rinsed old ladies. My lover. His film-star looks were lost neither on me nor on the grannies.

He’d ordered me a cappuccino and brought over a couple of newspapers. ‘I didn’t know what you wanted, but thought you could start with this,’ he said. I sat down and took a sip, waiting for that first hit of caffeine.

‘So,’ said Luca.

I suppose it was testament to how well we knew each other that the one word could hold so much nuance. It encompassed everything that had happened last night, everything that had happened in our lives to date; the way our lives had entwined, separated and joined back together. It was a word that took in and embraced all that could be said about Luca and me, and a slight upward inflection made me realise that, for him, too, it also contained more than a fragment of hope.

‘So,’ I said in return, my one syllable packed with question marks, hesitations, hope and also with love.

He squeezed my hand and smiled.

‘Let me buy you a butty,’ I said, squeezing back.

After breakfast, I trudged up the road towards Mum’s, my body weary, my face bare of make-up, my hair gathered messily in a clip. A second coffee and a couple of painkillers had diminished the grip of my hangover, but I still had a hollow feeling from drinking too much and sleeping badly in an unfamiliar bed. My clothes smelt faintly of the curry and onions Luca had cooked, even though I’d stolen a squirt or two of his citrus aftershave.

It’d been many years since I’d done the ‘walk of shame’ and I was glad no one was around to care. Mum knew, obviously, where I’d been. I’d had to leave a note for her so she didn’t worry and I hadn’t had the mental capacity yesterday to lie. I was dreading her reaction to the news that I’d presumably got it on with Luca. She’d probably been choosing a hat and planning my wedding all morning. I was going to have to face her joyous reaction this morning and, on top of the remnants of my hangover, the thought made me feel sick.

My steps slowed as I neared the house. I rummaged in my bag for my keys as I turned into the driveway, my feet scrunching into the gravel. But I saw with a jolt that I wouldn’t be needing them: Mum was standing on the doorstep, chatting with Richard. I stopped in my tracks. Mum looked at me. Richard looked at Mum. I looked from Mum to Richard and back again. There was something
about the way they looked. Guilt hung in the air above them.

‘Richard just brought me the paper,’ said Mum, with a smile, and it was then that I knew what I’d suspected all along.

‘How long?’ I asked. ‘Just how long has this been going on? A week? A year? Five years?’

‘Oh, Evie,’ said Mum. Richard looked at the gravel.

‘I asked you—I asked you both!—and you denied it. How long?’

‘Evie. It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all. Please don’t get the wrong idea.’ She sighed. ‘He’s just … it’s just that your father was never here. Richard’s been here for me. You have to understand that. After yesterday.’ Her words came out in a rush.

Richard took a step towards me. ‘Evie, I …’

‘Save it,’ I said, holding a hand up. ‘It’s just more secrets! More lies!’ I was shouting now, bags of pent-up anger coming out. I slapped my forehead theatrically. ‘Why am I not surprised? You could have just told me! You could have told me! After all we’ve been through!’ Tears threatened and I shoved past the two of them into the porch. ‘But it’s just more lies. Lies, lies, lies! When’s it going to stop, Mum? I’m an adult, for God’s sake! Look at me! I’m twenty-eight bloody years old! When are you going to stop lying to me?’ I slammed the door in their faces.

A
long, hot shower took the edge off my temper and, an hour later—without saying a word to Mum, who had somehow got back into the house—I took the bus to Bromley. While I didn’t know the town that well, I knew where Café Rouge was, which is why I’d suggested it to Zoe as a place we could meet. There was a pleasant enough café in Woodside High Street, but it was too close to home. I got there ten minutes early and Zoe wasn’t there. Like a dog making its bed for the night, I moved tables three times before settling on one facing the door, but tucked to the side, so we could talk privately without interruption from passing traffic. But then I felt sick. Apologising to the waitress, I stepped back out, walking quickly away from the café. I stopped outside a jewellery shop across the way and about thirty metres down, and, under the guise of looking in the shop window, I watched the entrance of the café.

Although I was nervous, I also wanted to know who she was, this woman who’d seduced my father, stolen his heart. What had he seen in her? Aside from her youth, what had Zoe had that Mum had not?

From my post at the jeweller’s, I saw her arrive. She was wearing brown boots, dark-blue jeans and a brown pea coat with the same ice-blue scarf she’d worn to the funeral. She didn’t look like an adulteress, a husband stealer. She looked nice, like someone with whom, in another life, I might have been friends.

I walked slowly over to the café, my hands fidgeting in my coat pockets. I flipped my hair and took a deep breath before pushing open the door.

‘Oh hello again!’ said the waitress. ‘Back so soon?’

Zoe saw me at once and stood up. She’d sat at the same table I’d chosen, in the same seat facing the door. She smiled welcomingly at me. Her complexion was clear, glowing; her teeth white and even; her eyes bright; her smile open. Her shiny, dark hair hung loose, a strand falling over one eye. I walked towards her, aware of the sound my heels made on the wooden floorboards. I felt like I was walking the plank.

‘Hello, Evie,’ said Zoe, standing to greet me. She looked me up and down, a warm smile lighting up her face. ‘At last. At last I get to meet you. And look at you, so beautiful. Photos don’t do you credit. No wonder your father was so proud.’ She put her arm around behind me to guide me to my chair and I caught the fragrance of her, of her skin, her hair—it was soft, powdery, clean, wholesome. An image of Dad holding her, loving her, flitted into my head.

Silently, I took off my coat, hung it over the back of the chair, and sat down.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Zoe said. ‘I really appreciate it. I’ve wanted to meet you for so long.’

I tried to imagine what she’d looked like twenty years ago. How old would she have been—twenty-two? Was she skinny then? Pretty? All legs, eyes and cheekbones? It was hard to imagine. Today, in the jeans and a sweater, she looked neat, tidy, a little curvy.

‘I’m very sorry about your father,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’ It struck me that she’d loved Dad, too; that she, too, had lost a loved one. ‘Bit of a shock, wasn’t it?’

‘Well, yes …’

‘You sound unsure?’

‘Oh, it’s just that … well, I’m probably wrong.’ Zoe shifted awkwardly in her seat and fiddled with the ring on her wedding finger. ‘But, well, I wondered if he’d had some sort of premonition beforehand.’

I leaned forward. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, don’t mind me. It’s nothing.’

‘No—go on.’

Zoe sighed. ‘Look, this probably sounds mad, but he deposited some money in my account just before he died. Quite a lot. It was unexpected and he didn’t say what it was for. He just put it there. And then he died. I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t know why he did it.’ Zoe rubbed her hand over her face.

‘Maybe just a coincidence,’ I said.

‘But you know he paid maintenance for Tom?’

‘Yes. A thousand a month in recent years. I worked that one out myself.’

‘Well, since we’re talking figures, it was £22,000 and I realised that there were twenty-two months until Tom
turned twenty-one. And, at twenty-one, his trust fund kicks in. Coincidence?’ She stared at the table, her face clouded, then she looked up and smiled, the sunniness back. ‘Oh ignore me,’ she said. ‘I’m not getting enough sleep at the moment. What would you like? Let me call the waitress.’ She turned around and waved.

‘It was heart failure,’ I said, eyes fixed on the menu. ‘He couldn’t have known.’

‘Yes. Exactly. I told you—I’m not sleeping well at the moment. Going mad!’

‘Did you know he had a biopsy for cancer?’

Zoe’s breath caught. ‘What?’

‘He hadn’t told you? He’d had tests for prostate cancer. They were waiting to hear how advanced it was.’ I shrugged, as if it were a secret to which I’d been privy. I enjoyed wrong-footing her.

Zoe’s face had paled. ‘He hadn’t mentioned it. Are you sure?’