‘You must have had your doubts too, Issy.’ Stupidly, I thought she would agree with me.
‘Don’t expect me to make this easier for you, Henry. You see the thing is, I do love you. Very much, as it happens. And I thought we had fireworks.’
I felt ten stone heavier. Her arms were folded tightly around her. What could I say to make it better?
‘I’m so sorry, Isabelle. I truly am. I never wanted to hurt you.’
She said nothing; wouldn’t even meet my eyes.
‘I feel terrible,’ I said.
‘You feel terrible? Try being dumped on the doorstep by your fiancée before we even had a chance to pick out a ring! This must be some kind of record.’
Nothing I said was coming out right.
‘You’re better off without me.’
‘Finally, something we can agree on.’
With that, she walked back inside and slammed the door in my face. I buried my face in my hands and hardly noticed when the door opened again.
‘And here is all your shit,’ she said, handing me a black plastic bag. ‘I hope she’s worth it.’ The door slammed again.
It was late by the time I returned home. There was scaffolding on the house next door, which, in the evening sunlight, made it look as though it were trapped in a gilded cage. I walked up our driveway and noticed an e-bike parked where my mother’s old VW Golf used to be. I turned my key in the door and was hit by the welcome scent of a roast chicken giving me an appetite for food that I thought I would never have again. Not after talking to Isabelle. I never felt more unsure of who I was, and that was saying something – for a man who lived his entire life in the shadow of other people’s opinions. I felt empty.
‘Henry!’ my mother exclaimed from the kitchen, rushing into the hallway. She held me in a tight embrace and I found myself absently wondering why she was wearing a long white shirt covered in paint and a bandana in her hair. She was normally a pearls-and-twin-set type of person, keeping up the illusion that we still had money and that my father had not drunk it all.
‘You look different,’ I said.
‘I’ve taken up life drawing! Annie next door goes to a class every Thursday and—’
‘It’s just so they can perv over young naked models,’ came the unmistakable monotone voice of my sister. She and her husband, Neil, thumped their heavy Doc Martens boots down the stairs.
‘Oh, Lucinda, honestly!’ my mother cried, rolling her eyes in mock offence.
My sister’s eyes were rimmed with black liner and while her jet-black hair reached almost to her lower back, she had cut her fringe in a very definite hard line that gave her a stern look. We all made an obstacle course out of getting ourselves from the hall into the kitchen. It was awkward but familiar and I was glad of that.
‘Why didn’t you say you were coming home? A phone call would have been nice,’ Mum said, putting on some oven gloves and bending down to take out the chicken and roast potatoes. I set the table while Lucinda and Neil carried on kissing each other as though we weren’t there.
‘It was a last-minute thing.’
‘A surprise for Isabelle?’
I let the sound of plates and cutlery drown out whatever useless response I was attempting to conjure to that.
‘Isabelle and I were a mistake,’ I said eventually, having realised this for the first time. ‘We both knew it. It’s better this way.’ There. No room for debate.
My mother stood like a statue for a moment, her mouth shaped in an ‘o’.
‘You young people today,’ my sister said, punching my arm and slightly rescuing the situation.
‘Gosh, you are incredibly pregnant,’ I said, noticing the size of her bump.
‘Yep, she really ballooned out these last couple of weeks,’ Neil agreed, earning himself a kick on the shin.
‘I’m not due for another fortnight,’ she groaned, but it looked as though Neil was the one suffering.
Over dinner, I listened as they chatted animatedly about plans for the future and I realised that, during my short absence, things had changed at home. And for the better. My mother had become something of an eco-warrior slash militant cyclist and Lucinda seemed, well, happy.
‘So, what was Ireland like?’ Neil asked, his dark eyes peeping through a heavily back-combed mop of hair. ‘Lu said you were researching an old bookshop. Sounds cool.’
I finished my last slug of wine before answering.
‘It’s proving elusive. But I may have found something else of interest,’ I said, the smile forming on my lips.
‘What?’ my mother said, cutting the Viennetta into slices at the worktop. She loved a classic dessert.
‘I’ve met someone. In Ireland. I’m going back as soon as I can get a flight.’
All of their faces turned towards me. I couldn’t quite believe I’d said it. But that’s how certain I was.
‘Are you seriously leaving the country so you won’t have to change a nappy?’ my sister asked, slack-jawed.
‘Bit extreme, mate,’ Neil chimed in.
Mother cut another chunk of Viennetta. She decided this was a subject she alone should tackle.
‘Henry, sweetheart, I know you were something of a late developer, but I don’t want you turning into some kind of Lothario.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. If only she knew.
‘So you just came back to see Isabelle. What about Dad?’
Lucinda had always been his champion. She’d somehow managed to miss the worst of his drinking and he’d never taken his moods out on her.
‘What about him?’
‘Aren’t you going to visit him? He’s been asking about you.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Of course,’ she said, then flashed a look at my mother.
‘You too?’ I asked.
She shook her head.
‘No. I’m moving on with my life. I have to put my own needs first now. You are both grown-ups and can make your own decisions. He’ll always be your father, Henry, but it’s up to you.’
If it had been up to me, he would have been a better father. It was never up to me. It was up to him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
OPALINE
England, 1922
I awoke the next morning to the sound of a milk truck making deliveries. The daylight had barely begun to breach the dusky pink curtains, but I could make out the line of his shoulder and his dark mop of hair on the pillow. Armand slept so soundly, it made me question my constant self-doubt. I doubted myself, my choices, my desires and my abilities all of the time. Oh, to be a man who is always sure of himself! And sure of his place in the world.