‘I’d like that. So you’re still acting, are you?’
‘Marcus, that was four years ago.’ He used to know exactly what was happening in her life. She’s about to gently take the piss out of him for forgetting, but his brow knits, he’s confused, he can’t make sense of his thoughts. It must be the anniversary getting to him. She tries to lighten his mood. ‘You’re just like Mum, Marcus; one stupid advert does not an actor make.’ She ennunciates her words, mimicking a Shakespearean actor, before she adds in her normal voice, ‘I think Mum genuinely expected the Academy Awards to call up with a nomination after that stupid advert.’
Marcus chuckles, and gently shakes his head as if at the memory, but he’s a little too slow, his small laugh stiff. Cassie knows she’s lost him.
‘She was very proud of you, always believed in you,’ he says.
‘I know, but seriously, ask Jack, I’m no actress. Painting’s my thing. Just like Mum, remember?’
Marcus swats a wasp away from the table and leans back in his chair as he says, ‘Oh, I know what I wanted to tell you. I found the “Fruit and Face” series recently. God, it made me laugh to see them again.’
Cassie smiles, relieved to hear some of the old, sharper Marcus back in his voice. The paintings from the “Fruit and Face” series all came in pairs, one an image of a piece of fruit and the other the face of a person who resembled the fruit. One was of a fat man with a round, gouty face and dimpled chin next to a single, plump, red cherry; another of a woman with an oblong face and a high ponytail like fronds over her head next to a pineapple. April said she could get away with painting rude portraits, said it was one of the very few advantages of having cancer. Cassie remembers April giggling behind her canvas as she painted.
Cassie stands to pour the tea.
‘So you cancelled this weekend then?’ she asks, trying to keep a lightness in her voice.
Marcus scrunches his eyes, as though he’s rifling through a Rolodex of options about what Cassie could be talking about, so she adds, ‘Mum’s anniversary, Marcus?’
Cassie keeps her eyes fixed on the cup as she pours milk, trying to hide a small flash of embarrassment for Marcus.
‘Oh, yes, that. No, well, we can always do it next year, can’t we?’ he says, but it’s as though the fractious pieces of his understanding still haven’t quite meshed together.
Some of Marcus’s tea sloshes over the edge of the cup as she puts it in front of him. She sits back in her chair, cupping both hands around her own tea, lifting her bare feet to the lip of her chair, so her knees press near her chin.
Marcus leans forward, puckers his lips for a sip and winces; it’s too hot for him.
‘So why did you cancel?’ Cassie persists, sure eventually he’ll click.
Marcus shrugs. ‘Too much on, I suppose, Cas. Just too busy.’
Cassie frowns, but he doesn’t see. What is he talking about? He’s too busy with what? Reading the papers? Doing his weekly shop? If anything, his life isn’t busy enough. Maybe that’s what’s up, maybe he’s just bored?
‘Marcus, is everything—’ but he interrupts her before she can ask him if he’s all right. His face lights up and he turns to her, sparky suddenly, as though he just had a wonderful realisation.
‘I spoke to Lindsay recently, Cas,’ he says, jumping in. ‘We talked about that murder-mystery weekend your mum organised, remember?’ Marcus tells Cassie the well-told story of the muddled weekend where April got all the characters and costumes confused so Marcus ended up playing a murderous vicar dressed as a racing jockey. He tells the story as though Cassie wasn’t even there. His clumsy reminiscing, especially about April, makes her feel itchy. The table jolts to the right as she leans her elbow on the surface and rakes her fingers through her shoulder-length hair.
There used to be a time when she’d talk, really talk to Marcus. She remembers once she told Marcus how abandoned she felt, essentially an orphan with no dad and now no mum, no living genetic relative that she knows about anyway. He didn’t say anything, just hugged her, which was, she realised later – with a lick of guilt that she hadn’t mentioned the fact she has him in her life – the perfect response. She felt her loneliness was complete, a bespoke pain, designed especially for Cassie. But that will change; she won’t be on her own forever. She thinks of the small life, the size of an acorn, inside her. Jack picked her up when she told him, twirled her around the kitchen. He’d already started talking about names.
Marcus has finished with the costume story; he’s looking at Cassie, frowning again and says apropos of nothing, ‘You know I’m always here for you, don’t you, Cas?’ The table lurches again as he cups his hand around the back of Cassie’s. ‘I want you to know you never have to feel alone.’
Even though she doesn’t fully believe the words, she can hear the love in his voice, the care, and she smiles at him because suddenly she does feel a little safer. Maybe she could tell him about the baby? Maybe that would help with his strange grief?
But she doesn’t have time because suddenly they both turn towards an unexpected voice across the garden.
‘I thought I heard voices.’
Jack walks around the side of the house holding a bunch of sunflowers, April’s, and therefore Cassie’s, favourite flower. He’s undone his tie and taken off his jacket, but his suit trousers and light-blue shirt are still incongruous, out of place in the garden. Beneath his light tan, he looks tired; one of the two project managers at work has been off sick for two weeks now, and it’s doubled Jack’s workload. An impenetrable aura of stress surrounds him. As Jack kisses Cassie she smells his busy day, a grabbed sandwich at lunch, too many coffees, Jack rushing from warm meeting room to warm meeting room.
‘I thought I’d come home early to see how you’re doing, love, but clearly I’ve been beaten to it.’
Marcus stands, and the table wobbles as he uses it for balance to shake Jack’s hand. They smile at each other but the lack of warmth from Jack towards Marcus is like a presence itself.
‘Do you want tea, Jack?’ Cassie asks, keeping her voice light.
‘You know what, I think I’ll grab a beer from the fridge,’ Jack says, giving her a kiss.
She takes the flowers from him. ‘I’ll get you one.’