“I’m going to sleep,” she told Julia, who had followed her upstairs, anxious. “There’s nothing to talk about, life is shit. I’m literally eating this toast and going to sleep in four seconds. See you tomorrow,” she relented, and allowed herself, stiffly, to be hugged. Julia held her daughter’s bird-narrow frame for as long as she was permitted, and then returned to James and the girls. Her heart remained upstairs. The evening would be easier if Saskia had not brought home a stranger.
Rowan had arrived in a crisp white shirt with a sharply pointed collar, black tailored trousers that ended high above her ankles and were held up by black, snakeskin suspenders and a pair of polished black wingtips, very small. Her pallor was accentuated by comically oversized black-framed glasses, and pinned to one of the suspenders was an Art Deco crystal brooch, shaped like a Scottie dog. When they’d met at Christmas, Gwen had gazed down in open distrust at this severely attired pixie-person, and her scowl had hardened when Saskia said, “Rowan’s supercreative; she makes loads of stuff, like you,” in a misguided attempt to find common ground. That had been her last visit. Julia hoped Gwen would sleep in, and that Rowan would leave early in the morning. Home should be a sanctuary, not Piccadilly Circus. Saskia’s belongings were already strewn around her music room.
They ate from their laps in their square scrap of back garden. In his earlier enthusiasm James had grilled two packets of hot dogs, and a cold stack of these, alongside a lukewarm mound of baked potatoes and a tray of now slightly wrinkling corn cobs, lay on a card table around his centerpiece, a heaped platter of barbecued chicken wings.
“At what point do we get worried about him?” James asked, though he had clearly begun to worry some time ago.
“I don’t think he’ll come back tonight, Dad.” Saskia frowned at her phone. She was sitting next to Rowan, cross-legged in the center of a sun-lounger, hunched over and typing furiously. “I think he’s pretty wasted.”
“What did he say? I’m glad he’s communicating with someone, at least.”
“He’s somewhere with Charlie. It’s got a million spelling mistakes and then, ‘Tell Dad seed tortilla,’ and then a zillion emojis.”
“Seed tortilla?”
“‘See you tomorrow,’ maybe.”
Rowan cocked her head, birdlike. “God. I still think of your little brother as an actual child. It’s insane to think of him old enough to drink, and now he’s finished school! Supercrazy.”
And he was nearly a father, thought Julia. Supercrazy.
The girls both stood and announced that they were going out, and would come home quietly at an unspecified time. Neither offered to help clear away dinner. Julia regarded Saskia, who looked rather blowsy and dishevelled beside her sharp little friend. Her hair had grown too long, and though she had gained weight at college she had not bought clothes to accommodate it. Buttons strained. Julia dismissed the urge to tighten Saskia’s bra straps, and to tie back her hair. Rowan, by contrast, had made an effort. She was severe-looking and not pretty, but had polished herself into a striking presence.
James pressed several ten-pound notes into Saskia’s hand, which were accepted without comment, and then the girls disappeared.
“What can I say? My people cater for emergencies.” James gave a resigned look at the groaning card table.
“I would have taken some of it to Philip tomorrow but I’m not sure he needs my deliveries anymore. I must say, as bizarre as it all is, it is nice to think of him being taken care of. Strange. I never thought it would be Iris I’d have to worry about.”
“You don’t have to worry about Iris, do you? She’s been taking care of herself just fine since, what was his name?”
“Giles.”
“Right. Since Giles moved to France.” James gave her a cheeky grin, proud to have absorbed this family vernacular, and Julia shrugged off the ungenerous part of her that considered his use of it unseemly.
“She hasn’t really been alone alone; she’s had Philip on the other end of the phone. And text. And e-mail. And fax machine. Even when Giles was in the picture they were always in touch.”
“Well she couldn’t expect him to be at her beck and call forever if they weren’t in a relationship any longer. What was he getting out of it?” James asked, reasonably, and Julia fell silent, considering. Iris and Philip had seemed immoveable as a mountain range yet, unexpectedly, Philip had moved. What had seemed hewn from granite had shivered to pieces like glass.
“I was thinking, I probably should have figured he’d want to spend tonight with his friends. Your old dad’s barbecued wings aren’t the most rock-and-roll way to mark your high school graduation. If that damn kid is not coming back, I’m opening another beer. Would you like one?”
Julia shook her head. Her plate had been sitting on her knee and she moved it to the grass. James went inside, returning with his beer and a roll of plastic wrap, and began to cover the chicken. “I should have figured. I mean, when you think of the last few weeks—the kid needs a break.”
“Gwen needs a break.”
An edge in her voice made James stop. “Of course she does. There’s no competition. We’re never going to play that game, baby, let’s not start. There’s only one team here.” He dragged his chair over and sat and faced her, looking serious. “It’s been awful and they both need a break. Thankfully it’s not Gwen’s style to go out drinking like a frat boy, and my son—every now and again he gets the urge to behave like the dumb teenage boy that he is.”
“But she has been longing for time alone with him. You’ve seen, she’s been so generous with him, she’s made a monumental effort not to disturb him while he was working. Now he’s free he should have understood that. She’s been counting the days. It’s not just party time now that exams are over; these aren’t normal circumstances.” Unable to stop herself she added, “He has responsibilities.”
James stood up again. For a moment she thought he looked pained, but then he picked up a wrapped dish in each hand and headed back into the kitchen. “They’re not normal circumstances. You’re right, and it’s my fault; I should have drawn his attention to it.”
“It’s not your fault in any way.”
“Come on.”
“Come on what?”
“Come on, let’s not fight the kids’ fights.”
She fell silent. He was right, of course, but Gwen’s destructive temper was contagious, and Julia felt an urge to keep pushing. Instead she took his beer from the table and blew a low note across the mouth of the bottle, like a ship’s horn. “Okay,” she said, after a moment, decisive. “I’m sorry. I’ve caught Gwen’s mood. Give me the frankfurters. Will you bring the ketchup back out?”
43.
“We need this,” James announced the next morning, battling a knapsack into the boot of the car.
Nathan mumbled something and James came around to the back window.
“What?”
“I said, like a hole in the head.”