He leans towards her again. ‘Did you love him?’

She snorts derisively. ‘God,’ she says, still thinking of Michael. ‘No.’

He nods, as though giving her approval. ‘And was there anyone else? Over the years?’

She shakes her head. It’s another lie but an easier one to tell. ‘No,’ she says. ‘No one. I’ve been living hand to mouth with two small children. Even if I had met someone, you know, it wouldn’t have worked. Logistically.’ She shrugs.

‘Yeah. I can see that. And you know, Lucy’ – he looks at her earnestly – ‘you know, any time you’d asked, I would have helped. All you had to do was ask.’

She shakes her head sadly

He says, ‘Yeah. I know. Too proud.’

This is so far from the truth that it is almost funny, but she nods, knowingly. ‘You know me so well,’ she says, and he laughs.

‘In so many ways we were the worst, worst combination of people. I mean, Jesus, remember the times we used to have? Christ we were crazy! But in other ways we were, God, we were fucking awesome, weren’t we?’

Lucy makes herself smile and nod agreement, but she can’t quite bring herself to say yes.

‘Maybe we should have tried harder,’ he says, topping up his glass already and then topping up Lucy’s even though she’s barely had two sips.

‘Sometimes life just happens,’ she says meaninglessly.

‘That’s true, Lucy,’ he agrees as though she has just said something very profound. He takes a large gulp of wine and says, ‘Tell me all about my boy. Is he clever? Is he sporty?’

Is he kind? she asks silently. Is he good? Does he take good care of his little sister? Does he keep me grounded? Does he smell nice? Can he sing? Can he draw the most beautiful portraits of people? Does he deserve better than me and this shitty life I’ve given him?

‘He’s pretty clever,’ she replies. ‘Average at maths and science, excellent at languages, art, English. And no, not sporty. Not at all.’

She looks at him steadily, searching his gaze for a shadow of disappointment. But he looks pragmatic. ‘You can’t win at everything,’ he says. ‘And boy is he good-looking. Any sign of an interest in girls yet?’

‘He’s only twelve,’ Lucy says, somewhat brusquely.

‘That’s old enough,’ he says. ‘God, you don’t think he might be gay, do you?’

She wants to throw her wine in Michael’s face and leave. Instead she says, ‘Who knows? No signs of it. But as I say, he’s not really interested in that sort of thing yet. Anyway,’ she changes the subject, ‘I should probably get back to the panzanella. Give it time to steep before we eat.’

She gets to her feet. He gets to his and says, ‘And I should get the barbecue going.’ She heads towards the kitchen but before she can walk away, he catches her hands in his and turns her to face him. She can see his eyes are swimming, that he’s already losing focus and it’s only half past one. He puts his hands on to her hips and pulls them towards him. Then he pushes her hair away from her ear, leans tight in towards her and whispers, ‘I should never have let you go.’

His lips graze hers, briefly, and then he pats her on her bottom and watches her as she walks into the kitchen.

26

CHELSEA, 1990

Shortly after my mother told me that David was making us give all our money to charity and that he was going to be living with us forever, I saw him kissing Birdie.

It was sickening to me at the time, on so many levels.

Firstly, as you know, I found Birdie physically repellent. The thought of her hard little lips against David’s big generous mouth, his hands on her bony hips, her gross tongue chasing his around inside the dank cave made from their mouths. Ouf.

Secondly, I was something of a traditionalist and found the sight of adultery shocking to my core.

And thirdly: well, the third awful thing didn’t strike me immediately. It couldn’t have really, because the implications of what I’d unwittingly seen were not entirely obvious. But I certainly felt something like dread pass through me at the sight of David and Birdie coming together, an innate sense that they might bring things out of each other that were better left buried away.

It happened on a Saturday morning. Sally was away taking photos on a film set somewhere. Justin had gone to set up a stall at a market to sell his herbal remedies. My mother and father were sitting in the garden in their dressing gowns reading the papers and drinking tea out of mugs. I’d slept until eight thirty, late for me. I’ve always been an early riser; I rarely slept later than nine even during my teenage years. I’d barely rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I emerged from my room when I saw them, clinging to each other in the doorway of David’s room. She wore a muslin nightdress. He wore a black cotton robe with a belted waist. Her leg was jammed between his knees. Their groins were forced together. He had a hand to her pale, moley throat. She had a hand on his left buttock.

I immediately retreated into my bedroom, my heart pumping hard, my stomach well and truly turned. I put both my hands to my throat, trying to quell the nausea and the horror. I said the word fuck silently under my breath. Then I said it again, properly. I opened my door a crack a moment later and they had gone. I didn’t know what to do. I needed to tell someone; I needed to tell Phin.

Phin flicked his blond curtains away from his face. He was, ludicrously, growing even more handsome as he passed through puberty. He was only fourteen and already six foot tall. He had never, as far as I was aware, had so much as a pimple. And if he had one, I would have noticed it, as studying Phin’s face was virtually my hobby.

‘I need to talk to you,’ I hissed urgently into his face. ‘It’s really, really important.’

We walked to the end of the garden where a curved bench caught the morning sun. With the trees in blossom and full leaf we could not be seen from the house. We turned to face each other.

‘I just saw something,’ I said. ‘Something really, really bad.’

Phin narrowed his eyes at me. I could tell he thought I was going to say that I’d seen the cat eating out of the butter dish or something equally babyish and banal. I could tell he had no faith in my ability to impart genuinely shocking news.

‘I saw your dad. And Birdie …’

The expression of indulgent impatience shifted, and he looked at me in alarm.

‘They were coming out of Birdie and Justin’s room. And they were kissing.’

He jolted slightly at these words. I’d made my impact. Finally, after two years, Phin was really looking at me.

I saw a muscle in Phin’s jaw twitch. ‘Are you fucking lying to me?’ he asked, almost growling.

I shook my head. ‘I swear,’ I said. ‘I saw it. Just now. About twenty minutes ago. I swear.’

I saw Phin’s eyes fill very quickly with tears and then I saw him trying very hard to force them to go away. Some people tell me I lack empathy. This might be true. It hadn’t occurred to me for a moment that Phin might be upset. Shocked. Yes. Scandalised. Disgusted. But not upset.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just …’

He shook his head. His beautiful blond hair fell across his face and then parted again to reveal an expression of grim, heart-breaking bravery. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you told me.’

There was a beat of silence. I couldn’t work out what to do. I had Phin’s full attention. But I’d hurt him. I looked at his big, suntanned hands twisted together in his lap and I wanted to pick them up, caress them, hold them to my lips, kiss the pain away. I felt a terrible surge of physical desire rising through me, from the very roots of me, an agonising longing. I turned my gaze quickly from his hands to the ground between my bare feet.

‘Will you tell your mum?’ I said eventually.

He shook his head. The hair fell again and hid his face from me.

‘It would kill her,’ he said very simply.

I nodded, as though I knew what he meant. But really, I didn’t. I was only thirteen. And I was a young thirteen. I knew that I’d found the sight of Birdie and David kissing passionately in their nightclothes disgusting. I knew that it was wrong that a married man should be kissing a woman who was not his wife. But I couldn’t quite extrapolate those feelings beyond me. I could not imagine how that might make another person feel. I did not really understand why Sally would want to die because her husband had kissed Birdie.

‘Will you tell your sister?’

‘I’m not fucking telling anybody,’ he snapped. ‘Christ. And you mustn’t either. Seriously. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t do anything unless I tell you to. OK?’