A Perfect Home by Kate Glanville Page A

giving us such an erratic childhood; why couldn’t we ever have stayed in one place? Why did she have to make everything change all the time? But now I realise it must have been hard for her, she had a difficult life.’
    â€˜What about your father?’ asked Claire.
    â€˜He decided to relive his youth in a series of bachelor pads, with a series of very young, blonde girlfriends, so no time for us. He even bought himself a two-seater sports car, so no room to take us out either. Both my parents are dead now. My dad crashed his sports car into an articulated lorry on the M50 and my mother died when I was eighteen.’ He looked away out of the window. Outside it was beginning to rain. Drops of water ran down the windowpane.
    â€˜My dad left when I was ten,’ she said. ‘Suddenly everything I thought I knew had changed as well. He went to live in America with his new wife, got a job as a lecturer in European History at a college out there. I thought I’d be having long summer holidays in California but apart from a few initial birthday cards I never heard from him again.’
    â€˜That must have been very hard for you,’ Stefan had turned to face her.
    â€˜It was hard for my mum; she was devastated at the time, depressed for ages. We had to move to a basement flat with no garden and an awful lot of maroon paint. My mother could never be bothered to decorate it; my bedroom looked out onto a brick wall. It was a grim sort of place for a child.’
    â€˜But you haven’t let your mother’s experiences or your childhood put you off marriage or having your own family. That shows how strong you must be – how resilient.’
    Claire shrugged. She’d never thought of herself like that before.
    â€˜In lots of ways my parents’ divorce put me off getting married,’ Stefan continued. ‘I worry that history will repeat itself and I’ll make a mess of it.’
    â€˜Commitment phobic?’
    Stefan looked sharply at Claire in the pause that followed she wondered if she shouldn’t have been so direct.
    â€˜No. Just frightened of hurting other people. Frightened of being hurt.’
    Stefan’s eyes were focused on hers, his face serious, the groove in his forehead deeper. Claire knew she should look away but she couldn’t let go of his gaze. He turned away and picked up his camera bag.
    â€˜My sister is the opposite of me,’ he said. ‘She’s married to a lovely bloke and they have a nice house with two great kids. She’s made the family home my mother never managed to, while I’ve made a career of looking at other people’s homes through a camera lens rather than making my own – it just feels safer for me that way.’ He laughed. ‘Listen to me analyzing myself, it must be the effect you have on me. You’re so easy to talk to, have you ever thought about being a therapist?’
    â€˜I’ll be sending you the bill later.’
    â€˜Maybe I need more than one session,’ he looked at her and smiled.
    Claire felt suddenly flustered and looked away. ‘It’s always sad to see the effect of someone’s home breaking up. It’s the children who always seem to suffer,’ she folded up a length of paisley cotton and put it in a wooden chest.
    â€˜You’d never do that to your children,’ he said, as though it was a fact. ‘You’d never mess up their lives; spoil everything you and William have.’
    â€˜No,’ she said slowly. ‘I’d never do that. Making them a happy home is the most important thing for me – I’d hate my children to have the sort of childhood I had.’
    Stefan stood up. ‘I’d better go; let you get on with your life.’
    As they started descending the stairs, Claire felt as if she was losing something with every step. Hope perhaps. But hope of what?
    â€˜Maybe you should stay until this rain stops,’ she