couldn’t help but feel good around him.
She’d wanted to ask him in, but wasn’t sure if that was a strange thing to do. So instead they’d continued their conversation at the back door until the security light had gone off and they were in sudden darkness and he’d said, ‘Well, better get back. Adele will be wondering where I got to.’
She’d locked the door behind him. Drawn the curtains. But his energy had remained, like soft embers in a grate. She’d held it within her, wrapped her own arms around her body to preserve it. It had been a pleasant evening. She felt better about the choices Grace was making, having spent some time with her ‘alternative family’. Adele was wonderful: warm and vibrant and grounded. Her children were unusual and unconventional. Their flat was lovely. The informal style of the evening had been natural and unforced. But it was Leo who had made the evening for her.
She heard Grace in the en-suite bathroom, brushing her teeth. She appeared a moment later, scrubbed and fresh. All the make-up was gone. Her hair was tied up into a neat bun. She was wearing loose pink pyjamas. She looked at Clare and for a moment Clare couldn’t predict in which direction her mood was blowing. But then Grace smiled and climbed on to Clare’s bed, curled herself up next to her, tucked her face into Clare’s shoulder, minty breath and young scalp. She hooked one leg over Clare’s body and nestled even closer. Clare grasped the arm that Grace had flung across her chest and kissed the crown of her head.
‘Did you have a good time?’
Grace nodded.
‘So did I.’
‘Good,’ said Grace.
‘Not sure what to make of Tyler and her mum, though.’
She felt Grace’s head move up and down in the crook of her neck. ‘They’re strange.’
‘Yes,’ said Clare. ‘They are. Edgy.’
‘I know.’
‘Like they’re hiding something.’
‘Exactly.’
They lay in silence for a moment or two. Then Grace stretched herself away from Clare and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Night, Mumsy.’ She rolled herself off the bed and stood in the doorway.
‘Night, baby.’
‘Thank you for coming tonight.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Clare, thinking once more of Leo’s dark eyes, his slow smile, his easy manner. ‘My pleasure.’
Eleven
Chris had been released from the psychiatric hospital two weeks ago. The discharge meeting had unanimously decided that he was fit to face the world again and discharged him into the care of an unnamed person. Clare had asked who it was but the hospital told her that Chris had requested that she not be told. She’d spoken to people from their past, the small handful of friends they’d had back in the days when things were normal, but none of them had heard anything from Chris. She’d spoken to his mother in Switzerland, who said she had had a call from him and wired him a large sum of money but that he had not told her where he was staying or with whom.
Over the days Clare had pictured him in a variety of scenarios: homeless under a bridge; hiding in the flat across the road, watching their every move through a crack in the curtains that twitched occasionally when she walked past it. She pictured him on a ferry, trying to get to his mum and brother in Switzerland. Or living in the basement under the house in Willoughby Road, still staking out alien rats. Sometimes she even pictured him normal, sitting sad and alone in a rented room in a house somewhere, trying to remember who he was and where he belonged. She scanned the small news stories in the papers with opening lines like: ‘A 42-year-old man has been arrested after a …’ Or, ‘Police are looking for a man in his forties in connection with …’ All those funny little reports about people behaving strangely were suddenly thrown into relief. Her husband was out there. He might be mad. He might be sane. He might be ill. He might be well. He could, in theory, be doing absolutely anything. But as the
She’d wanted to ask him in, but wasn’t sure if that was a strange thing to do. So instead they’d continued their conversation at the back door until the security light had gone off and they were in sudden darkness and he’d said, ‘Well, better get back. Adele will be wondering where I got to.’
She’d locked the door behind him. Drawn the curtains. But his energy had remained, like soft embers in a grate. She’d held it within her, wrapped her own arms around her body to preserve it. It had been a pleasant evening. She felt better about the choices Grace was making, having spent some time with her ‘alternative family’. Adele was wonderful: warm and vibrant and grounded. Her children were unusual and unconventional. Their flat was lovely. The informal style of the evening had been natural and unforced. But it was Leo who had made the evening for her.
She heard Grace in the en-suite bathroom, brushing her teeth. She appeared a moment later, scrubbed and fresh. All the make-up was gone. Her hair was tied up into a neat bun. She was wearing loose pink pyjamas. She looked at Clare and for a moment Clare couldn’t predict in which direction her mood was blowing. But then Grace smiled and climbed on to Clare’s bed, curled herself up next to her, tucked her face into Clare’s shoulder, minty breath and young scalp. She hooked one leg over Clare’s body and nestled even closer. Clare grasped the arm that Grace had flung across her chest and kissed the crown of her head.
‘Did you have a good time?’
Grace nodded.
‘So did I.’
‘Good,’ said Grace.
‘Not sure what to make of Tyler and her mum, though.’
She felt Grace’s head move up and down in the crook of her neck. ‘They’re strange.’
‘Yes,’ said Clare. ‘They are. Edgy.’
‘I know.’
‘Like they’re hiding something.’
‘Exactly.’
They lay in silence for a moment or two. Then Grace stretched herself away from Clare and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Night, Mumsy.’ She rolled herself off the bed and stood in the doorway.
‘Night, baby.’
‘Thank you for coming tonight.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Clare, thinking once more of Leo’s dark eyes, his slow smile, his easy manner. ‘My pleasure.’
Eleven
Chris had been released from the psychiatric hospital two weeks ago. The discharge meeting had unanimously decided that he was fit to face the world again and discharged him into the care of an unnamed person. Clare had asked who it was but the hospital told her that Chris had requested that she not be told. She’d spoken to people from their past, the small handful of friends they’d had back in the days when things were normal, but none of them had heard anything from Chris. She’d spoken to his mother in Switzerland, who said she had had a call from him and wired him a large sum of money but that he had not told her where he was staying or with whom.
Over the days Clare had pictured him in a variety of scenarios: homeless under a bridge; hiding in the flat across the road, watching their every move through a crack in the curtains that twitched occasionally when she walked past it. She pictured him on a ferry, trying to get to his mum and brother in Switzerland. Or living in the basement under the house in Willoughby Road, still staking out alien rats. Sometimes she even pictured him normal, sitting sad and alone in a rented room in a house somewhere, trying to remember who he was and where he belonged. She scanned the small news stories in the papers with opening lines like: ‘A 42-year-old man has been arrested after a …’ Or, ‘Police are looking for a man in his forties in connection with …’ All those funny little reports about people behaving strangely were suddenly thrown into relief. Her husband was out there. He might be mad. He might be sane. He might be ill. He might be well. He could, in theory, be doing absolutely anything. But as the
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