“Oh yes, that’s much more sensible.”
Miriam raised an eyebrow at Frank in wry collusion. He looked away from her to Cleo, who was staring blankly at the checkered tabletop.
“Was this in London?” he asked.
“Miriam and I live in Bristol,” Peter said. “Cleo spent a year with us while her mother was ill.”
Frank glanced to Cleo again, but she was no longer at the table. She was back in Bristol, back to being fourteen. It was the first time her mother had been put in psychiatric care, but it would not be the last. Ragdoll was older, eighteen maybe, named for the loose-limbed way he fell off the skateboard. She had been ice-skating with some of the girls from her new school when he saw her. She was spinning in a slow orbit, arms outstretched, when he leaned across the partition and caught her wrist, pulling her toward him. None of the other girls could believe it, that she went with him so easily. But she was not like them. She was unmothered, unmoored. He took her under the overpass, where the boys carved and swooped on their boards in the gathering gloom, and later to a council flat with a single mattress on the floor. She lost her virginity to him that first night. Afterward, he had peeled the condom off and disposed of it in an empty pizza box. When she came home, no one asked where she had been. No one asked her that night, or any other night she spent in that house.
“I didn’t know you lived there,” said Frank.
“That’s not surprising,” said Miriam. “You hardly know each other!”
“We know the things that matter,” said Cleo.
“What Miriam’s saying is we just don’t want either of you to rush into anything,” said Peter. “You’re so young, Cleo, there’s no rush.”
“Please don’t speak for me, darling,” said Miriam. “But you’re right, Cleo is certainly very … young.”
“And how long did you two wait after you and Mum divorced?” said Cleo. “Five minutes?”
“Don’t be hyperbolic, Cleo,” said Miriam. “You’re not an American.”
Peter’s face reddened with discomfort. He looked down at his fists, which were balled on the table like two mounds of mincemeat.
“It was a different situation,” he said gruffly. “One you couldn’t have understood at your age. Wasn’t your business to understand.”
“You’re right,” said Cleo. “Why on earth would who my father marries be any of my business?”
“Cleo’s anger is quite natural and healthy,” said Miriam, turning to Frank. “Haven’t we always said that, Pete?”
“I am not angry,” said Cleo.
“We’re just saying it would be perfectly acceptable if you were, sweetheart.”
“You didn’t even invite me to your wedding.”
“That was ten years ago,” said Peter.
“Yes, don’t hold a grudge,” said Miriam. “It will give you wrinkles.”
“I was your child,” said Cleo.
“I didn’t want to upset you and your mother,” said Peter. “I was trying to protect her. Protect you.”
“You did a great job of that,” said Cleo. “Five stars, Peter.”
“Your father has always put others first,” said Miriam.
“She wasn’t well, Cleo,” Peter said. “Nothing either you or I did could change that.”
“Well, guess what?” said Cleo, her face flushed. “I didn’t invite you to mine either.”
“Cleo, I don’t think—” said Frank.
“We got married,” she said. “In June.”
The server reappeared with his long, mournful face. “And how was everything today?” he asked.
“We’ll just take the check,” said Frank.
“Can I interest you in any dessert?”
“No!” said Frank, practically shoving him away from the table.
“Well, congratulations are in order!” said Miriam, turning to them with a bright smile that did not reach her eyes.
Peter’s face was a deep, stormy red. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he said.
“No, darling,” said Miriam, in the tone of a mother scolding a petulant child. “It’s not good for Cleo to bottle all of this up. Talking is healing—”
“My mom never talked to me about anything real,” said Frank. “Including who my dad was!”
Miriam gave him a perturbed look. She clearly hated to be interrupted.