Pete said, “Let me check on her, then. You go ahead. I’ll be there in a moment.”
He knew she would already have checked her before she’d left the room a few minutes earlier, but he said nothing. She couldn’t help herself. She had to record something—anything—on the clipboard at the end of the bed. He hadn’t looked at it when he entered the room and walked to the window, but he hadn’t needed to. It was a monument both to Pete’s sense of responsibility and to the guilt she carried for what had happened to their daughter. And this despite the fact that none of it was her fault. Pete was culpable only for being human, for wanting the best for Lilybet, the best for their marriage, and the best for him. The fact that all of this was far too much for her was merely a twist of fate.
He acceded to her wishes and went to the kitchen. He pulled three cereal boxes from the cupboard and chose one at random. He fetched the milk. He didn’t feel like eating, but he knew he had to go through the motions. If he didn’t, Pete would see it as a useful ploy to eat nothing herself. And God knew she needed to eat. She was virtually skeletal.
He ate standing, leaning against the draining board, listening to Pete explaining to Lilybet where Mummy was going and how long she would be and after that, “Mummy’s going to give you a bath, darling, a proper bath. I cleaned you up but when one poos in a certain way, more is required. You know what I mean, my love.” Which, of course, Lilybet did not and never would and what the hell were they going to do when she hit puberty because facing that was going to be like—
His mobile chimed. He looked at the message. Tough morning?
A bit, he replied.
It was a quite long moment before she sent him, I’m so sorry. U have my heart.
He wanted more than that, though. He wanted all of her and all of the life they could have if his life were not impossible. See you soon was all he could give her.
Soon was the limit of what she was willing to give to him.
“Paulie this time?” Pietra was in the doorway. Mark wondered what she’d managed to read on his face. She smiled. Was it warm or determined? He could no longer tell. “I expect he’s offering a beer after work.”
“Ah. That’s our Paulie,” he said.
“Please go. I can handle things here. Greer’s coming to have our book talk this evening anyway. I’ll ask her to bring along some Chinese.”
“I’m out enough as it is, Pete.”
“You aren’t, at all. You need to be good to yourself, Mark. You can’t be good for us if you’re not good for you.”
“And isn’t that the pot and the kettle?”
“It sounds like, but I’m truly fine.”
But she wasn’t fine. Both of them knew how long it had been since she’d been anywhere close to fine.
He said, “Well . . . an hour, p’rhaps. But only an hour.”
“Make it two at least,” she replied.
CHELSEA
SOUTH-WEST LONDON
Deborah St. James had drawn a stool to the central chopping block-cum-table in the basement kitchen, and there, she was slowly going through the first set of portraits she’d taken at Orchid House to find the best representation of each of her subjects. She jotted the occasional reference number on a legal pad as well as on a printout of the lengthy transcribing she’d done over the past several days. Behind her, her father was banging round the kitchen as he put together breakfast, while on the worktop next to the cooker a smallish television was broadcasting the morning’s news. She was giving idle thought to asking a question about why the word news when applied to television generally meant something bad was happening, when her husband joined them, accompanied by Alaska, their great grey cat. In a corner, Peach had been dozing in her basket—preparing herself for a determined round of begging for bacon—but sensing the feline presence, she lifted her head and narrowed her eyes.
“Don’t even think of it,” Simon told the dachshund even as Alaska teased the poor dog by sashaying—as only a cat can do—in front of her basket while waving his tail like a country’s flag in a parade of Olympic athletes.
Peach growled.
Deborah said, “He’s tempting her, Simon. You can see it yourself.”
“Stay where you are,” Simon told the dog. He scooped the cat from the floor and deposited him by the door to the garden. Alaska made use of the flap, after which he made use of the outdoor window sill and leapt up to it, gazing solemnly into the kitchen.
“Eggs done how, you two?” Joseph Cotter asked.