‘I did.’ Ffion counted the petals on something that looked like a daisy but probably wasn’t. He loves me, he loves me not . . .
‘And the job’s finished. Isn’t it?’
‘It is.’ He loves me.
‘Ah, come on! Will you have a drink with me, or not?’
Ffion looked at Huw’s furrowed brow, and thought about what it must take to keep asking.
‘I miss you.’
Everything was there, waiting for her. A husband. A house. Even children, if she ever decided she could; and for the first time in sixteen years she wasn’t ruling it out. All she had to do was take a step.
‘It’s just a drink, Ffi. Yes or no?’
‘Oh, go on, then.’
She worried it would be awkward – how did you date someone you’d already married? – but she’d forgotten what easy company Huw was. He talked about the lads at work, his jokes familiar and new at the same time; and she traded the guy who’d been caught dogging in a layby between Llanwys and Brynafon.
‘Whereabouts, exactly?’ Huw had pretended to make a note of it, and Ffion had grinned, feeling the warmth of familiarity, security.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ she says now. She pushes an envelope across the table. Huw frowns as he opens it, his eyes widening as he pulls out a cheque for thirty thousand pounds. ‘The prison finally gave Glynis authorisation to access her bank accounts.’
‘I’ll get the pork scratchings in.’ Huw taps the cheque. ‘Make it a real celebration.’
‘Proper class, you are.’ Ffion grins. ‘How’s your mam doing?’ Ffion’s mother-in-law had taken their separation badly, asking Ffion what was wrong with her for not wanting a baby like a normal woman.
Huw grimaces. ‘Same old. Yours?’
‘Driving me nuts. She treats me like I’m still a teenager.’
‘You know . . .’ Huw stares into his pint ‘。 . . you could always come home.’
Home. The three-bedroomed house Huw built with his own hands, with its open-plan kitchen-diner and neat garden. The little box room, painted nursery-yellow by Huw, one Sunday, as though seeing the space would change Ffion’s mind about wanting to fill it.
‘I don’t mind being at Mam’s.’ Ffion tries to gloss over the offer. ‘I’m mostly at work, so—’
‘I decorated the bedrooms,’ Huw says suddenly, and Ffion realises he’s read her thoughts. ‘Ours is blue, now, and the . . .’ He stumbles. ‘The box room’s grey. I’ve got the computer in there, so it’s just an office, not . . .’ He looks at her. ‘Come home, Ffi.’
Ffion’s breath catches. Home.
SIXTY-THREE
JUNE | LEO
‘Bedtime,’ Leo calls.
‘Come see!’
Leo dries his hands on a tea towel and walks to his son’s bedroom. On the floor, by the bed that Elen Morgan gave them, is a rug Leo bought online, with a race track printed on the weave. Harris has made a series of buildings out of Lego, placing each one carefully around the track.
‘Hey, good construction skills, mate!’
‘This one is our house.’ Harris holds up one made from yellow bricks, with a red roof.
‘Fingers crossed, yeah?’ The offer was accepted a month ago, and there’s no chain, so with any luck they’ll be in by the end of the summer.
Leo sits on the carpet next to Harris, picking a car from his son’s vast collection and idly pushing it along the track. The new house is nothing special – a two-up, two-down in a quiet street – but it has a garage and a garden, and neighbours with kids who play out while it’s light. It’s the sort of house Leo wishes he’d grown up in; the sort of house he wants Harris to grow up in.
‘It’s miles away,’ Allie had said, when he’d told her the address.
‘Half an hour. With school slap bang in the middle.’
They have reached a truce, of sorts. It turned out Dominic had never been keen on the idea of Australia; Allie was the one pushing for the glistening water of the Sunshine Coast. Faced with a potentially expensive legal battle, Dominic became an unexpected ally, and he and Allie had decided to stay put. Harris now spends every Wednesday and every other weekend with Leo, his bedroom stuffed with so many clothes and toys that Leo wonders how they’ll get it all in the moving van.
Harris’s room isn’t the only part of the flat to have had a makeover. Leo’s no Yasmin Lloyd, but it’s amazing what a lick of paint and a few prints can do. Ffion would hardly recognise the place.