Encouraged by the adult laughter, Alfie continued to tickle Granny’s legs under the table and I looked at Dan, who told him, ‘Enough,’ and gathered him up onto his knee.
‘He’s definitely tired,’ Joy warned, and not wanting to spoil the bonhomie, I agreed with her.
‘Bedtime,’ I said, and she smiled, a hint of triumph in the curl of her pearlised lip. But for me, nothing could cast a shadow on the evening. The air was warm and filled with promise, and when I looked into Dan’s eyes across the table, as he cuddled Alfie on his knee, I felt blessed.
Later, after putting the children to bed, Dan and I retired to our own big double room, and I flopped down, lying like a starfish. It was perfect: a huge bed, right in the middle of the room, clothed in thick, cool white cotton, floaty white curtains at a picture window that looked out onto the garden and, beyond, to the coast in the distance.
Dan turned out the light, opened the curtains fully, and joined me on the bed, where we lay in the warm, silent darkness looking out at the stars. ‘I know it’s not been an easy time for you recently,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’
He took me in his arms and we made love like two strangers, like we were starting out all over again. And, in a way, we were. This was going to be a good holiday, the intense heat was thawing my bones, mending my heart – and later, as I lay in his arms, I had this wonderful feeling that we were going to be okay. I hadn’t had that feeling for a very long time.
* * *
Jamie didn’t arrive the following day; he didn’t arrive the day after. He turned up a day, and several hours, late, on the Wednesday. No one was surprised. Even Joy admitted ‘My Jamie’s always late,’ with a shake of the head and an indulgent smile. Apparently Jamie had texted Joy to say he’d be there in the morning, and Joy had been like a cat on hot bricks popping out to the front of the villa to see if she could see him. But it was after lunch when he finally arrived.
Joy and I were clearing up in the kitchen. It was small and cosy and the external door led out onto the patio, so it was perfect to serve from when we were eating al fresco – which we always did on holiday. It was only our third day in Italy, but I knew from previous holiday experience how the routine would go.
‘It’s almost twelve,’ Joy would say to me, wherever we were. She didn’t have to utter another word, my response was Pavlovian and I was immediately ready for the delicious ritual of preparing lunch. We would basically empty the fridge of cured meats, cheeses and salads and put them all in the baskets and crockery we found in the cupboards – it was like a treasure hunt. As Joy said, ‘Lunchtime is less about cooking and more about compilation.’ Then we’d call our ‘staff’ – the children – to help us take the food onto the terrace, where we’d eat at the wooden table set under a thicket of shady vine leaves. It was the same with all our holidays, and I realise now I took great comfort in the security of this routine, like it would always be like this, that it would go on and on forever. And when you’re nine years old and the police knock on your door to say your father isn’t coming home again – you don’t take forever for granted. Our lives were changed in an instant, we weren’t a family any more, we were me and my mum and as an only child, I had to mop up my mother’s grief. She couldn’t let it go, and I spent the next ten years caring for her, until she died from cancer… at least that’s what they said, but I knew once your heart had broken you could never really fix it.
* * *
I was putting the leftover cheese into the fridge （and enjoying the chill） when I heard a car pull up on the gravel outside. I knew it was him. Jamie.
I pushed the platter firmly into the fridge and, removing myself from the delicious coolness, peeped through the window. ‘A taxi,’ I said. ‘It’s a taxi, Joy…’
She almost dropped the bowl she was holding in her rush to look out of the window, her face flushed with heat and pleasure, her eyes darting around the drive to get the first glimpse of him as he arrived.
Within seconds, the passenger door of the taxi opened and he climbed out – tall, slim, like Dan, but not like Dan. His hair was lighter, his smile quicker, handsome, but in a different way. The second son, the one who didn’t have to carry the weight of the family on his shoulders, who took risks, thumbed lifts and had never paid a household bill in his life.
‘Jamie,’ Joy sighed, ripping off her ‘Queen of the Kitchen’ apron – a birthday gift from the kids – and throwing it on the kitchen worktop, before scuttling off.