‘More…’ She searched. ‘Distracted. Are you sleeping properly?’
‘I'm fine, Mum.’
‘I didn't say you weren't fine. I said you were distracted.’
‘Same thing.’
‘It is not the same thing. Fine is a state. Distracted is a direction. You're pointing at something and I'd like to know what.’
From this woman, who wielded English the way Malcolm wielded the carving knife.
‘Gemma tells me you've been out more. Socialising.’ The word carried forensic weight. ‘And this new art teacher. Freddie mentions him. Freddie's very taken.’
‘He's a good teacher. Freddie enjoys art.’
‘Freddie enjoys everything. He's five.’ She folded the tea towel. Placed it on the counter. Edges aligned. Neil watched her do it and felt the genetic inheritance, the precision, the control as communication. She'd given him this. Or he'd absorbed it. Same way he'd absorbed the channel change and the word disgraceful.
‘Children need stability, Neil.’
‘He has it.’
She held his eyes. He held hers. Two Ashworths, mirrors. Then she turned back to the dishwasher. The conversation was over.
9
THE TWENTY-EIGHTH
He drove homewith Freddie asleep in the back seat with overcooked beef in his mouth.
Late Christmas night. Freddie asleep. His phone vibrated.
Rory.
He picked up before the second ring. Walked to the window. Kept his voice low.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’ Rory's voice was rough at the edges. Late-night rough. The voice of alone with nothing but a phone and a person on the other end.
‘Happy Christmas.’
‘You already said that. This morning.’
‘Felt like saying it again.’
‘How was yours?’
‘Good. Tess made a roast that could end wars. Patrick's treacle tart. Beth told me reindeer can't fly because of body mass ratios.’
‘Beth sounds like a scientist.’
‘Beth is eight. She's a terrorist with facts.’ A beat. ‘How was yours?’
‘The beef was dry. My father slept through the pudding. My mother moved the cinnamon again.’
‘She didn't. Did you move it back?’
‘I moved it back while she was in the bathroom.’
