'Does he really like ME?'
'He thinks you're brilliant.'
'He told me I was brave about green.'
'He did.'
'Is he brave?'
'Very.'
'Braver than you?'
'Much braver than me.'
'I don't think so.' Freddie looked up. The eyes, Gemma's, clear and direct. 'I think you're really brave, dad. You never lie. I'm glad you made a friend. A partner.'
He hadn't expected that either.
Neil's throat closed. He looked at his son, six years old, felt-tip in hand, whale with a hat, and something broke open. Without pain. Like pushing a window. Light and air.
'Can Mr Cavanaugh come for tea?'
'Would you like that?'
'I want to show him the whale.' He held up the drawing. 'The book says humpbacks are better than blue whales but I think they're both good. I think Mr Cavanaugh would agree.'
'I think he would.'
'Next Saturday?'
'Saturday.'
'Can we have pizza instead of tea?'
'We can have pizza.'
'DAD.'
'What.'
'Thanks for telling me.' Back to the whale.
The week between that conversation and Saturday was the longest of Neil's life. Wanting something to happen instead of dreading it. Dread had a physiology: clenched teeth, closed fists, the lock checked twice. Anticipation had no structure. It was loose. Uncontained.
He told Rory on the phone. Freddie asleep.
'I told him.'
'Told him what?'
'About us. About you.'
Silence. Then: 'What did he say?'
'He asked if you like whales.'
A breath that might have been a laugh. 'What did you say?'
