She paused. ‘I’m not a brave woman, Neil. I never have been. I keep the surfaces clean because the surfaces are all I know how to maintain. The underneath... I’ve never been able to touch the underneath.’
‘The cinnamon.’
‘What?’
‘Every time you come to my flat you move the cinnamon. I always thought you were criticising. The flat, the arrangement, how I live.’
‘I move the cinnamon because I need something to do with my hands. Because being in your flat makes me anxious because your flat is the life you built after you left the life I gave you and the new life doesn’t have room for me and I don’t know where I fit so I move the cinnamon because it gives me a purpose for three minutes.’
‘Mum.’
‘I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m explaining. Badly. I’ve never been good at explaining.’
‘You’re doing alright.’
A sound on the line, half laugh, half not. A woman cracking, briefly, before the surface reformed.
‘This Rory. You love him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Freddie?’
‘Freddie knows. Freddie’s fine. Freddie thinks Rory is the best thing since whales.’
‘And Gemma?’
‘Gemma told me to... to give him a chance.’
‘Of course she did. Gemma was always braver than both of us.’
‘She is.’
‘Is he... is Rory...’ She stopped. Started again. ‘Is he good? To you?’
‘He smiles a lot. He’s kind. He buys me coffee and argues about Cézanne and he painted Spider-Man for Freddie’s birthday and he sees me, Mum. He actually sees me. For the first time in my life someone looks at me and doesn’t flinch.’
This silence was different. Less defended. A woman in her own kitchen, three miles away, hearing her son describe being loved. Trying to be happy about it. Not making it. But trying.
‘I’d like to meet him,’ Diane said. ‘Properly. Not at a birthday party.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m not sure about anything. But I’d like to meet him.’
‘And Dad?’
The pause was longer. ‘Your father will need time.’
‘Time to do what?’
‘Time to adjust. He doesn’t adjust quickly. You know that.’
‘I know that. I also know that time, for my father, can mean years. It can mean silence. It can mean an adjustment that looks like acceptance and is actually erasure.’
‘It might be. I can’t promise it won’t be.’ Her voice was steady. More honest than he’d ever heard it. ‘But I can promise that I’ll be in the room. That I’ll... try. I’ll try, Neil.’
‘Okay.’
