I wait for her to say more.
‘You were right, I was wrong,’ she nods. ‘The signs were there all along: the ego, the petulance, the insecurities. I suppose that’s why I never did send him my address, that deep down I always knew Alistair wasn’t the man for me. It was all just a fantasy, an escape.’
‘From what?’
‘From your dad. From not being seen. From the monotony of life, I suppose.’
Again, I say nothing, giving her space.
She turns to me. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up too badly,’ I tell her. ‘It’s easyto get lost in the romance of Paris,’ I smile, and she smiles a little too. ‘And it’s probably best you now know the grass isn’t greener – right?’
‘I’m sorry you could see something I couldn’t. I should have listened.’
I shrug it off, glad we’ve cleared the air. ‘It’s always easier to see someone else’s issues.’
I can tell from Mum’s penetrating look that she wants to ask something about my own love life. My body tightens.
‘Do you think Dad’sOK?’ she asks instead, reading my body language.
‘He’s fine,’ I say, a bit surprised by the question. ‘We messaged each other yesterday, after Shakespeare and Company.I think he’s enjoying having the house to himself for a few days.’
‘I mean more generally.’
‘You mean, is he happy?’
Mum nods.
‘I think he’s stressed and worried, but underneath it, yeah, I think he’s pretty content. Don’t you?’
Mum tells me about an outburst where he said he felt trapped by the house and business, that he exists without any fun in his life, that he feels an end is in sight.
‘The end of what?’ I ask, pleased that Mum feels able to discuss their disagreement with me but sorry for their trouble.
‘I don’t know. The shop. Maybe of us,’ she says, her face even paler than it was before the coffee.
‘I doubt he meant the end of you,’ I say, sensing she’s catastrophising.
‘What else could he have meant?’
I pause, recalling the moment I found the loan demand in the office, and how adamant Dad was that I shouldn’t tell Mum.
‘Do you know something?’ she asks when I’m slow to reply. ‘Carly, whatever it is, I need to know.’
‘You should ask Dad. It’s not for me to tell,’ I say, kicking myself for not being quicker of mind.
‘So there is something?’ she says with that look in her eye that tells me she’s creating stories, probably of Dad having some torrid affair. ‘Carly?’
Unable to figure out how not to tell her, I take a deep breath and exhale resignedly. Mum tenses, bracing herself for the worst.
‘The bookshop’s in a really bad way, financially,’ I say.
‘I know that,’ she answers, unsurprised, almost disappointed. She waits for me to say more.
‘Things are so bad that Dad had to take out a loan.’
‘A loan?’ she repeats, as if she’s misheard me.
