Page 44 of Postscript

He turns the drill on again.

‘Richard!’ I shout and he turns it off. ‘Is he OK?’

‘Yes. A bit going on with his daughter.’

‘Yes,’ I reply, distracted. ‘Was that what it was about? Divorce talk?’ Richard’s children are nothing like Ava. They sing in choirs, play cello and piano. If you asked them about sambuca, they’d ask what key to play it in. His wife had broken his heart even further when she married an acquaintance of theirs, a professor of Economics. ‘Or was it about the car accident? I think he’s dealing with it worse than I am.’ I want to ask if it was about the PS, I Love You Club, which would be the obvious issue, but in case it’s not, I don’t want to have to bring it up and therefore discuss it. Richard missed the family conversation at Sunday lunch and to my knowledge it hasn’t been brought up again.

‘A little bit of all those things,’ he says. ‘But mostly he’s concerned about the club you have befriended.’

‘Ah, I see. And what did you tell him?’

‘Your shirt is on fire.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Your shirt, on the ironing board,’ he points.

‘Oh, flip it,’ I lift the iron from my T-shirt, revealing a burn mark on the fabric. I always do stupid things in Richard’s company and use expressions like ‘flip it’ as though we’re in an Enid Blyton book. I don’t know whether it’s that I always do stupid things and only notice in his company, or if it’s his company that brings it out in me.

‘You should soak it immediately in cold water for twenty-four hours. Wet the scorch mark with hydrogen peroxide, wet a clean white cloth with peroxide then place it over the scorched fabric and iron it lightly. Should get rid of the burn.’

‘Thank you.’ I have no intention of doing any of that. This T-shirt is now officially a bed T-shirt.

He notes that I don’t do anything he has suggested. He sighs. ‘I told Gabriel that it’s a very courageous, giving and valiant thing for you to do.’

I smile.

He lifts and removes the picture frame. ‘But that’s what I told him. I think you should tread carefully. Everyone seems to be afraid you’ll lose yourself, but you should consider it being him you lose as a result of doing it.’

I look at him, surprised by this rare display of emotional intelligence, and then realise conversations about me are being had behind my back. Everyone is afraid I’ll lose myself. And which is more important, finding myself or losing Gabriel?

The moment has passed and Richard’s looking at the wall.

It’s covered in deep, ugly holes from where the screws punctured the wall, the paint colour darker than the faded paint that surrounds it. It also seems that my photographer had made several other attempts to get a screw through and failed.

Six ugly scars in the surface.

I place the iron back in its holder and stand beside Richard.

‘That looks awful.’

‘The photographer appears to have struggled. He hit the lath a few times – the wooden strips behind the wall.’

There are four more frames to be removed; in our failure to cull mementos of our magnificent wedding day from the hundreds of options, they cover the entire alcove.

‘The holes need filler and then to be sanded and painted. Do you still have the same paint?’

‘No.’

‘Would you choose another paint for the wall?’

‘Then that would be different to all the other walls. We’d have to paint the two rooms.’

‘The two alcoves, maybe. Or you could wallpaper over it.’

I ruffle my nose. Too much effort for a house I’m selling for the new people to move in and repaint anyway. ‘The buyers are going to want to repaint anyway. Do you have filler in your toolbox?’

‘No, but I could get it this afternoon and come back tomorrow.’