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‘I’m glad too,’ said Matthew quietly.
Jonas’s eyes widened in the dark. ‘Maybe if David lets Mum keep the house, you could move in, ’cos it’s loads bigger than your flat.’
‘I like my flat,’ he said, trying to laugh off the suggestion. ‘But if your mum agrees, I’ll be round to visit more often. I can’t have you blasting me to death every time, can I? I’ve got to practise.’
‘Good idea.’
His son looked at him more seriously.
‘Are you and Mum friends again?’ His face, that perfect combination of Matt’s and Carla’s features, looked hopeful.
‘We’ve always been friends. How can we not be when we have such a brilliant thing in common as you?’
He hated lying to his son, but he knew there was some truth in his words. He and Carla had been getting on much better lately. More importantly, because of their son, there would always be a deep bond, a connection between them.
Jonas’s eyes were starting to close.
‘I love you, Dad,’ he said drowsily.
‘I love you too,’ Matt replied, enjoying the simple, sweet moment of saying good night to his son in the place that he called home.
He closed his son’s bedroom door softly and stood at the top of the stairs, listening to make sure Jonas was asleep. He peered up the stairwell to the second floor and beyond that, a third. This house is huge, he thought, padding towards the master bedroom and peering inside. I’m not being nosy, just interested. And for Jonas’s safety, I need to know where the fire exits are, don’t I?
He moved from room to room, past a library, a bathroom with his-and-her wash basins and a dressing room as big as his corner office at the firm. He wasn’t surprised that there were no photos of David in any of the rooms he looked in; Carla could be ruthless like that. Once she had moved on, she moved on. But there were reminders of the ex-master of the house everywhere. The study with his captain’s chair and golfing memorabilia, the weights machine and the muddy green wellingtons by the back door. Even though David had gone, Matthew still felt as if he was intruding in a stranger’s home – which he supposed he was.
He moved downstairs, to the basement and the gym, the laundry and the media room. His son had been living the life of luxury, he thought with bittersweet emotions, looking at the rows of velour seats in front of the cinema screen.
He walked over to the popcorn machine and turned it on. It hummed to life. He watched mesmerised as the kernels bounced along the bottom of the steel base, then began to pop like machine-gun fire, the glass drum filling with pale golden bubbles of corn.
‘Waste not, want not,’ he mumbled to himself, scooping the popcorn into a stripy red carton, then went over to the racks of DVDs and looked for something to watch, running his fingertip along the thin spines. Most were cartoons or children’s movies, with a few mainstream action films thrown in, certainly nothing Matthew hadn’t already seen. To one side were a group of boxes with neatly handwritten titles: exotic place names or occasions that had no meaning to him. Christmas – Barbados. Isabel’s 40th, Cap Ferrat. The Hamptons – Jake’s House.
‘Who’s Jake?’ he wondered aloud, cracking open the case and putting the disc in the machine. The huge screen immediately came to life, footage of a blue ocean and creamy white sand, a much smaller Jonas running away from the camera, then stopping and waving, before disappearing behind a palm tree. Then a jump-cut to a new scene: David walking along a wooden pier, his arm around Carla; she wearing a poppy-red dress, he wearing a straw hat. Tinny laughter, shaky footage, the sign of an amateur home video.
‘I’m not sure you should be watching those.’ Matthew turned, startled, sending popcorn all over the floor.
‘Bugger,’ he muttered, grabbing the remote and punching the eject button. ‘I thought I’d watch a movie,’ he said, trying to scrape up the spilled popcorn. ‘Wondered what Hamptons – Jake’s House was. Don’t get to the cinema much . . .’ He cursed himself for getting caught out like this, but in the low light he could see a smile curling at the edges of Carla’s glossy lips.
‘You’re early,’ he quipped guiltily.
‘I was tired. Or bored. Maybe both. How was Jonas?’
‘We had a great time. You should have stayed here. Tiring and yet never boring.’
‘I won’t hear the last of it tomorrow.’
He stood up, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in the media room.
‘Excellent popcorn machine.’
‘Amazing what money can buy you.’
‘I’m sorry for being nosy,’ he said finally.
‘I’d have done the same.’
‘I doubt it. I’ve got no media room. A thirty-two-inch telly and some Sly Stallone DVDs, that’s all you’ll find at my place.’
‘Don’t give me the sob story. You’re senior partner of Donovan Pierce now, you can afford the trimmings.’
