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‘You’re blushing. That good, huh?’
I try to temper my smile, but feel some accidental smugness radiating out of me.
‘And a paid-up member of the Phil Collins fan club?’
I nod, pinching my lips together. ‘He played “Against All Odds” on the piano.’ Why did I say that? Ted doesn’t need to know that detail.
‘Well, I’ll expect a mention in the wedding speech,’ Ted says. ‘I think it was my detective work on the bee club that cracked the case.’
Watching him talk, I can’t read his expression, but I haven’t heard this unnatural breeziness before. I wave a hand around the room, keen to move the subject on from Jasper.
‘What have you been doing in here? Did you keep on packing after the party?’
Ted shifts his gaze to the carpet.
‘I couldn’t sleep, so I’m trying to be ruthless. I’m taking Dad to his new home tomorrow, then the estate agent wants to take photos of an empty house.’
‘Do you have to sell it?’ I ask, noticing he looks tired, his eyelids heavy.
‘I can’t afford to keep it, not with Dad’s care.’
‘I thought doctors earnt a fortune?’ I say, drawing out the word ‘fortune’.
Ted looks at his hands.
‘Well, my career is in about as good a state as my marriage at the moment.’
‘Oh.’ I feel a jolt of concern. ‘How come?’
Ted inspects his knuckles then clenches and unclenches his hands.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He glances across at me, almost shyly, then groans. ‘I’m so bad at this stuff, Laura.’ For a moment I think he means talking to me, but then I see he’s gesturing towards the boxes.
‘Let me help you,’ I offer.
‘You don’t want to help me sort through my parents’ junk at eleven thirty at night,’ he says, but strangely, I do.
‘I’m good at this kind of thing, please, let me help.’
Ted’s lips move into a grateful smile and he gives a small shrug of acceptance. He disappears upstairs and brings down more boxes, and we quietly unpack the contents. There are old clothes, paperwork, bundles of letters, old bits and pieces collected over a lifetime. His mother’s silver-plated hairbrush, dusty watercolours of the English countryside, a calendar from 1995, sticky cookbooks, and half-empty face creams. Endless coat hangers and jars full of pens, boxes of outdated electrical items, a VHS player and an old-fashioned toaster – things no one would ever want or need.
‘Gerry didn’t want to sort through any of this?’
I can see why Ted has been overwhelmed by the task.
‘We started doing it together, but it was upsetting him,’ Ted explains. ‘He tries not to dwell on the past and packing up a house is pretty much a field trip in nostalgia. In the end, he packed up a box of things he wanted to keep, the rest he was happy for me to deal with. I figured it’s enough of a wrench making him leave this house without forcing him to rake through the ashes of his life too.’
‘You’re not making him leave, you know,’ I say, hearing the guilt in Ted’s voice. ‘He can’t live here on his own any more. The move isn’t down to you.’
Ted rubs an eye with his finger. The air is heavy with dust, and my eyes begin to itch too.
‘I guess not.’ He doesn’t sound convinced. He picks up a glass paperweight and turns it over in his hands. ‘I thought I’d just chuck all this stuff, but it feels too – I don’t know – disrespectful, not to at least look through it all.’
‘There was so much of my mum’s stuff I didn’t know what to do with,’ I say, looking around. ‘It’s strange, the things it upset me to throw away. Weirdly, her toothbrush really got me. It suddenly felt the saddest thing that she’d never brush her teeth again.’
‘What happened, to your mum?’ he asks, cautiously.
‘Colon cancer. It was very advanced, happened quickly.’ I think Ted’s the first person I’ve said that to without crying.
