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‘OK.’
‘I thought you might want to show him the place, you know? His name’s Peter Barnard. Do you want me to text you the name?’
‘No. It’s OK, I’ll remember.’
This is it then. He is going to give his home to a stranger. And then it will no longer be part of his life, only his past. It will belong to someone else.
‘Hey,’ Naomi says, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Don’t be sad. Jo’s dropping Tommy off, but she won’t stay on or anything, so when you finish up, you can come straight over and I’ll cook us a nice dinner, OK? I put a bottle of fizz in the fridge before I left and told Jo to keep her dirty hands off it.’ She laughs lightly. ‘It’ll be our first proper night in the house! And I won’t be kicking you out at ten this time.’ She lays her hand over his and squeezes it. ‘You can sleep over.’
Naomi’s red Golf is on Joyce’s drive where she left it. She tells him she’ll see him in a bit, reminds him again that this is their first night together in their home, and to be sure and come straight over once he’s met with Peter Barnard.
He waits while she loads their luggage into the car, then waves her off before stepping into the house that is no longer his. He is, he supposes, trespassing. But this was the arrangement.
Inside is a shock. He supervised the clearance company himself, but still, after the sumptuousness of the hotel, the unfurnished rooms of his childhood home, the scuffed walls and near-threadbare carpets strike a note of doom in his heart. Again he has the feeling that everything has gone too fast, even his marriage. In the last few days there have been flashes of the old Naomi – the pursing of lips, the silences, and the cruel asides followed by loud laughter, a hard slap on the arm, the phrase she used to say all the time: ‘Only joking!’
He wanders up the hallway. Late summer, but the house is cold, unaired, a little musty. He digs in his jeans pocket, rubs his thumb and finger over the pearl at the end of the gold chain. The wedding band he slid onto Naomi’s finger in the Guildhall as he promised his life to her. He wonders now why he didn’t give her this necklace. It is all he has of Joyce now perhaps. And he needs to keep something for himself.
There is nothing to eat or drink. No kettle, no coffee, no tea. There is nothing to sit on either, so he walks around the vast garden, back towards the veggie patch, where the courgettes have ballooned as if inflated. The carrot tops have pushed through. He pulls one out, washes it at the outside tap, eats it sitting on the back step. After a moment, he walks over to the shed. All the tools are in the back of his van with the boxes. His van is parked on Miranda’s drive. The spade is still missing. For the thousandth time, he wonders where it is. In the sea, he guesses. Where Joyce promised herself she’d swim one day soon.
A feeling of fathomless sadness settles inside him.
He returns to the sitting room. Sits on the floor near the window. Waits.
At the sound of a car, he stirs, stands, goes to the window. But it is a Land Rover for next door.
He checks his watch. Five thirty. There has been no familiar warble of song thrush from his gran’s clock. Late afternoon, Naomi said. How late is late? When does afternoon become evening?
Give it another half hour.
He sits, leans his head against the wall. Remembers Joyce bringing him into this room in his pyjamas and his Spider-Man dressing gown after he’d had a nightmare. She read to him, as she often did to calm him down. He remembers the two of them when he was about fifteen, painting the walls this pale pink colour. In the coving, a white patch where Joyce repaired it a few months ago. He should paint the whole lot, he thinks, before reminding himself he doesn’t live here anymore. In a few minutes, he will leave this house for the last time. In about an hour, he will see his little boy. He will bath him, blow bubbles from the cup of his palm, make him laugh. He closes his eyes, sees Tommy’s head thrown back, his little baby teeth.
He stirs, shakes himself awake. Checks his watch. It is a little after six; he must have dozed off. He is exhausted, he thinks. He has been tense these last few days on honeymoon, though he doesn’t know exactly why. And tired – from grief, from stress and from something that feels a lot like guilt. That he has sold this house perhaps. That he has moved on before he was ready. Before Joyce was ready.
He texts Naomi.Still no sign. How long do I give it? X
His phone rings: Naomi.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Someone wants to say hello. Say hello to Daddy.’
A moment later, Tommy’s voice comes down the phone. Relief hits him – so hard he feels his eyes prickle. Why is he so relieved to hear his son? ‘Da-da.’
‘Hey there, Toms. How you doing, little man? I’ll see you soon, OK? Daddy will see you soon.’
A shuffling; Naomi is back on the line. ‘So he’s not come yet?’
‘No. I mean, I fell asleep, but I’m in the front room so I would have woken up if he’d rung the doorbell.’
‘OK. If he’s not there by seven, just come. Leave the keys under the mat or something, OK? I’ll text him.’
‘OK.’
Minutes pass. Naomi texts to say she’s tried to get hold of Barnard but he’s not picking up.
He replies:OK. Love you. Xxx
His stomach growls. More than anything, he is bored, his own thoughts weighted with heavy sadness despite the promise of the evening to come. He wonders if he will ever stop missing Joyce, if this is what his life is now: walking into a room and not finding her there. Except he won’t be walking into these rooms now, not anymore.
Just before seven, he texts Naomi again:Any news?
