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A minute later, she replies:I’ve sent him a message to say the keys will be under the mat in the porch, so just put them there. And leave the outer door on the latch, OK? I’ve told him it’ll be open.
OK, he writes.On way xxx
He leaves the keys under the mat and clicks the latch on the heavy red front door. As he steps slowly out of his former home, it occurs to him that they could have made this arrangement in the first instance, that there was never any real need for him to wait here. It’s not as if there are any valuables left inside.
Still looking up at the house, he retreats until his back hits the MG. The small white rectangles within the larger white frames stare down at him. How many times did they paint those windows? Windows that will now undoubtedly be replaced. On the red front door, the brass lion’s head is impassive, the bull-nose stone step a little green now with moss.
‘Goodbye, house,’ he says. ‘Goodbye, Gran.’
He gets into the car. The finality of it all rolls through him in one great rushing wave. Gripping tight onto the steering wheel, he makes himself breathe in and out, in and out, until the need to cry abates.
Once he is sure he is able to drive, he pulls out of the driveway and heads up Lyme Road. As he takes the A35 bound for Bridport, he switches on the radio and, finding one of his favourite Pixies tracks, turns it up loud and sings words he knows off by heart but whose meaning he has never understood.
A little after 7.30 p.m., he pulls up outside Naomi’s house. Their house now. Tommy goes to bed at seven. Hopefully Naomi has kept him up.
As he gets out of the car, he spots Naomi’s Golf opposite on the road. She must have parked it there because Jo’s car was on the drive. He realises he could actually have parked on the drive, which is empty. This is his home now after all. Funny, he hasn’t even seen all of it. He never asked for the tour; she never offered.
He strides down the path and rings the bell. As he waits, his chest swells with anticipation and something darker, something that contains a seed of dread. But when Naomi opens the door, she looks glad to see him, and at the sight of her, he relaxes a little. She puts one finger to her lips. Tommy is in bed then. Perhaps reading the disappointment on his face, she steps outside and kisses him.
‘Sorry, babe,’ she says. ‘He was so tired, his eyes were literally closing on their own.’
‘Oh,’ he says, still fighting it. ‘No, that’s OK. I’ll go up and see him.’
‘Let him settle a bit first.’ She reaches for his hand and pulls him inside. In the living room, she kisses him again and holds him tight. He tries to focus on her, but anxiety is climbing the walls of him. He wants to see his little boy. Why can’t he?
Naomi pulls back, her eyes full of apology.
‘Barnard called while you were on your way over,’ she says. ‘He got stuck on the M3, so he’s going to pick the keys up later tonight. Sorry. Things haven’t really gone to plan, have they?’
‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘I’m shattered too actually. I think the last few weeks are catching up with me. Are you sure I can’t just pop up and see Toms? If I keep super quiet?’
‘In five minutes. Give him a chance to get to sleep. OK?’
He nods, reluctantly sits on the sofa. His legs ache, his shoulders, his neck. It is a little painful to swallow; perhaps the glands in his throat are swollen.
Naomi sits beside him and again takes his hand.
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘I feel bad saying this, but something’s come up. You know Cheryl? My childminder?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, she just called me in floods of tears. Her boyfriend, Harry’s dumped her and she’s in absolute bits. Don’t be cross, but I said I’d go and meet her. I mean, I won’t if you don’t want me to, but if you’re really tired, maybe it’ll be good for you to just chill in front of the TV for a bit. I won’t be long. An hour, couple of hours tops.’
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Of course. The evening’s gone a bit pear-shaped anyway.’
‘I’ll be back before, like, ten? And then… well, we’ve got the rest of our lives, haven’t we?’ She smiles, her eyes flashing with promise. After her bouts of coldness on honeymoon, this kind concern for his feelings is a return to who she was before they married. But he can’t tell whether he feels reassured.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I’ll watch a movie or something.’
‘There’s a pizza in the fridge. Pepperoni, your fave. And there’s some watermelon cut up into slices for dessert. Can I bring you a beer or anything?’
‘Please. Yeah, cheers.’
She heads into the kitchen, returns a moment later with a can of Peroni, which she snaps open and pours into a glass, then sets down on the table in front of him.
‘Can I bring you some crisps? Snacks? Do you want me to put your pizza in?’
He shakes his head, no, though her solicitousness too is a change from how she was on honeymoon, where twice she let him eat breakfast alone, saying she needed a lie-in. It should set him at ease, this return to kindness. But it doesn’t. More than anything, he wants to see his son. He wants, he thinks, the anxious feeling clarifying, to check he’s there.
