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‘Don’t worry,’ he says, almost rushing her now, knowing he will run upstairs the moment she leaves. ‘I’ll sort myself out. Go to your friend and I’ll see you in a couple of hours.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure. Go.’
She bends to kiss him. ‘Stay right there. You’ll barely notice.’
‘Idiot.’
She giggles. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you too. So much.’
She strokes his cheek. A moment later, she is gone. He leans towards the front door, listens to her footsteps recede. Another moment passes. The click and slam of a car door. The rev of the engine. Silence.
CHAPTER 53
Sam takes off his shoes and creeps upstairs. It’s quarter to eight; Tommy will be fast asleep by now, and if he isn’t, who cares? He can sing him a song, read him an illicit story. He pushes open the door to the nursery, his heart fat in his throat.
Tommy is there, in his cot. Once again, relief hits Sam in the chest, so hard he has to grip the cot railings while he gets himself together. Tommy’s arms are up, his tiny fists closed. The unease Sam has felt in some deep, dark part of him has come from this, he thinks: he expected to find the cot empty.
He has no idea why.
‘Hey there, little guy,’ he whispers.
He reaches over the side of the cot and strokes his son’s head. The room smells of baby soap, of nappy cream and freshly laundered clothes. It smells of Tommy.
‘Sleep well, little one. See you in the morning.’
It is a wrench to leave him, but Sam forces himself to creep out of the room, lingering a moment at the door before shutting it. On the landing, he hesitates. Instead of going downstairs, he decides to have a peep at the other bedrooms. This is his house now; surely it’s OK to have a look around? But as he walks along the landing, a sense of foreboding grows in his belly: this time the feeling that he is intruding, that he should wait to be shown the more private rooms of the house.
But no, that’s ridiculous. They are married now. Heliveshere. If Naomi hadn’t been called away, she would have shown him the remaining two rooms, told him to make himself at home, since that is where he is.
A pang of homesickness then, for the wide hallway and staircase of his childhood home, the high ceilings and ornate cornices, the rounded corners, the deep skirtings, the cool air, the sense of space. By comparison, this house feels small, overheated, stuffy. The wall-to-wall carpets absorb all the noise, so that he has the impression of being in a kind of padded cell.
He opens the door to what he immediately realises is the guest bedroom. It is functional and neat, painted off-white, with pale grey curtains, a small white double bed, white wardrobe and chest of drawers. On the far side is his guitar, propped against the wall. On the top of the chest of drawers, a framed photograph of Naomi and Tommy, and a white leather jewellery box.
He sits on the bed a moment. The bedding he recognises from their old flat – white with blue swirls and flowers; IKEA, he thinks. On the bedside table is a red book calledThe Book of Spells, which makes him laugh; the copy ofPersuasionhe gave Naomi, which he tries not to notice is untouched; a tube of hand cream; a cluster of bangles; and a vial of some sort made from dark blue glass that on closer inspection turns out to be lavender pillow spray. On the back of the door is a white towelling bathrobe. He stands up, crosses over to the door and pushes it to his face. It smells of Naomi, and he holds it a moment longer to his nose, breathing her in before leaving the room and crossing the landing on tiptoes.
The last room is obviously the master bedroom. In contrast to the off-white, the walls are decorated in a similar peachy colour to the bathroom. The furniture is oak, he thinks. Solid, like the dining table downstairs. The duvet set is sumptuous and floral – camellias, roses and hibiscus in soft oranges and creams. There is one painting above the bed. It is similar to the art downstairs: a neutral abstract of the type you can buy in a department store – pleasant enough but not really what he would’ve picked out as Naomi’s choice, not until this new, even-tempered, grown-up incarnation of her.
An epiphany then: she is trying to be something she’s not. Maybe, a little bit. Maybe she’s trying to put some distance between herself and her family, the notorious Harpers. He remembers her father’s ramshackle and frankly grimy chalet down in West Bay – the smell of stale tobacco, the ancient Hotpoint cooker stained with years-old grease, scabbed with rust. Yes, maybe this is at the heart of all this brand-new stuff, the fact that she now wants to live in a clean house with straight walls and fitted carpets, doors that close properly, a kitchen with built-in appliances. Having had to make do with second-hand all her life, she turned it into a style choice in itself – that pride was always there in her, and he admired it. Now that she is earning good money, she wants to show the world that this is the case, of course she does. She wants to showhim– he can remember how proud she was of her home the first time he came here.
It all makes such perfect sense, he is amazed this idea hasn’t dawned on him before. With a little wealth and a child to raise, she has made a new kind of life. And why shouldn’t she?
He wanders over to the double bed and presses his fingertips against the bedding. Yes, he thinks: crisp and thick, like a hotel. It would be typical of Naomi to buy new bedding for their first night in their family home. At the thought of what might happen later, he decides a shower might be in order. He heads towards the door on the right of the bed, to what he suspects is the en suite. Yes, it is. A shower room. Similar colours, fluffy cream towels.
He strips off, steps into the shower, smiles to himself at the men’s shower gel next to the women’s on the shelf. Good old Nomes, thinking of everything.
He lets the water run over him, washing away the stress of the day, waking up a little after the lethargy of his afternoon snooze. When he grabs the shower gel, it is only half full, which strikes him as a bit weird. Unless maybe Jo sometimes stays over and this is hers. It smells good though: mint, but also, he thinks, lavender in the mix, maybe eucalyptus.
He washes his hair, rinses and steps out. On the towel rail are two towels – so thoughtful. But they are both damp. Nomes must have used one to dry her hair. He helps himself to a fresh one from the stack folded neatly on a wicker chair and wraps it around his waist. It is thick and soft, so unlike the scratchy towels he was used to at home. His former home. Joyce’s home.
On the shelf above the sink, there are his-and-hers toiletries. He helps himself to the spray deodorant. It is not the brand he uses, but then Naomi often used to buy new things for him to try: clothes, shoes, an aftershave she liked, wanted him to smell of.
In the bedroom, he looks around for his boxes. There is no sign of them. Of course, they are still in the van, at Miranda’s. He wonders now whether Naomi organised the timings on purpose. She will not have wanted a load of cardboard boxes in this tidy house, did not even suggest storing them in the garage. His honeymoon bag, he imagines, will still be in the boot of her Golf.
He smiles. Going forward, he will have to try and be neat or there’ll be trouble.
