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Kip turns up mid-morning to deliver the box of presents. He stays for a while, and the three of us sit out on the deck in the December sunshine, drinking coffee and chatting. Mostly I listen to the two brothers talking about everything under the sun: computers, AI, a new sci-fi movie, the rugby, a book Kip’s reading on Gallipoli, Kennedy and Jackson’s upcoming vacation to Fiji, their father’s new Jag… They move quickly and effortlessly from topic to topic, and it’s obvious that they expect each other to offer an opinion on everything, which begins to make it clear to me why Saxon is always asking me to explain myself.
They mention traveling together at one point, and when I ask for more details, reveal they took a big OE—overseas experience—across Europe together when they were just eighteen. Their parents gave them a budget for their trip, which meant that they had to travel economy and stay in hostels, which they’re both obviously quite proud of themselves for.
“Kip lost his trousers in Paris,” Saxon states.
“I wasn’t wearing them at the time,” Kip points out. “Saxon vomited on the marble floor in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence.”
“I’d had a bad pizza,” Saxon replies.
“Nothing to do with the six beers you’d had the night before.”
“Nothing at all.”
They both laugh and go on to talk about seeing Queen Elizabeth drive past outside Buckingham Palace, eating Croque Monsieur by the Eiffel Tower, cycling through Berlin and nearly getting run over by a Volkswagen, and repeatedly yelling ‘Are you not entertained’ in the Colosseum in Rome, following which they were escorted out by guards for disturbing the peace.
Their experience of being eighteen was so different from mine that it’s almost impossible for me to comprehend. I well up a little, and Saxon notices and asks what’s wrong. When I tell them, both of them exchange a frown, as if it hadn’t occurred to them that their youth might not be the same as most people’s.
“I got upset because I was thinking the twins’ life is probably going to be more like yours than like mine,” I add. “And I was so relieved they won’t have to go through what I went through.”
“I’ll make sure they don’t,” Saxon says, giving me a hug. His eyes meet Kip’s though, and I wonder whether they both think I’m exaggerating my plight. That stings a little, but there’s not much I can do about it. I can’t force them to look through my eyes, and I’m not sure they could even if they wanted to. If you’ve always had money, I don’t know if you can ever understand what it’s like to have none. Pulp wrote a song about it—Common People. In it the guy’s dating a rich girl who says she wants to live like common people, but he knows she’ll never be able to, because she’s aware that one call to her father would immediately stop any suffering she was going through.
It’s not their fault, and I don’t blame them for it. I’m glad Saxon has had a wonderful upbringing. I wouldn’t wish mine on my worst enemy.
Apart from Greta and my stepsisters. I might wish it on them.
When Kip goes, Saxon declares he really needs to answer some emails, so I leave him at his computer and spend some time familiarizing myself with the house. He puts an Ella Fitzgerald album on, and her beautiful voice seems to personify the sunshine that spills across the carpet like butter.
I wander around, opening drawers, looking in cupboards, brushing my fingers over the expensive furnishings, curling my toes in the plush carpets, and trying to get used to the notion that this is where I live now.
At one point, I pass the bathroom and discover Saxon in there about to change his contact lenses. I lean on the door jamb and watch, fascinated, as he takes out his old ones, then applies the new, and blinks at himself in the mirror before smiling at me.
“Got something to show you,” he says, tossing the old ones in the bin. He takes my hand and walks me out to the spare bedroom next to ours. It’s not quite as big as the master bedroom but it’s still large, with sliding double doors that open onto the patio. The walls are painted cream, and the furnishings are light blue and pale green.
We stand in the middle, and he turns around, still holding my hand. “It doesn’t get quite as much sun as ours, so it’s a bit cooler,” he says.
I look around. “It’s very nice.”
“Yes, but what do you think?”
“About what?”
He stares at me, then obviously realizes my brain doesn’t work as fast as his, and smiles. “For the nursery, Catie.”
My eyes widen. “The nursery?”
“Yeah. The boys’ll have to sleep somewhere. We’ll get matching cots, here and here, and maybe a change table against that wall. Clothes in the chest of drawers, and a big toy box there. I thought maybe one of the other bedrooms could be a toy room eventually.”
I look around, almost breathless with wonder. “Oh, Saxon.”
“I thought you might like to decorate it,” he says. “As a project. You can choose the colors, and maybe some mural paper or some stickers, with Pooh Bear or animals, whatever you want.”
I feel a swell of excitement. “You mean I can paint it?”
His eyebrows rise. “You wouldn’t rather tell someone else what you want and get them to do it?”
“I’d love to paint and do a mural.”
His lips curve up. “You’re artistic?”
