by Sanjida Kay
‘What’s all the commotion?’ she asks.
‘There’s no one else here,’ Matt says, ‘and I can’t see anyone outside or by the pool. The front and back doors are locked.’ He looks pointedly at Amy.
‘Maybe you just thought you saw someone?’ she says. ‘Or, like Nick says, you had a bad dream.’
‘I know what I saw!’ Their father takes a couple of steps into his room. His tone is fretful: ‘I can’t find my journal. It was here. I left it right here, on the dressing table.’ He points with one tremulous finger. ‘He must have stolen it.’
Matt shakes his head. ‘I’m going back to bed.’
‘You probably didn’t take it out of your suitcase, Dad,’ Nick says. ‘I never get round to unpacking.’
‘I do! I put it there because I always write in it at night.’
Amy can’t help noticing that Bethany is wearing a silk negligee over a pair of tiny shorts; a scrap of broderie anglaise covers her chest; her legs are toned and hard and laced with muscle. She must have had a boob job at some point. You couldn’t be thirty-four, exercise every day and have breasts that pert. She pulls her shawl more tightly around herself.
‘Dad, the travelling must have disoriented you. Why don’t you get some sleep? There’s no one here, and no one could have got into the house. I’m sure your journal will turn up in the morning.’
‘I’ll give him one of my sleeping tablets,’ says Bethany. ‘That’ll stop him wandering about.’ She puts her hand on Amy’s shoulder and says quietly, ‘I told you, didn’t I? He’s not himself.’
Amy feels the salt of tears burning the back of her throat and can’t bring herself to reply.
12 AUGUST, ITALY
11
NICK
When I wake up, I’m wet with sweat, the sheet wrapped round my torso, my heart stuttering in my chest. For a moment I think I’m back in The Pines, in my room beneath the eaves, but then I remember. I’m in a small bedroom in a converted barn called Maregiglio on the Isola del Piccolo Giglio off the Tuscan coast. I brought my father here last night, even though my sister had expressly forbidden it, and now everyone hates me. It’s three more days until Ruby-May’s anniversary. I’ve got three days to get everyone to forgive him. And me.
The curtain moves very slightly; there’s a thin draught of air coming through the sill, or maybe it’s from the gap under the door where the floorboards are uneven. They squeak between my toes as I flex them. I stretch, letting my spine pop. I look in Dad’s room. He’s not there, but his journal is on the dressing table. He must have found it after all. It’s navy-blue with elegant gold writing on the front. It’s a two-year diary; he always used to complain that one-year planners never spanned the academic year properly, since it stretches from September through to the following May. He’s always had a twoyear planner for as long as I can remember; he wrote appointments in it and made notes about the meetings he attended, the lectures he gave. I guess he must have kept the habit, even after he retired.
I pad down the corridor, wondering where the kids are. There’s the sound of someone talking coming from Theo and Lotte’s room; I tiptoe in, getting ready to shout ‘Boo!’ at them.
Matt’s sitting on Theo’s bed, the iPad on his knee, smiling at whoever he’s speaking to. He looks up in surprise. I hold up my hand in apology and retreat. Why is he hiding in here to make a FaceTime call? And what’s with the guilty expression? Maybe he told Amy he wouldn’t work over the holidays. He doesn’t resume his conversation while I’m in earshot, though.
The children are in the sitting room, playing Snakes and Ladders with Luca.
‘Hey, how are you doing?’
‘Theo has gone down a giant snake all the way to the bottom. I’m winning!’ Lotte yells.
‘That’s my girl,’ I say, holding up my hand for a high five.
‘Pearl is playing too,’ she tells me, tucking Ruby-May’s doll next to her.
‘Luca is going to teach me chess,’ says Theo. ‘Snakes and Ladders is for kids.’
An ear-splitting noise, as if a builder with a drill has just moved in, makes me jump.
‘Sorry!’ shouts Joe, when it stops.
He’s with my father in the kitchen, and they’re both peering at a NutriBullet full of pond-scum.
‘I’m making your dad a gritty smoothie,’ Joe says cheerfully, taking the contraption apart.
‘Don’t you mean green?’ asks my father.
Joe shakes his head, his curls bouncing against his chiselled jaw like some kind of men’s aftershave ad. I find myself automatically sucking my stomach in, sticking my chest out; I’m glad I put my T-shirt on.
‘Definitely gritty, David.’ He takes a slurp. ‘Gorgeous!’ he shouts. He screws a grey plastic rim onto the cup part of the blender and turns it, so that the handle is facing my dad. ‘There you go, get a load of that.’
‘Hmm,’ says my dad, inspecting it. He takes a tentative sip and then another. ‘Not bad.’
‘It looks disgusting. What’s in it?’ I ask, curious about why Joe would be making a gritty drink for my father.
Joe counts off the ingredients on his fingers: ‘Coconut water, spinach, avocado, banana, ice, protein powder, flaxseeds, a handful of mixed nuts, squeeze of lime juice – oh, and an apple. Good for your brain,’ he says and taps his temple. ‘Have one of those every day, you’ll be right as rain.’ He slaps my father across the back and heads outside towards the pool.
I wonder if this is just something personal trainers do or has he somehow discerned Dad’s forgetfulness – or maybe Bethany told Joe about our father wandering about last night, claiming there was someone in his room and that his journal had been stolen.
‘You okay, Dad?’ I ask. ‘I see you found your journal – it was on your dressing table.’
My father frowns at me.
‘Appearing, as if my magic,’ Bethany says, her voice heavy with sarcasm, switching the kettle on. ‘Coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Why does no one ever listen to me?’ Bethany asks, after Dad has gone to sit outside and drink his pond-scum by the pool. ‘When I took him for those tests last year, he scored twenty-one on the Mini-Mental State Exam, had mild depression and his brain scan showed a slight shrinkage of his frontal and temporal lobes – all indications of the onset of dementia. I made a whole bloody programme about it, I know what I’m talking about. Not that any of you bothered to watch it.’
‘He seems fine,’ I say.
‘Just a bit forgetful?’ Bethany says. ‘No shit, Sherlock.’
Matt thunders down the stairs. When he sees me, he clears his throat and glances at Bethany. She’s busy banging around the kitchen, getting out the cafetière and looking for the coffee.
‘Sara,’ he says in a low voice. ‘She worries about Chloe, you know. I try and remember to call her. Let her know everything is okay.’
‘Right,’ I say, setting out mugs. Not a conference call for work, then.
‘Best not to say anything to Amy,’ he says. ‘They don’t get on. She’d think I should send a text and be done with it. But you know what women are like. Need chapter and verse.’ He gives a dry laugh.
I have a queasy feeling, as if I’m betraying my sister by listening to her husband’s bullshit. At least Matt’s guilt has stopped him chucking me out of this house this morning, for bringing Dad here. I look up. Amy is stretched out on a sun-lounger next to our father, an untouched croissant on a plate at her elbow. She has her eyes shut, but she’s frowning, the lines between her eyebrows deepening. It’s unbearable witnessing her pain, especially when she doesn’t even realize we’re watching her. Matt follows the direction of my gaze and shakes his head.
‘Do you think there really is something wrong with David?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘At the end of the day, does it matter? I mean, he’s our dad, Matt. Ruby-May’s grandfather. A diagnosis isn’t going to bring her back.’
‘If he’d only say he was fucking sorry.’
I pat him on the shoulder. ‘I know, mate. But for what it’s worth, he’s never apologized to me once, in his entire life. It doesn’t mean he isn’t heartbroken.’
‘He has a hell of a lot to apologize for,’ Bethany says, handing me a coffee.
12
NICK
We head to the beach after breakfast. It’s only a few minutes’ walk from the villa, although it takes for ever to get there, marshalling Lotte, Theo and Chloe, carrying reams of stuff like we’re bearers for Tutankhamun. Lotte’s swimsuit, her armbands and her bucket and spade are all varying shades of purple. Purple was Ruby-May’s favourite colour. I try not to think about the unicorn that’s still in my sitting room.
The beach is a perfect scoop of plain sand, with a Portaloo and a wooden shack where you can rent loungers or buy espressos, ice cream and beer. On either side there are flat, dark rocks pockmarked with barnacles, and cliffs rising sharply up to the olive groves and Maregiglio, which I can’t see from this angle. It feels surreal, being here, the sun hot on my back at ten in the morning, a bruising light slicing from the surface of the sea, when only yesterday Dad and I were driving through damp fog to reach the airport. I can feel the tension in my shoulders start to ease.
I do a double-take when I see Chloe. Yesterday she’d been wearing one of those floaty things women wear on holiday, but now she’s in a bikini. Her legs are long, smooth and a pale gold. She’s sitting on a sun-lounger, rubbing oil down her shins. Her dark hair has fallen forward over her shoulder and she looks like a young woman. How did this happen? It doesn’t seem two minutes since she was Ruby-May’s age.
I never saw her as often as Lotte and Theo – I know they’re only six and eight, but I’m not as clued up about Chloe, so when I did see her, I’d make those ridiculous comments adults always make about children: Wow, you’ve lost your baby teeth; God, you’ve grown; What, you’re at secondary school? You’re fourteen? She’s still frozen in my mind aged ten, with braces and bony knees and her hair in plaits, and it was kind of okay because of being her step-uncle and not a proper relative, as I wasn’t expected to remember her birthday or anything useful. And now she’s almost sixteen.
I glance at Luca to see if he’s noticed Chloe’s practical nudity, ready to be belligerent on my niece’s behalf if he so much as glances at her toes, but he’s completely absorbed in playing with Lotte and Theo. Not that the other men on the beach have any such qualms. It’s packed with Italians as brown as hazelnuts. I watch the men as their eyes drift lazily over Chloe, assessing her, and as if their skulls are as transparent as fish tanks, I can see the flicker of their thoughts shoaling through those shallow depths. I know what they want to do to her. Bad enough being the kid’s uncle; Matt must constantly be contemplating murder.
I pull a sun-lounger over to the side of our group and drop a towel over it. It’s from the holiday house. We’re not supposed to take them to the beach, but I don’t own such a thing as a beach towel. I keep my T-shirt on and roll my shorts up. I’m nearly blinded by the glare from my white legs. I glance at Chloe again. She’s got her headphones clamped over her ears, a pink iPad and her phone peeking out of her bag. She doesn’t look particularly happy. I wonder if it’s a teenage phase, or boyfriend trouble, or that she really doesn’t want to be on holiday with a bunch of grown-ups and two small kids. Not that I blame her. Amy and Matt don’t seem to have noticed or, if they have, they’re ignoring her mood.
My sister is emaciated; her skin is grey and she looks as if she’s an outpatient from a cancer hospital. I try not to stare at her ribcage, the bars of bones in her chest. Matt also appears exhausted, his flesh slack, apart from the puffiness of his belly. Bethany and Joe have come with us, but instead of sunbathing like normal people, they’re doing some insane workout, watched with amusement by the Italians. It involves sprints across the hard sand and bunny hops over the waves, and it could be fun if it didn’t look utterly gruelling. Matt is watching them too.
Bethany is doing press-ups now, trying to keep pace with Joe. He jumps up and pokes her in the middle of her back to get her to dip lower. I’m thinking simultaneously that Bee’s triceps are pretty impressive, and that Joe is being quite annoying. I lie back and try and relax. The sun is so warm, I could fall asleep right this second. Yeah, I could get used to this; certainly beats Photoshopping in Tamsyn’s studio, or hanging out on my own in Dad’s flat.
Matt suddenly murmurs in my ear, ‘I can’t stand it.’
‘What?’ I ask, surprised. Is he as jealous as I am of Joe’s physique? I never had Matt down as the type to feel threatened by some kid with a six-pack, but maybe he’s feeling insecure, now he’s given up five-a-side. I sit up again.
Matt glances at Amy to make sure she’s not listening and then goes back to staring at Bee. ‘I can’t stand seeing her working out.’
I’m still not sure what he means. Doesn’t he like ladies being muscly? Or does he think women shouldn’t have to leap through hoops to look good on telly, when no one gives a shit what the male reporters look like? Neither seems the kind of thing Matt would give a stuff about. I must be looking puzzled, because he says, ‘She’s so strong – for a woman, I mean. But every time I see her, like that,’ he nods at her biceps, glistening with sun oil, ‘I remember how she cracked Ruby-May’s rib.’
I look up at the sky and the sun burns my retinas. Anything not to have to think about my sister pressing down on my dead niece’s chest with those highly toned arms. I have no idea what to say to my brother-in-law. We sit in miserable silence.
After a few minutes Bethany and Joe run past us. They give us a cheery wave and jog up the hill and into the olive grove. There’s no way I can doze off now.
My father is bolt upright in a deckchair, a couple of feet away, reading the paper, a sunhat shielding his face. He clears his throat and addresses us as if he’s giving one of his lectures in politics to two hundred first-year students.
‘I realize now that I was not welcome here, but I’m grateful that you didn’t send me home.’
‘We want you here, Granddad!’ says Lotte.
I’m grateful the Italians can’t understand us.
‘Dad, shall we discuss this later?’ Amy says, pushing her sunglasses into her hair.
Our father holds up one hand. ‘I simply wanted to acknowledge your kindness and to say that I will pay for the holiday house.’
‘You think you can buy us?’ Matt’s rage is so close to the surface he’s gone from nought to sixty in seconds.
‘It must be expensive, such a large house for all of you and those two young men. I am happy to pay for it, so that we may all come together for the anniversary.’
I know I can’t afford this trip, and I’m pretty certain that money is tight for Amy and Matt right now – Amy has hardly worked this past year, and Matt’s been on career autopilot.
‘We’re not taking your bloody money,’ Matt says. ‘And if I had my way—’
I butt in. ‘Thanks, Dad, it’s a really kind offer. Why don’t we talk about it over lunch, when Bethany gets back from her fartlek?’
‘Her what?’ my father says.
Matt mutters under his breath, but he subsides back onto his sun-lounger.
‘Did you just say “fart”?’ asks Theo.
‘Fart, fart, fart. Want to find some rockpools?’ I ask him.
He shakes his head without looking at me.
I go on my own: the stone is already hot beneath the soles of my feet. The tide is almost fully in, but I bet, when it’s out, you’d be able to walk round the headland to the next beach. There are dark crevices, cracks in the rock, that race towards the sea, the insides pulpy with anemones the colour of blood clots; the edges are jagged and sharp. Behind me an Italian couple unfurl raffia mats and giant beach towels. I sit on the end of one outcrop and lower myself in – I’m not sure how deep it is. The bottom is sandy. My toes feel the odd stone, smoothed by the waves; and the water, surprisingly cold at first, is invigorating. I thrash
about, doing an ungainly butterfly stroke and a front crawl. I dive down and touch the bottom. I imagine Ruby-May with me, her blue eyes bright with sea water, the lashes stuck together in spikes, her little body solid between the palms of my hand as I balance her on the surface. She’d be wearing armbands and a swimsuit with a frill like a tennis player, splashing me with enthusiasm. I suddenly have no desire to carry on swimming.
I run up the beach towards my family, shaking the water from me like a dog. Luca is crouching on the ground, constructing something out of sand with Theo.
‘We’re making a sand-ship,’ says Theo. ‘We’re going to fly to the Moon and then Jupiter.’
He’s pressing small stones and shells into the base of the rocket. I guess they’re meant to be the flames.
‘Can I help?’
‘Yeah, we need more water, Lieutenant Uncle Nick.’
‘Roger that, Captain Theo.’ I pick up the bucket. ‘Hang on a minute, where’s Lotte?’
‘She is with your father,’ Luca says.
I look around and spot them at the edge of the sea. Dad’s hopping over the waves like an ungainly heron and it looks as if he’s tugging her, trying to pull Lotte towards him, but her arm is at full stretch as if she’s hanging back, away from the surf. I frown. Is it a game?
‘Did you know that Earth can fit into Jupiter one thousand times over?’ says Theo, as he pats down the nose of the spaceship.
‘Do you think that makes the Earth very small or is it that Jupiter is very large?’ Luca asks him.
Lotte screams shrilly. I start walking towards them, carrying the purple bucket that Theo has given me. Dad picks her up in his arms and begins wading into the sea. Lotte shrieks. I can’t tell if she’s having fun or not – the way she’ll scream blue-murder if I tickle her, but then beg for more if I stop. She’s kicking her legs and Dad is staggering, waves slapping against them. I look behind me, but no one else from our family has noticed. Lotte’s yells go really high-pitched and I pick up my pace. Dad sinks into the sea, still holding her, Lotte thrashing in his arms. It doesn’t look as if she’s enjoying herself. Suddenly she stops yelling and goes limp. I drop the bucket and sprint towards them as Dad shouts, ‘Lotte!’
