The Adults

by Caroline Hulse

  “Patrick didn’t look happy that Claire went for a smoke with you last night,” Alex said.

  “I don’t know what he has such a beef about, it was only a bit of puff.” Matt kicked up mud with his wellies. “Claire sometimes smoked when we were together. Not toward the end, but I think that was probably her trying to make a point. Everything was a symbol of something at that time.”

  Alex felt like her chest was bursting. “Matt.” She couldn’t hold it in anymore. “You know you just said we have no secrets from each other. Can I ask you something?”

  Matt linked his gloved hand with one of hers. “Shoot.”

  “You told me that when you and Claire split up, you left Claire.”

  Matt let go of Alex’s hand.

  “Did you tell me the truth?”

  Matt looked down at his glove. He pulled it off with excessive care, one finger at a time. “Where’s that come from?”

  “I don’t think that’s what really happened. I think she left you.”

  Alex put a hand on Matt’s arm. He didn’t look at her, just kept on walking.

  “It’s OK. Just tell me,” she said gently.

  Matt stuffed both his gloves into one coat pocket. He held his neck taut, looking straight ahead.

  He spun round to face Alex. “Why can’t you just leave things?”

  Matt gestured at her in a swatting motion. Alex was shocked to see his hands trembling.

  “We’ve had a nice morning on the lake, I’m being all supportive that my daughter hates you, recognizing that this isn’t an easy weekend for you, and then you come up with this.” There was a look on his face Alex didn’t recognize. She felt the need for an extra coat. “Have I ever given you any reason not to trust me?”

  “It’s playing on my mind. You know what I’m like, if I don’t understand something I think and think and—”

  “You think and think.” Sarcasm made Matt’s voice thick. “Why would you dream of thinking that this is any of your fucking business?”

  Alex took an involuntary step back. “Because you’ve just said, five minutes ago, that we don’t have any secrets from each other!”

  “My secrets? What were you doing in Claire’s bedroom yesterday?”

  “I was looking for a hairdryer!”

  “Were you? Because you looked like you were doing something shifty.”

  Alex didn’t answer that.

  “And do you go through my messages and emails too? Have I got you wrong all this time? Have you just been acting nice and normal?”

  “I’m not like that, Matt!” Alex made herself lower her voice. “You’re being unfair. And I learned this stuff on this stupid weekend that you made me come on.”

  “That again. Back to that again.”

  Alex tried to keep her voice tremor-free. “On the boat, you said how honest you are with me, that I know everything about you. So how do you think I feel that I don’t think you’ve been honest with me?”

  Matt didn’t say anything.

  “And I’m confused about whose idea this weekend was.”

  When he didn’t respond, Alex twisted her gloved hands together.

  “You said you’d been split up for nearly a year before we got together, but now people have said things that suggest that isn’t true, and you hadn’t told me you’d been here before, and—”

  Alex stopped, silenced by the hostility of Matt’s gaze.

  He put his hands on his hips. “So Alex is confused. We can’t have that. What exactly do you want to know, Alex?”

  Alex looked at the mud on her shoes.

  “I tell you everything. Every fucking thing. But you can’t leave me with one corner of privacy. Just one little bit of my life you don’t know everything about.”

  Alex reached for his arm. “That’s not it.”

  Matt shook her hand off. He took a breath. “Yes, Claire left me. So thanks for pointing that out.”

  Alex bit her lip.

  “And yes, I turned into Walshy for a while, and couldn’t get out of bed or see the point of anything. I sorted myself out eventually, but I was still a mess. I couldn’t believe I’d fucked everything up and I wasn’t going to be able to live with my own daughter.”

  Alex reached out again. “Matt.”

  Matt took a step back and Alex’s hand slid off his arm. “What else? What else do you want to know?”

  “Nothing. Please.”

  “You want to know that I lied to you about how long me and Claire had been split up when you and me got together? That we’d only just split up, and I was still trying to win her back when I was on dates with you?”

  Alex felt a new emptiness within.

  “Happy now? Is this what you want to hear? That I got together with you straightaway after Claire dumped me, and I was still trying to get her back?”

  “You were a mess when we met?”

  “I fucking was. But that was ages ago.” Matt threw his arms out wide. “Look at me now!”

  Some children wearing mittens walked past. They turned to stare at Matt.

  “Look at me now!” Matt shouted again. “I’m so fucking happy now! So fucking happy!”

  Matt moved to storm off; he stopped and turned. “And yes, this weekend was my suggestion. I wanted to spend Christmas with Scarlett without leaving Claire out. And I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to burst my bubble and tell me why it wasn’t a good idea, what with all your fucking common sense.”

  Matt re-stormed off, properly this time, striding across the grass toward the lodge.

  Alex watched him go. She noticed something fall to the floor from his pocket: a black shape.

  “Matt!” she shouted. He didn’t turn round.

  Alex followed him at a distance and picked up the item: a glove. She stroked it gently.

  Alex felt a buzz in her pocket. She reached for her phone.

  Ruby:

  Are you feeling any better today? Have you spoken to Matt?

  Alex put her phone back in her pocket. She ignored the next buzz. She walked slowly back toward the lodge, Matt’s glove screwed up in the palm of one hand.

  36

  Patrick vaulted a low fence. He landed, steadied himself, and sprinted round the lake.

  He ran into a cloud of what looked like blackish pigeons. (Blackbirds? He’d never really got the measure of nature.)

  Patrick ran faster, enthused by his power. He could shift a whole flock.

  In the middle of the lake, Alex and Matt floated on a boat, both leaning forward so their heads were close together, looking serious. The oars were unused, still in their holsters. These people weren’t even trying.

  Patrick kept on running.

  Claire should cut him some slack. He was doing her a favor, coming here. Not that she acted like it, but he was. He missed his Amber and Jack more than ever at this time of year.

  Alex had really landed him in it with the Ironman thing. It was his fault: he should have told her it was a secret, but he didn’t want to expose any imperfections in his and Claire’s relationship.

  Patrick ran across the crazy golf course and vaulted over a plastic toadstool obstacle.

  But maybe he’d landed Matt in it with Alex too. Because Matt must have told her a lie about how Claire and he had split up.

  Patrick had felt sorry for Matt back then. In fact, he still did when he thought about it now, because how Matt behaved back then was one of the few things about Matt that Patrick really got. Matt did all the cliché loser stuff that—if Patrick was honest with himself—he’d felt like doing himself when Lindsay left, but knew he had to rise above if he wanted to keep any self-respect at all.

  * * *

  —

  Two years before, Patrick had been asleep in Claire’s house. He had woken up with a s
ense of sudden urgency. There was a noise downstairs.

  He sat up quickly. “Are we being burgled?”

  Claire sat up slowly. She didn’t reply.

  Even in his hazy post-sleep fug, Patrick scanned the room for something he could use as a weapon. He rejected the roll along suitcase (too big), the pair of shoes (too small), the bedside lamp (too flimsy).

  There was the noise again. Banging on the door. Thud, thud, thud.

  Patrick glanced at his phone on the bedside table. He pressed the button and the screen lit up. After one A.M.—and on a school night.

  Patrick turned toward Claire. “Don’t answer it. He can’t keep doing this.”

  Claire looked at the curtains, her gaze vague and thoughtful. Her silky nightshirt slipped off one shoulder, revealing her soft throat in a way that made Patrick gasp at his closeness to that uncovered skin. It was still so new. He was here, in Claire Petersen’s bed, with the actual Claire Petersen right next to him.

  A blueish light flashed on Claire’s bedside table. Though her mobile was on silent, the screen showed who was ringing. Matt Cutler.

  Patrick felt a flush of pleasure at the full-name title in Claire’s phone. He knew it was probably because Claire’s phone was linked to her online contacts book and that had filled the surname in automatically, but he was still pleased Matt was Matt Cutler in Claire’s phone.

  He hoped he wasn’t himself labeled in Claire’s phone as Patrick Asher. It was suddenly incredibly important that, in Claire’s phone, he was just Patrick.

  Claire picked up the phone. “I’m coming down, Matt. Stop banging. You’ll wake Scarlett.” She placed the phone back on the bedside table.

  She leaned to the side, swinging her legs out of bed and standing up in a one-move gesture that made Patrick’s heart ache with the elegance of it. This woman was perfect. Actually, genuinely perfect.

  She leaned over him and pressed her palm into his thigh; she squeezed reassuringly. “Back in five,” she whispered.

  Her nightshirt was so short and silky, it rose up as she walked out of the room, to the extent Patrick was convinced he could see a hint of pubic hair. He had to stop himself saying, Are you sure you don’t want a dressing gown?

  Patrick heard Claire step down the stairs.

  He looked to his bedside table—to the curved lamp that Matt must have switched on a thousand times.

  Patrick pulled his knees up to his chest in the darkness. He heard Claire pull the chain off the door and turn the key.

  Then she was speaking, in a low voice. “You can’t do this. Think of Scarlett.”

  “Just ten minutes. Let me in for ten minutes. Please. I need to talk.” Matt was trying to keep his voice quiet, but there was no mistaking the high, pleading nature of it.

  “Matt, I can’t. You know I can’t. It won’t help anything. I will come and see you at the weekend.”

  “Are you on your own?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Go home and sleep it off.”

  “Please tell me.”

  Patrick was sure Claire must smell of sex. Matt must be really drunk if he couldn’t tell that.

  “Yes, I’m alone. But it doesn’t matter. I’m going to phone Walshy if you don’t go away. Make him come and pick you up for your own good. But don’t make me do this, you’re breaking my heart. I can’t believe you’re still doing this.”

  “Just ten minutes, Claire. Please. Just give me a chance to explain. I’ll be different. I’ll be what you want.”

  “If Scarlett wakes up, she’ll get confused. Don’t make this any harder on her, Matt. Please.”

  After a moment, the door shut quietly and Patrick heard the chain slide across. He heard Claire step up the stairs. He didn’t see her come into the room, but felt the mattress angle downward. Claire slipped into bed beside him.

  Patrick reached for her hand; it was cold. It sat limply in his as he squeezed it.

  “You OK?” Patrick asked.

  “I’d hoped he’d stopped.”

  “I’ll go round tomorrow,” Patrick said. “Tell him he has to stop it. He shouldn’t still be doing this after six months.”

  “You won’t go round,” Claire said, with a firmness Patrick didn’t recognize. “That’s the worst thing you could do. We just have to leave it. Until he gets his head round it.”

  * * *

  —

  Patrick’s stomach felt sloshy and uncertain as he ran past Santa’s grotto. He sped up.

  He couldn’t run for more than two hours today. He had to pick Scarlett up from Fluffy the Squirrel’s Woodland Winter Wonderland (whatever the hell that was) before Claire was back from the spa.

  “Patrick!”

  Patrick slowed and turned.

  Nicola jogged up to him, holding a sequined child’s jumper in one hand. “Do you mind me interrupting you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “It’s Christmas. You’re being way too healthy running.”

  “You were sporty at school.”

  She laughed. “At school. It was quite a while ago.”

  “I still remember seeing the name Nicola Garcia on the list of the captains of the netball team.”

  “That was Nicola Garcia. I’m Nicola Trevor now.”

  “But your husband’s not here?”

  Nicola turned to look behind her. “Hurry up, kids!” she shouted.

  She turned back to Patrick. “He died. When the kids were tiny.”

  Patrick licked his lips. “I’m so sorry.” He wanted to lean forward and stroke her soft hair. Her farmer’s wife cardigan swamped her now-tragic figure.

  “It was a long time ago,” she said. “But Nicola Garcia is long gone. Nicola Trevor hasn’t captained any netball teams.” Nicola sighed and shook her head. “She wouldn’t know how.”

  “I bet you would. You’re still in very good shape.”

  She smiled. Was that a hint of red in her cheeks? “Thank you. And so are you. It’s very impressive at this time of year.”

  “I have to exercise. Next year, I’m doing—”

  “Mum!”

  Nicola paused. After a second, she looked over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me, you want your jumper back. That took all of three minutes.”

  Patrick smiled at Nicola’s two daughters, who had appeared behind her.

  He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry to be rude. I’ve got to pick up my stepdaughter.”

  He stopped himself before he said where he had to pick her up from. He refused to say Fluffy the Squirrel’s Woodland Winter Wonderland in front of Nicola.

  “Of course,” Nicola said.

  They looked at each other for a moment longer.

  “I’d better be off.” Patrick turned and continued his run.

  He wondered how much Nicola had hurried to catch up with him and, more important, why.

  * * *

  —

  Patrick leaned on the wall of the lodge, pulling a leg out behind him and lifting his heel to his buttock, stretching his quadriceps. He’d picked up Scarlett at the end of his run, before he’d been able to do a proper cool-down, so he was making up for it now.

  Fluffy the Squirrel’s Woodland Winter Wonderland had turned out to be another singing and dancing thing with adults in fancy dress. When Scarlett came out, she’d said, “Me and Posey are too old for this kids’ stuff.”

  Patrick stretched his quadriceps further. He wondered how many eggs he could eat without Claire criticizing him for being selfish with his protein requirements.

  He should have bought more eggs when he was at the supermarket. But he hadn’t realized how many Matt and Alex would eat. He hadn’t thought they’d be egg people.

  Matt headed down the road toward Patrick. Matt walked quickly, head down, hands shoved in his pockets, like the teenager he still wa
s in some ways.

  Patrick wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Good boat trip?”

  Matt looked up, noticing Patrick for the first time.

  “I saw you two on the lake,” Patrick added. “Just floating there.”

  Matt gave a nod. He stalked past Patrick and into the lodge.

  Patrick let go of his foot and placed it on the ground. He lifted his other foot and brought it up in an echo of his original pose, stretching his other quadriceps. The outside of his leg had the coldness of a cadaver.

  He felt the bite of the muscle as it stretched. The stretch hurt, but it was a good hurt. A wholesome, winter’s hurt.

  Matt’s voice carried to him from inside the lodge. “Shall we go for lunch, Scarlett?”

  “Just the three of us?” Scarlett asked.

  There was a pause. “Alex isn’t coming.”

  “I meant Posey.”

  Matt laughed, the sound with more of an edge than usual. “What are his table manners like? I hope he doesn’t eat with his paws.”

  “You know he uses his spoon, Dad. You’ve eaten with him loads of times. And he never talks with his mouth full.”

  “You can bring him along, then.”

  “And he doesn’t put his elbows on the table either.”

  Matt laughed again. “Who taught you that rubbish? Farm Grandma?”

  “Patrick says it’s not polite.”

  “That kind of knowledge will stand you in good stead if you ever dine with an earl. Shall we go? You can even eat with your elbows on the table. I won’t tell Patrick.”

  Patrick frowned. He kept stretching his quadriceps, trying to relax into the burn, like his yoga teacher told him.

  Patrick heard the zipping and rustling of coats and wellies. Matt and Scarlett headed out of the front door.

  “Come here.” Matt wedged a woolly hat on Scarlett’s head.

  Matt looked at Patrick. “You staying around the house?”

  Patrick placed his foot back down on the patio. “Yep. So there’s no need to lock up.” He linked his fingers at the base of his spine. He pushed his arms out and felt the stretch across his shoulders.