seemed to do my father good. It distracted him. Every night he bathed them and put them to bed as I cooked supper. Shrills of laughter and the thunder of tumultuous splashing moved towards me from the bathroom, making my heart sing a little. After bath time, leaving the bathroom floor so wet we could have been flooded, Dad spent so long reading to them that by the time he emerged to eat, my carefully prepared food was almost dried out. But I didn’t have the heart to reprimand him. In the scheme of things, what does a bit of overcooked food matter?
Even though Craig had the week off, something big must have been going on at the fire station because he spent a lot of time on the pavement outside the bungalow, speaking on his mobile. Whenever I glanced at him he looked agitated and busy, serious-faced and official. His job is such hard work. Leading firemen are given so much extra responsibility these days.
The organ. We stand and its rich, sweet sound emanates from the balcony above, clawing at my heart. Already I have to work against the tears that are tightening my throat. I clasp the handkerchief in my pocket with my sweaty grip. In my other palm the shake in my father’s hand increases. I turn to look at him again. He stands next to me, expressionless now, straight-backed and straight-lipped. The pallbearers walk slowly up the aisle, struggling beneath the weight of my mother’s oak casket. One of them stumbles a little, but almost immediately regains his balance.
The casket is placed.
My mother is in front of the altar, wedged between the choir stalls, encased in oak and covered in lilies and roses, her favourite flowers. Where is she now? Can she see us, is she already floating in ethereal soup, looking down? And what has happened to the body she has left behind? I feel sick just thinking about that.
‘Nana’s inside there,’ I hear Luke whisper to Mark. He points. Mark follows his finger, wide eyed. I wanted her to watch my offspring grow.
‘We are here to celebrate the life of Lesley Jane Tunnicliffe,’ the vicar starts with his exaggerated biblical lilt, vowels all over the place.
The atmosphere in the church stiffens. Everyone is listening. Does celebrating a life make death more bearable? I close my mind and push the vicar’s words away.
The Travelodge again. Lying in Craig’s arms, replete. I can’t get hold of any more MDMA. Bob has disappeared. Maybe he is lying low. Maybe the police have got him. I don’t think that Craig liked it. He said it made him feel wiped out, half dead, after the initial euphoria. But I found the euphoria fantastic. Euphoria, euphoria, euphoria. Bob, please be there next time. Please give me some more.
Craig is asleep, his breath rising and falling across my cheek. We have not had as much time as usual today as he was fifteen minutes late, and when you only have an hour, fifteen minutes makes a big difference. He stirs and sits up. He edges off the bed, steps towards the doorway to collect his scattered clothes. My stomach lurches with desire to take him in my mouth again as I did after the funeral, bringing him off in the bathroom in Jenni’s parents’ bungalow, no one knowing we were in there. On a high like badly behaved teenagers. That is what he makes me feel like. A teenager again, on a voyage of discovery. I get off the bed and step towards him.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks. ‘No, Carly. I have to go.’
He pulls away from me and starts to dress, quickly covering himself up with grey Gap underpants. I’ll get him something smarter for his birthday. Something more figure enhancing.
I go back and lie on the bed, watching him dress.
‘Why are you in such a hurry?’ I ask.
He puts his fingers to his lips.
‘No discussion. Something to do with my family.’
This is how we have agreed to cope with our deceit, by pretending we don’t have families.
‘Family. I didn’t even know you had a family,’ I say and smile.
He smiles back. Fully dressed, he comes and sits on the edge of the bed next to me. He leans across and kisses me gently on the lips.
‘Today was great. Thank you,’ he says.
‘Next week, I’ve booked a treat.’
‘Are you going to tell me or is it a secret?’
‘I have to tell you, or you won’t know where to go.’
He frowns.
‘Where to go?’
‘I’ve booked a hotel a few miles away for us for the whole night; we can have dinner in our room.’
The smile that was still playing at the edge of his lips disappears.
‘Carly. I meant it when we said nothing personal. No attachment. A sex-only partnership. Fuck buddies.’ He sighs. ‘I thought you agreed. Otherwise I would never have started this.’ There is a pause. ‘How can you expect me to do that?’
‘Was our bathroom blowjob nothing personal?’
‘It was ten minutes. Like a wank.’
‘Is that what I am, a sophisticated wank?’
He looks uncomfortable.
‘Surely sex this good must mean something?’ I ask.
He doesn’t reply. He looks agitated.
‘Do you have sex this good with Jenni?’
He stands up to leave, eyes flashing.
‘Leave Jenni out of this.’
Breakfast in our modern townhouse, sitting at our kitchen table. Eating Weetabix. Sipping Nescafé. The boys are plastering crumbs from croissants on the floor, on the table, and on their faces instead of eating them. Jenni is sitting next to me. I smell her scent; patchouli oil. I think Jenni is becoming very suspicious of my comings and goings. Her eyes have started to swivel too often as she checks my movements. Last time I came back from seeing Carly she made a very pointed comment about how often I was showering. Yesterday morning when I came out of the bathroom she was scrolling through my iPhone. When I asked her what she was doing she said it had buzzed and she was just checking whether anything important had come in. I checked my phone later and I know she was lying. No incoming messages of any kind.
Now as I slurp the end of my Weetabix, her toffee eyes dart towards mine.
‘Craig, would you mind picking up Dad’s repeat prescription from the surgery? You’ll be walking past on the way to the fire station, won’t you?’
My father-in-law is living with us at the moment. Or rather co-existing. He is so bereft without Jenni’s mother that to say he is living would be an exaggeration. He is sitting in the living room area of our open plan room in front of the TV, nibbling a piece of toast. I turn my head to look across at him. I
