still hadn’t spoken to him about Tom’s death; I’d called Belinda the day it happened and she’d told him. She called a few days later to see how I was and told me that Josh had taken it badly. That was a very tough day.
Tom’s funeral really hit home how few friends I had. Most of them had disappeared over the years. Tom would complain about them, especially if they wanted to see me alone. If they called me he’d be cold afterward and say it wouldn’t bother him if it was someone else, but that particular person should be off-limits. My best friend from my university days, Chris, had said when Tom and I first got together that he was isolating me. I couldn’t believe it and after a while I didn’t see her again. Perhaps now I could find the courage to write to her, to tell her that she was right.
My dad was there. I called him when I got back to my flat that day. I didn’t know what else to do. I’d held it together through the drive home. I’d said hello to the lady who owned the florist’s shop and agreed with her that it was lovely to have a sunny day. She told me I looked a bit peaky and I smiled but couldn’t answer. I hurried upstairs and called my dad in Melbourne. It was three in the morning their time and I heard my mother’s outrage first, then my dad’s soft, familiar voice, asking if I was all right. Once I started to cry I couldn’t stop. The problem was that I had to stick to the story that Emma and I had agreed on. I couldn’t tell him about the fight I’d had with Tom, or about Harry, or how I knew Emma. I could never tell anyone the truth about what had happened.
He talked to me for hours that night until it was dark here and light there. He stayed on the phone until I slept and when I woke the next morning there was a message waiting for me, telling me he was already on a flight home. My mum stayed in Australia as planned; my dad told me she’d be back in a month, as though this was a promise, not a threat. Apparently she needed my sister’s support to cope with Tom’s death. Fiona told me that if she didn’t leave soon there’d be another funeral in the cards.
When he arrived home he invited me to stay with him at their house, but I wanted to be alone then and went back to my flat. I couldn’t trust myself not to tell him everything.
He was a godsend at the funeral reception, talking to people about Tom, just as though he’d liked him. He took me to one side once everyone had arrived at the reception and had been greeted and offered drinks.
“Just get through this,” he said, “then it’ll all be over.”
I knew what he meant: He wasn’t just talking about the funeral, but my marriage, too. I knew what he thought of Tom. Unlike my mum, who still thought Tom was marvelous, my dad seemed to go off him after the first couple of years. We always visited them; my mum didn’t come to my house. I think she felt it reduced her status as matriarch if she had to visit me, though if we had a party she always wanted to be there. She hated to miss out on anything.
At the start my dad seemed happy to spend time with Tom, but after a few years I noticed that he’d find an excuse to go out into the garden and do something out there. He’d come back in shortly before we left and say good-bye with a troubled look on his face. One day when I was there on my own, I’d tackled him about it.
“Don’t you like Tom?”
My dad’s eyes had shifted nervously. “Of course I do.”
“You don’t seem to like talking to him nowadays.”
“I do!”
I stared him down. “You leave the room as soon as you can. He’s always friendly to you. Why can’t you talk to him?”