“Bloody reading, that’s what.” He holds up the book that’s tucked under his arm. A Stephen King novel. It.
She laughs and stammers about the northern lights, but he ducks into the pantry, leaving her to watch the green glow fade back to sky. Once he’s filched a bag of almonds and a bottle of gin he pulls a chair back from the dining table—she grimaces as it makes a loud scrape against the floor and hopes it doesn’t wake Coco—then sits down and pours himself a glass.
“I think I’ll join you,” she says. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. You’ll need a . . .”
“Glass?” she says, plucking one from the cupboard. He grins, and she sits down opposite and allows him to pour her a generous shot.
“I’d never have taken you for a midnight drinker,” Clive says once she’s drained it.
“I’d never have taken you for a Stephen King fan.”
He grins, shrugs. “Won’t alcohol affect the . . .” His eyes fall to her chest before he can catch himself. He laughs and covers his eyes, embarrassed, with a hand. “Sorry.”
Absentmindedly she presses a hand across her chest, even though she’s wearing one of Tom’s T-shirts and no cleavage is on display. “I’m not feeding her . . . myself . . . anymore,” she says, tentatively, feeling shame sting her anew. “I breastfed Gaia until she was one, but it’s been . . . difficult . . . this time round. Something called oversupply. It’s when you get too much milk and your boobs swell up like footballs . . . Oh, Lord.” She buries her face in her hands and they both laugh. “Too much information,” she says. He fills her another glass.
“Here, this’ll help.” He fills his own, raises it in a toast. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“How’s Basecamp coming on?” she says after a moment’s silence.
“Basecamp,” he says wistfully. “Basecamp, Basecamp.”
She notes a sense of something—ennui?—that has filled the room. “Sorry. I’m sure you dream about building, now.”
He grins. She always did like his smile. It’s the kind that reaches his eyes. She’s always loved people with expressive eyes like Clive. “Well, we’re at a tricky part just now, so it’s kind of a touchy subject . . .”
“Hasn’t every part of the build been tricky?”
He laughs. “Indeed. Well, when you’ve got Tom at the helm, it’s never going to be straightforward, is it? I mean, rooms with trees inside them? Having to change the plans again and again to avoid damaging the bloody trees?” Another laugh, tinged with fatigue. “Well. I suppose we all now have a very healthy respect for trees, I’ll give him that.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
He frowns, shakes his head. “Oh, no, don’t apologize. It’s your house, isn’t it? Got to make it right . . .”
“Yes, but you and Derry are . . . well, the longer it takes, the longer you both have to . . .”
He lifts the glass and pours her another shot, spilling some on the table.
“Whoops,” she says, and realizes she’s already drunk. He flicks his eyes at her, then pours his own glass. He lifts it to his chest, then leans back in his seat thoughtfully.
“I won’t deny it, it’s been difficult,” he says. “Derry wants us to go back to London, but I need to be here.”
She frowns. “Why? Can’t Tom take care of things now?”
“It’s better that I’m here. Derry understands. But obviously, she’s pregnant now. So it changes things.”
Her face drops. She raises a hand to her mouth and laughs too loudly. He shushes her with a finger to his lips. She laughs again and claps her hands together.
“Wow. Wow, Clive. I’m . . . that’s amazing. Amazing. Is Derry . . . Is she OK? I mean, what about morning sickness?”
He nods, smiling, and she is pleased for him. Clive, a father.
“We’ll be looking to you and Tom for parenting tips,” he says. “I haven’t a clue what to do with a baby.”
“I’m probably not the best person to ask . . .” she says. She’s always felt like she’s a crap mum.
His eyes widen in disbelief and he leans forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Listen, I’ve seen you with those girls of yours, and you’re incredible. Seriously. Nothing’s as hard as parenting in my book. Nothing. Particularly when it comes to the mother.”
She beams. This is a side to Clive she’s never seen—tenderness. He’s a hard-ass, dryly sarcastic at his warmest, and she’s often wondered