on, I figured they were unlikely to stage an intervention. Leon had brought over cartons of fiery, complicated noodle dishes and spent lunch trying to convince Melissa, whom he liked, to move to Berlin—“All that stuff in your shop, the Germans would go mad for that, they love anything Irish—shut up, Toby, Melissa and I are having a conversation here. And oh my God, German guys. They’re all about seven feet tall and they don’t spend their entire lives in the pub, they actually do things, parties and nature walks and museums and— Tell me again, what do you see in this big ugly lump?”
When I went out onto the terrace, though, he was sitting on the steps, a thin thread of smoke rising from one hand, not moving. It was late afternoon; the shadow of the apartment block was starting to slant across the garden, slicing it sharply into a bright half and a dark, small pale butterflies appearing and vanishing again like a magician’s trick as they flitted back and forth. “Hey,” I said, lighting my cigarette and sitting down beside Leon. “Quit trying to make my girlfriend dump me.”
Leon didn’t turn. The hunch of his shoulders startled me; all the effervescent charm had fallen away like a dust sheet, leaving him a dense dark huddle on the steps. “He’s getting worse, you know,” he said.
It took me a second to realize what he meant. “No he isn’t,” I said. I was already starting to wish I had stayed inside.
Leon didn’t even look at me. “He is. Today when I came in, he said, ‘My goodness, it’s been a while!’ Big smile.”
Leon had spent the whole afternoon there two days earlier. “He was joking,” I said.
“He wasn’t.”
There was a silence. “Are you staying for dinner?” I asked. “I think we’re making ravioli with—”
“And his fucking leg,” Leon said. “Did you see him going down into the kitchen? Three stairs, and his leg was shaking like jelly. I didn’t think he was going to make it.”
“He had radiotherapy yesterday. It tires him out. By tomorrow he’ll be stronger.”
“No he won’t.”
“Look,” I said. I really, badly wanted Leon to shut up, but I knew him well enough to keep that out of my voice. “I’m with him all the time. OK? I know the, the, the patterns. After radiotherapy, he’s worse for a day or two, then he gets better.”
“A few more weeks and he’s not going to be able to manage on his own. What happens when you go home? Has anyone got anything planned? Home care, or hospice, or—”
“I don’t know when I’m going home,” I said. “I might hang on here for a while.”
That made Leon turn to look at me, leaning back like I was some bizarre creature that had suddenly appeared in his field of vision. “Seriously? Like how long?”
I shrugged. “I’ll see as I go.” For the last few days I had been wondering, idly but persistently, how long Melissa would be on for staying at the Ivy House. I did have doubts about how much longer I could get away with convincing my family that the only thing wrong with me was an extra glass of wine or a fondness for painkillers, and the thought of any of them realizing just how fucked up I was made me flinch like someone jamming a finger into an open wound; in some ways I felt like I should get out soon, while I was still ahead. On the other hand, going back to my apartment and the panic button and the nightly horrors was unthinkable. “I’m in no hurry.”
“What about work? Are you not going back?”
“I am back. I’m doing stuff from here.” I hadn’t been in touch with Richard in months; I had no idea whether I still even had a job. “They know the story. They’re fine with me working from home for a while.”
“Huh,” Leon said, eyebrows still up. “Lucky you. Then what happens when it gets to be more than you can handle? No”—lifting a hand, when I started to say something—“I’m actually not being bitchy. You’ve been a trouper, I appreciate it more than I can tell you, and I apologize from the bottom of my heart for saying you wouldn’t be able for it. OK? But are you on for, I don’t know, lifting Hugo out of the bath? What about wiping his arse? Giving him his pain meds every four hours, day and night?”