‘Are you sure?’ He didn’t have anything like Ginny’s confidence. She had swirled into everywhere as though the evening’s VIP had just glittered through the door, whereas Victor hovered, waiting for permission to enter. Maybe grief did that to you. Undid your certainty about life to such an extent that every social interaction felt precarious. Or maybe it was just damned hard to walk in when everyone knew that your mum was dead and your heart was shattered but there was still an odd expectation that you would shove your pain to one side so no one felt uncomfortable.
Of course, it could also be that nature had triumphed over nurture and Victor’s Canadian dad didn’t dash through life like a Labrador, convinced that every new person might be a potential friend. I wished I’d asked Ginny more questions about him now, but she had a knack of diverting me from topics she didn’t want to discuss.
Phoebe put an end to my navel gazing with a monotone, ‘Yeah, he said it was okay,’ as she picked up her school bag and walked out.
Yet again, I wished that she could just be a bit more forthcoming. Everything about her was grudging, as though offering something up joyfully and generously somehow shaved a sliver off her own resources.
On the night of the party, Patrick shuffled Georgia and Phoebe out to the car. I was relieved to see that even headed-for-Oxbridge Georgia had her boobs hanging out like a couple of escaped breakfast bagels. They were both giggling and whispering in a way that suggested there had been a side order of vodka with the stick-on eyelashes. Victor followed, looking as though he wished he could stay at home. Despite his reticence, he was so handsome in jeans and a T-shirt that my eyes prickled at the small moments Ginny was missing. I wanted to hug him. He reminded me so much of myself at that age, apprehensive about events that other people looked forward to for weeks.
‘Right, have a good time. Be sensible,’ I said, trying and failing to get some acknowledgement that I’d spoken from Phoebe.
As soon as I shut the front door against the fog of sweet-smelling perfume, I sank down into the sofa, rejoicing in the silence. I put my head in my hands, massaging my eyebrows. I really wanted to go to bed and read my book, but given that Patrick and I had hardly talked about anything other than domestic logistics since Victor had arrived, I decided we should probably take the opportunity to catch up without Phoebe flapping in and having an opinion. I downloaded a box set, made up a cheeseboard and opened a bottle of wine, feeling quite the caricature of a date-night wife.
It worked. Patrick came back in and said, ‘This looks nice.’ He drew me into a hug. ‘Thank God they’ve all gone out.’
We flopped onto the sofa. I squeezed his hand. ‘I feel like I’ve barely spoken two words to you in the last couple of months.’
‘I know. It is a bit like having a stranger in the house that you don’t want to overhear your business, isn’t it?’
Even though I agreed, guilt made me want to argue with him.
‘But it would be a bit naïve to imagine that he was going to arrive and fit in as though he’d always been here. I think he’s done pretty well. Phoebe could have been a bit more generous and welcoming.’ I decided not to offer up my opinion that I felt that Patrick hadn’t fallen over himself to include Victor either.
‘It’s hard for her though. I mean, she’s used to being an only child and we did impose it on her. She didn’t have much say in the matter.’
I hoped I was imagining the undertone of ‘You just barrelled on and did what you wanted despite our objections.’ I decided not to point out that Patrick was the first to dismiss Phoebe’s views on anything except when they coincided with what he wanted.
I flicked on the TV before I soured the evening by setting off on a rant about how Phoebe’s objections had mainly centred around the fact that we only had one bathroom and the Wi-Fi was already so slow ‘without anyone else downloading films’. I’d been furious and got into a row about how she had everything she wanted and it wouldn’t kill her to be a bit charitable to someone who’d just lost their mother. Patrick hadn’t said a word