‘You didn’t see a dead woman on Roundthehouses or anywhere else,’ Dad cuts me off. ‘I’ve never heard such a load of twaddle in my life. You said yourself: when Kit came to look, there was no body. Right?’
‘That’s what you said,’ Mum adds nervously, as if she fears I’m a loose cannon, likely to change my story.
I nod.
‘Then there was no body – you imagined it,’ says Dad. ‘You ought to ring that copper and apologise for wasting his time.’
‘I’m sure if I stayed up until goodness knows what time of night, I’d start hallucinating too,’ Mum contributes. ‘I keep telling you, but you never listen: you need to look after yourself better. You and Kit both work too hard, you stay up too late, you don’t always eat properly . . .’
‘Give it a rest, Mum,’ says Fran. ‘You don’t do yourself any favours. Come on, Benji, open your mouth, for Christ’s sake. Big wide mouth!’
‘Do you think I imagined it, Fran?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Not necessarily. Maybe. Three chocolate fingers, Benji, if you open your mouth and eat this yummy . . . That’s right! Bit wider . . .’
‘What do you think, Anton?’ I ask him.
‘I don’t think you’d have seen it if it wasn’t there,’ he says. I’m considering leaping out of my chair and throwing my arms around him when he ruins it by adding, ‘Sounds like someone’s idea of a practical joke to me. I wouldn’t let it worry you.’ As answers go, it’s only a fraction less dismissive than, ‘I can’t be bothered with this – it’s too much effort.’
‘You shouldn’t be looking at houses in Cambridge at any price,’ says Mum. ‘Millionaires’ Row or . . . Paupers’ Parade. Have you forgotten what happened last time you went down that route?’
‘Mum, for God’s sake!’ says Fran.
‘At least there was a reason last time – Kit being offered a promotion.’
Which he couldn’t accept, because I ruined everything for him. Thanks for reminding me.
‘Why now, all of a sudden?’ Mum pleads, adopting what’s probably her favourite of her many voices: the frail, reedy warble of a broken woman. ‘You and Kit have got a thriving business, a lovely home, you’ve got all of us right on your doorstep, your sister, lovely Benji – why would you want to move to Cambridge now? I mean, if it was London, I could understand it, with Kit working there as much as he does – though heaven knows why anyone would want to live in such a noisy, scruffy hell-hole – but Cambridge . . .’
‘Because we should have moved in 2003, and we didn’t, and I’ve regretted it ever since.’ I’m on my feet, and I’m not sure why. Did I plan to storm out of the room? Out of the house? Mum and Dad stare at me as if they don’t understand what I’ve just said. Dad turns away, makes a breathy, growling noise I haven’t heard before. It frightens me.
Why do I always ruin things for everybody? What’s wrong with me?
‘Hooray! Benji ate his broccoli!’ Anton cheers, again through a pretend loudspeaker, apparently oblivious to the invisible strings of tension stretched tautly from one end of the kitchen to the other. Maybe I am suffering from a disease that makes you hallucinate; I can see those strings as clearly as if they were real, with unspoken threats and glowing grudges hanging from them like Christmas decorations.
‘Benji’s the champion!’ Anton bellows, as Fran waves the empty fork in the air in triumph.
‘Benji’s five, not two,’ I snap. ‘Why don’t you try talking to him normally, instead of like a low-budget children’s party entertainer?’
‘Because’ – Anton continues in his false booming voice – ‘it’s only when Daddy talks like this and makes him laugh . . . that he eats his broccoli!’
Benji isn’t laughing. He’s trying not to gag on the food he hates.
Anton’s impermeable jollity makes me want to scream a torrent of insults at him. The only time I’ve ever seen the mildest of frowns pass across his face was when a Monk & Sons customer referred to him as a house-husband. Fran quickly corrected her in a way that sounded forced, learned by heart. I made the mistake of repeating the story to Kit, who instantly developed a Pavlovian response to hearing Anton’s name: ‘Anton – not a house-husband, but a personal trainer taking an open-ended career break.’
‘Low-budget!’ Mum pounces on the phrase. ‘Of course, you’re high-end now, aren’t