I don’t think I’ve seen her this angry before. ‘We’re on earth at the moment, Mother, not in heaven, and his name’s Benji.’
‘First thing Monday morning, Kit.’ Dad wags his finger. ‘You let that DC Ian Grint have it right between the eyes.’
I have to get away from them all. I mumble something about tea and cake, and force myself to leave the room at a normal pace, instead of running, which is what I want to do. In the kitchen, I close the door and lean against it. How long can I get away with staying in here? For ever?
The sound of knocking interrupts my fantasy. Kit. It must be – I can hear Mum, Dad and Fran still arguing in the lounge. I don’t want to let him in, but as his co-conspirator I have no choice. He might have something important to say about the maintenance of the lie that we’re presenting to my family this afternoon: our fake happy marriage.
‘You okay?’ he asks me.
‘No. You?’
‘Just about staying afloat. Let’s get on with the tea and cake, and then maybe we can get rid of them early.’
‘They’ll leave at exactly seven fifteen, whatever we do or don’t do,’ I say. Kit ought to know better than to hope something different might happen. ‘Dad and Anton’ll go straight to the pub for their Friday night pint, and Mum’ll be busy for at least half an hour helping Fran put Benji to bed. I’ll drive you to the station at seven twenty-five – that way I can be back by the time they all resurface. If any of them bothers looking, they’ll see both our cars and assume we’re both here.’
Kit nods. I fill the kettle and switch it on, take the shop-bought birthday cake out of the bread bin. I chose the most expensive one in the supermarket, as if that could make up for anything. I load cups, saucers and teaspoons onto a tray, fill the milk jug with milk, scrape the discoloured granules off the surface of the sugar so that Mum won’t recoil when she looks into the bowl. Last but not least, a plastic lidded beaker full of apple juice for Benji, the only five-year-old in the world who still drinks out of a baby cup.
Kit’s pulling clean cake plates out of the dishwasher. ‘Tomorrow I’ll spend the day at Mum and Dad’s,’ I tell him. He holds out a large serrated knife for me to take. ‘If I’m there, none of them will come here. I’ll tell them you’re at home working.’
‘This is insane, Con. Why can’t we tell them the truth? Our current project’s coming to a head in London, I’m needed there full-time, so I’ve decided to stay at the flat for the foreseeable future.’
I take the knife from him. ‘That isn’t the truth, Kit.’
‘You know what I mean,’ he says impatiently, as if I’m splitting hairs. ‘Not the truth truth, but . . . can’t we tell them something closer to it, so that we don’t have to pretend I’m living here when I’m not?’ I watch him make up his mind to say more, and know what’s coming. ‘Or we could make our lie true: you could let me move back in.’
‘Don’t.’ I push him away, not daring to meet his eyes in case it’s obvious from mine how much I miss him. He moved out on Wednesday. For the last two nights I’ve lain awake crying, unable to sleep, using all my willpower to stop myself from ringing him and begging him to come home. I thought of myself as a good person until all this happened, but I understand now that I’m not. I could so easily lose my grip on what’s right, turn to Kit and say, ‘You know what? I don’t care if you’ve been seeing someone behind my back. I don’t care if you’re a liar or even a killer – I’m going to love you and stay with you anyway, because the alternative is too soul-destroying and too much effort.’
‘We’re going to have to do it, aren’t we?’ Kit closes his eyes. ‘The full performance: sing happy birthday, open presents, blow out candles, “For she’s a jolly good fellow”, hugs and kisses all round . . .’ I see the shudder pass through his body.
‘Of course we are. Isn’t that what’s happened every year since you’ve known me? My family don’t know this year’s any different.’