Her life had unravelled.
Chloe had no choice but to go home.
And even then, her timing had been impeccably bad. She arrived in Scarborough, with a full suitcase and an empty heart, the week before her mother found out about Megan.
One shit storm straight into another.
It had been awful having a front row seat for the last act of her parents’ marriage. Whereas before, there had only ever been the occasional sharp comment and brooding silence – a strict adherence to ‘not in front of the children’ – after the revelation of her father’s affair there was no such restraint. Thirty-five years’ worth of rage and recrimination spilled out, splashing over everything in the vicinity, including Chloe.
It had been a relief, though also another huge loss, when her mother had finally stormed out of the house for good. At least then things calmed down.
For a short period Chloe and her father had hunkered down inside The View, licking their respective wounds. It was the first time in her life that Chloe felt she had something in common with her dad. They were both in crisis, both struggling emotionally. Though they avoided discussing the gory details of their respective meltdowns – too much shame on either side – they could at least recognise and sympathise with another broken spirit. They spent their nights eating ready meals, watching anything and everything on TV, even total crap that in the past her father would have refused to have on. They got up late. They didn’t clean the house. Didn’t do anything constructive. They didn’t respond when the outside world came calling. They sank into the mire of self-pity together – it was nice to have company. And Chloe finally saw her father as fallible, a human being who was as flawed as everyone else. It had been a strange and not altogether unhelpful comfort.
But of course their recoveries had taken very different trajectories. Within a few short weeks her father had pulled himself together. He got back into his brisk morning routine of rising at 6.30 a.m. and running, having a healthy, nutritious breakfast then heading off to work. He got on top of the house, and his life. He was back on form. But why wouldn’t he be? He had emerged from his crisis with the girl. He had a new love and a new future ahead of him – once the difficult issue of his first wife was resolved. It was brutally impressive.
As he recovered, the intimacy and understanding of their painful emotional weeks huddled together faded. Once Megan moved in – which she did with indecent speed – their connection died completely. Chloe drifted back onto the periphery of her father’s life. Supported financially, but neglected emotionally.
Over the next few years, things continued to be tough. There was a series of false starts with jobs; new friends who turned out to be unreliable; and, to top it all, there was Chloe’s abject failure in terms of a finding a fulfilling, healthy relationship.
And then her father got ill.
And then he got worse.
And then she moved back to Scarborough, again. His MND gave her a purpose and a role: the self-sacrificing daughter returning home to support her terminally ill father. He needed her. Or at least that’s what she told other people, and herself.
Now, Jonathan’s sudden death had kicked away the last unwavering constant in her life. She was on her own – except for her mother, her sister and her brother.
There was a muffled thud, followed immediately by another. Chloe sat up in bed, clutching her knees to her chest. Noises from below in the dead of the night. Something stirring in her father’s room, again. She listened. Silence.
She was losing her marbles.
Her father was gone.
It was time to quit her pathetic part-time unskilled job and move out of this house, which was no longer her family home. It was time to leave the ghosts behind.
The problem was, Chloe had no idea where to go.
Chapter 40
MEGAN WAS up first. She was glad. She wanted some time on her own before they took over. As she crossed the hall on her way to the kitchen, she noticed that the door to Jonathan’s room was slightly ajar. Out of habit, she went in to check. Even before she stepped inside she knew someone was there. Presence and absence, they had markedly different qualities.
The door caught on the carpet, as it always did.
Her shock at seeing Noah sprawled on Jonathan’s bed was visceral. How could he? The lack of respect was deplorable. Noah didn’t stir. From his deep breathing, Megan could tell he was fast asleep. She walked over and looked down at him. He was lying on his side, fully clothed under the covers, his stubbly face slack. This close, she could smell the booze on his breath. She studied him.
She hated to admit it, but Noah looked a lot like his father. They had the same colouring, the same thick thatch of hair, the same strong jawline and nose. For the first time, she noticed some grey hairs mixed in with the brown at Noah’s temple. She searched for more signs of ageing, wishing his face was less handsome, less familiar. She wanted the nastiness that she knew lurked inside Noah to have sullied his looks, but even comatose and reeking of Scotch, he was handsome. The desire to shake him roughly awake faded. Noah’s sleep was not peaceful, she could see his eyes flickering beneath his lids. She wondered what he was dreaming about. Suddenly his body tensed and jerked and his fists clenched. She knew the feeling, that sense of dropping off the edge of a cliff, the awful whoosh of free fall, the desperate grasping for anything to hold on to. Instinctively she reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder, anchoring him. He took a few short breaths, hovered on the cusp of waking, then slipped under again.
Megan rarely touched Jonathan’s children, nor they
