I am still stressed thinking about the two of them at the house. I worry they will be too honest with each other. Maybe they have even begun to blame my mother, or me. I want to adjudicate their meeting; someone needs to stop them from being unkind to one another.
To silence Shell’s questioning for a moment, I tell her about Simon’s throuple, a mistake on my part, as Barbara overhears from the foyer and wanders in, eager to contribute.
‘It’s not such a big deal, though, is it?’ Barbara says, with one hand on her hip. ‘Paul and I are swingers—it’s quite normal these days.’
‘It’s totally different,’ I say, annoyed at myself for bringing it up.
‘Oh yeah—how so?’ says Shell, flicking on the kettle and pulling up a chair.
‘A throuple is an ongoing relationship between all three people,’ I say.
‘I can’t believe that works,’ says Shell, shaking her head.
‘Not necessarily ongoing,’ says Barbara. ‘It can be a one-off event. It’s rare that Paul and I meet up with the same couple. I like variety and Paul is happy to go along with anything.’
‘No, we are not talking about the same things. You’re talking about swinging—a throuple is different.’
‘I mean, there have been some men I’ve wanted to continue seeing—alone, if you get what I’m saying, not even with Paul present.’
Shell nods solemnly.
‘Again, that’s not a throuple—that’s an affair.’
‘Well, an affair never killed anyone,’ Barbara says, taking a mug from the shelf and spooning two sugars into it.
I’m growing impatient, as I need to be home to deal with Vincent and Jack who, twenty-five years after they first met, might finally kill each other. I am shallow-breathing just thinking about what could possibly be transpiring between the two of them. I imagine Vincent tearing the wedding portrait off the wall and smashing it against the banister. And Jack, mortified, cutting his hands trying to scoop up all the broken glass. I imagine them both on their knees, on the cut glass, crying and arguing.
‘I need to go,’ I say suddenly to Shell and Barbara, ‘I need to make sure everyone is behaving.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On the drive home, I mount the side of a roundabout and overtake three big trucks. I pull up at an odd angle to the house and leave my bag on the back seat, barely stopping to close the car door behind me as I rush into the house.
‘Jack!’ I yell, checking the study to see if he’s there.
‘Out the back!’ he calls.
I haul open the sliding door to the deck, and see Jack and Vincent reclining on two sun lounges. Jack must have pulled them out of the shed so they could sunbathe, because Vincent is now wearing a ribbed tank top and looks like he’s had quite a bit of sun. I can see Jack has tried to share the wisdom of The Tibetan Book of the Dead, as it is lying face down and splayed open on the deck between them.
‘Hi, honey,’ Jack says, raising his glass.
‘How was work?’ asks Vincent.
‘Yeah, productive—lots of cleaning. Shell’s nice.’
‘Oh, she’s lovely, Shell is,’ says Jack.
I frown at them both. ‘So how are things with you two?’ I ask. ‘All good?’ I glance around the deck, looking for signs of damage that might have been caused in a tussle.
‘All good, honey. We’re all adults here,’ Jack says, as Vincent props himself up on an elbow and nods his head in agreement.
‘We’ve been looking at the view and talking about life, and how gorgeous this place is. There’s a healing river here too,’ says Vincent, waving a hand towards the bush.
‘Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I told Vincent about the kinky stuff—he’s your dad, and he needed to know,’ Jack says, as Vincent cups his shoulder and they look at each other, misty-eyed.
‘Sexuality looks very different these days, it’s fantastic,’ Vincent says. ‘Look at Simon! And you know, I was around in the disco scene, I’ve seen things, believe you me. There were a few years where it all got very loose.’
‘Very,’ says Jack. ‘But she needs to be safe, doesn’t she? There’re a lot of idiots around on the internet and, really, just all sorts hanging about looking for nice girls like her …’
‘I gave her a personal alarm last year,’ says Vincent. ‘What did you do with it?’ he asks me.
‘It’s in a drawer,’ I say.
‘A pocket knife would be better,’ Jack muses. ‘Or a shiv or something. An object to wield.’
Without replying, I walk inside and stand in the kitchen for a moment with my hands on either side of the sink. I stare into the plughole trying to get my bearings. I don’t think they’ve ever been in the same room before. I was expecting to get home to a tense atmosphere, but here they are, pissed on the deck, talking about philosophy and kink, and the atmosphere is one of affectionate camaraderie. Imagine Jack telling Vincent about the kink, imagine thinking I wouldn’t be embarrassed about my daily dad knowing. I pull a glass from the drying rack and rejoin them, helping myself to the cask of red wine perched on the end of Vincent’s deckchair.
‘You can have my lounge if you want,’ Jack offers.
Vincent rubs the side of his. ‘What is this? Maple?’
‘Pine!’ Jack says. ‘Lovely finish on it, though.’
‘I’m fine standing for now,’ I say, drinking and pacing in front of them.
As Jack waves a freshly opened bottle of port, I drain my glass, suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. I need to sleep, I decide, to process everything. The new job, the two dads, life.
‘I’m going to have a shower and head to bed,’ I say, sliding the screen door open as Jack replenishes his glass then lies back on the lounge.
‘No! She can’t! What about the plan?’ says Vincent, tapping Jack on the knee.
‘Yes! We have a plan and it involves you,’ Jack says. ‘You need
