‘Amy,’ I interrupted. ‘I get it. OK? You don’t need to justify yourself. You own this place.’
‘I just don’t want you to feel like you’re being kicked out.’
Despite my best intentions, I laughed sourly. ‘Only, I am,’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what’s happening. But it’s fine. Really. Just tell me when, and I’ll sort it.’
Amy chewed her lip and nodded. ‘OK then. So, mid-February, say the fifteenth? Does that work for you?’
‘Mid-February,’ I repeated, as flatly as I could manage. I hadn’t been expecting it to be so soon.
‘I’ll help you, financially,’ she said. ‘You’ve done so much to the place, and . . .’
‘I don’t need your help,’ I told her. ‘I don’t want it.’
‘But you’ve done so much here, Joe, and—’
‘Look, if you ever sell it, split the profit with me, OK?’ I said. ‘Or my part of it, or whatever. I don’t care.’
‘Of course,’ Amy said. ‘That’s very understanding of you, and I promise I won’t let you down. Ant said he can help you find—’
‘Fuck Ant,’ I spat. I was surprised. I honestly hadn’t intended to say that. The words had just erupted from within.
‘He works in real estate, that’s all. He said that the show flat’s going to be—’
‘Amy!’ I said. ‘Stop. I’m all grown up here. I can sort myself out, OK?’
‘But the show flat, if you want it—’
‘I don’t. I really don’t.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘OK, if that’s . . . OK. Whatever.’
‘Could you leave, do you think?’ I asked. I was starting to feel angry, and I didn’t, for some reason, want to lay a guilt trip on her. She was struggling enough here as it was.
‘Sure.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Joe, I really am. It’s just—’
‘I know,’ I told her, raising a hand in a stop sign. ‘It’s fine.’
‘I haven’t told Ben anything.’
‘Good,’ I replied. ‘Let’s leave that until I know where I’m going, OK?’
‘Sure,’ she said again. ‘Sure, sorry, bye.’
Once she’d left, I sat staring at the fireplace I’d built. Then I looked around the room, taking in the gap where I’d knocked out the wall, and the shelves I’d built in the corner. I thought about the swimming pool out back and the new windows and the kitchen units I’d hand-made, and the shower room and the skylight and the conservatory . . . The list went on and on.
But I realised that I honestly didn’t care about any of it – in fact I’d be glad, I decided, to see the back of it all. Because the only reason any of it had ever mattered was that it had all been a symbol of my love – it had all been done in devotion to my family. That was well and truly trampled on now, so that all it seemed to symbolise was pain.
The following weekend I left Ben with Amy and drove up to Whitby to see Dad. I’d been avoiding visiting him ever since Spain, and hadn’t once mentioned Amy on the phone. This had been less complicated than you might expect, for the simple reason that he’d been so tied up with his new lady-friend he hadn’t asked. Not wanting to spoil his happiness with my misery had been part of the reason I’d not told him. But I’d also imagined, until recently, that it was possible we might get back together. I hadn’t wanted to taint Dad’s view of Amy until I was absolutely sure I wouldn’t be bringing her back to his door. But the time had come: we weren’t getting back together, that much was clear. I was about to move house, and I was even toying with the idea of moving back up north.
It was sunny when I left Chislet but lashing it down up in Whitby. I parked the car, hitched my jacket over my head, and ran to Dad’s front door.
‘A fine weekend you’ve chosen,’ Dad said as he ushered me inside.
‘Good northern weather, that,’ I said, as I hung my jacket on a hook and followed him into the lounge. ‘None of that poncy southern rubbish.’
The wind was blowing off the sea, making the rain lash against the windows so that it bubbled up around the edges of the frames. Dad had put rolled tea towels on the sills to catch the drips, a ritual I remembered from my childhood.
‘Dry yourself off over there,’ he said, gesturing at the open fire. ‘Before you catch your death.’
I crossed to the fire and turned to look at Dad – specifically at his brand-new jet-black hairdo. ‘Have you dyed your hair, Pops?’ I asked, grinning lopsidedly.
‘Hush thee,’ he said, through a smirk. ‘Of course I haven’t.’ When I raised one eyebrow, he laughed. ‘OK, Emma did it for me – well, more for herself, really. She thinks it looks better this way.’
I nodded and tried not to smile too broadly.
‘I’m assuming you don’t agree,’ Dad said.
‘Maybe you could tone it down a bit,’ I told him. ‘Leave a bit of grey showing through. It looks a bit like a toupee otherwise, that’s all.’
‘From the mouths of babes . . .’ Dad said. ‘Well, you can tell the colourist herself later on.’
‘I get to meet her, do I?’
‘Of course,’ Dad said. ‘She’s coming over to cook us all dinner.’
I told him I was looking forward to meeting her and he said he was sure that I’d like her.
‘No Amy, then?’ Dad asked. ‘No Ben?’
I shook my head and swallowed with difficulty. ‘No, I told you. It’s just me.’
‘Fair enough,’ Dad said. ‘Are they well?’
‘Yeah, they’re fine,’ I told him, wondering if I was going to have to get into the whole thing straight away. I glanced around the room, noting various female touches to the decor, not least of which was an imposing dried-flower arrangement on the sideboard.
‘Emma’s work,’ Dad said, following my gaze. ‘Likes a dried flower or two, does our Emma.’
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘And you look well.’ Because, Dad’s hair aside, he was looking well. He looked at least ten years younger
