‘A child... They should have evacuated.’
‘Maybe they still think there’s time. There should still be time.’
‘Let me check again.’ He flicked to the fire app on his phone. ‘Same warnings. Evacuate by nine if you haven’t already done so. Unless you’re planning on staying to defend.’
‘Would you?’ she asked diffidently. ‘Stay and defend?’
‘I’d have to be trustworthy with a chainsaw to do that.’
‘And are you?’ The Rob she knew couldn’t be trusted within twenty paces of a power tool.
‘No,’ he admitted and she was forced to smile back. Same Rob, then. Same, but different? The Rob of after.
This was weird. She should be dressed, she decided, as she padded barefoot back to the kitchen behind him. If he really was a stranger...
He really is a stranger, she told herself. Power tool knowledge or not, four years was a lifetime.
‘Right.’ In the kitchen, he was all efficiency. ‘Food.’ He pushed his sleeves high over his elbows and looked as if he meant business. ‘I’d kill for a steak. What do you suppose the freezer holds?’
‘Who knows what’s buried in there?’
‘Want to help me find out?’
‘Men do the hunting.’
‘And women do the cooking?’ He had the chest freezer open and was delving among the labelled packages. ‘Julie, Julie, Julie. How out of the ark is that?’
‘I can microwave a mean TV dinner.’
‘Ugh.’
But Rob did cook. She remembered him enjoying cooking. Not often because they’d been far too busy for almost everything domestic but when she’d first met him he’d cooked her some awesome meals.
She’d tried to return the favour, but had only cooked disasters.
‘What sort of people occupied this planet?’ Rob was demanding answers from the depths of the freezer. ‘Packets, packets and packets. Someone here likes Diet Cuisine. Liked,’ he amended. ‘Use-by dates of three years ago.’
She used to eat them when Rob was away. She’d cooked for the boys, or their nanny had, but Diet Cuisine was her go-to.
‘There must be something more...’ He was hauling out packet after packet, tossing them onto the floor behind him. She was starting to feel mortified. Her fault again?
‘You’ll need to put that stuff back or it’ll turn into stinking sog,’ she warned.
‘Of course.’ His voice was muffled. ‘So in a thousand years an archaeological dig can find Diet Cuisine and think we were all nuts. And stinking sog? For a stink it’d have to contain substance. Two servings of veggies and four freezer-burned cubes of diced meat do not substance make. But hey, here’s a whole beef fillet.’ He emerged, waving his find in triumph. ‘This is seriously thick. I’m hoping freezer burn might only go halfway in or less. I can thaw it in the microwave, chop off the burn and produce steak fit for a king. I hope. Hang on a minute.’
Fascinated, she watched as he grabbed a torch from the pantry and headed for the back door. That was a flaw in this mock play; he shouldn’t have known where a torch was. But in two minutes he was back, brandishing a handful of greens.
‘Chives,’ he said triumphantly and then glanced dubiously at the enormous green fronds. ‘Or they might have been chives some time ago. These guys are mutant onions.’
Clarissa had planted vegetables, she remembered. Their last nanny...
But Rob was taking all her attention. The Rob of now.
She’d expected...
Actually, she hadn’t expected. She’d thought she’d never see this man again. She’d vaguely thought she’d be served with divorce papers at some stage, but she hadn’t had the courage or the impetus to organise it herself. To have him here now, slicing steak, washing dirt from mutant chives, took a bit of getting used to.
‘You do want some?’ he asked and she thought no. And then she thought: when did I last eat?
If he had been a stranger she’d eat with him.
‘Yes, please,’ she said and was inordinately pleased with herself for getting the words out.
So they ate. The condiments in the pantry still seemed fine, though Rob dared to tackle the bottled horseradish and she wasn’t game. He’d fried hunks of bread in the pan juices. They ate steak and chives and fried bread, washed down by mugs of milky tea. All were accompanied by Rob’s small talk. He really did act as if they were strangers, thrust together by chance.
Wasn’t that the truth?
‘So, Julie,’ he said finally, as he washed and she wiped. There was a dishwasher but, as neither intended sticking round past breakfast, it wasn’t worth the effort. ‘If you’re planning on leaving at dawn, what would you like to do now? You were sleeping when I got here?’
‘Trying to sleep.’
‘It doesn’t come on demand,’ he said, and she caught an edge to his voice that said he lay awake, as she did. ‘But you can try. I’ll keep watch.’
‘What—stand sentry in case the fire comes?’
‘Something like that.’
‘It won’t come until morning.’
‘I don’t trust forecasts. I’ll stay on the veranda with the radio. Snooze a little.’
‘I won’t sleep.’
‘So...you want to join me on fire watch?’
‘I...okay.’
‘You might want to put something on besides your nightie.’
‘What’s wrong with the nightie? It’s sensible.’
‘It’s not sensible.’
‘It’s light.’
‘Jules,’ he said, and suddenly there was strain in his voice. ‘Julie. I know we don’t know each other very well. I know we’re practically strangers, but there is only a settee on the veranda, and if you sit there looking like that...’
She caught her breath and the play-acting stopped, just like that. She stared at him in disbelief.
‘You can’t...want me.’
‘I’ve never stopped wanting you,’ he said simply. ‘I’ve tried every way I know, but it’s not working. Just because we destroyed ourselves... Just because we gave away the idea of family for the rest of our lives, it doesn’t stop the wanting. Not everything ended the night our boys died, Julie, though sometimes...often...I wish it had.’
‘You still feel...’
‘I have no idea what I feel,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been trying my best to move on. My shrink says I need to put it all in the background, like a book I can open at leisure and close again when it gets too hard to read. But, for now, all I know is that your nightie is way too skimpy and your eyes are too big and your hair is too tousled and our bed is too close. So I suggest you either head to the bedroom and close the door or go get some clothes on. Because what I want has nothing to do with reality, and everything to do with ghosts. Shrink’s advice or not, I can’t close the book. Go and get dressed, Julie. Please.’
She stared at him for a long moment. Rob. Her husband.
Her ex-husband. Her ex-life.
She’d closed the door on him four years ago. If she was to survive, that door had to stay firmly closed. Behind that door