“For God’s sake, spare me the meditational crap. You sound like Mum.”
“Only saying. It might actually help.”
“It doesn’t.” Shamefully, I have an urge to rearrange my brother’s good looks.
Springing to my feet, I scope the kitchen. Tom’s cookery books remain, squat and scowling on the designated shelf near the cooker, as if pissed off that he abandoned them in the same way he abandoned me. I have a sudden urgent desire to destroy them, page by bloody page.
I rush into the sitting room. Tom’s a keen gamer yet his DVD’s are exactly in the same place. ‘Muse’ CD’s remain too. Might it mean that he’ll come back, if only to reclaim the lot?
Upstairs, my shoes pound the treads. Tearing open the wardrobe. Most of his clothes are there, but not all.
Pulling out drawers in the bedroom. Similar.
Raking though stuff in the bathroom. Gone.
I don’t bother to check whether or not Tom’s go-to bag is missing. Instinctively, I know that it would be the first thing he laid his hands on.
Stumbling back to the kitchen, I collapse into the squashy chair before my legs give way. “Sorry, Reg,” I mumble, “Shouldn’t have a go at you.”
“No worries.” He means it. Very little affects Reg. I only see him get antsy if he runs out of tobacco and booze.
Unspeakably cold, I hunch my shoulders, trying to generate warmth into my bones. I’m upset but I’m damned angry too. “I need to know exactly what happened. Was he agitated, distressed?”
Reg gives it to me straight up. “There was a phone call. “
“When?”
“About half-three.”
Another after I left. “How did he seem?”
Reg slow-blinks, glances away. I push for an answer.
“Scared,” he says with a level look.
Tension grabs my shoulders, gives them a nasty twist. “Of what?”
“I’d say if I knew.”
Anything for an easy life, he wouldn’t, but I don’t pursue it. “Any idea who was on the other end?”
Reg shakes his head.
“Did you hear what was said?”
“Not really. Something about a licence, I think.”
I puzzle over this. “For what?”
“Search me. Anyways, it didn’t last long.”
“Then what happened?”
“You know Tom, Mr Controlled. Packed up his kit and asked me to break the news to you that it’s over.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
His impossibly long lashes flutter. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I’m outraged.
“Never cross a man whose mind is made up.” His gaze darts around the kitchen and homes in on the cupboard where we keep alcohol. “Drink?” he says.
I grunt ‘yes’ to mask my irritation at my brother’s cowardice and failure to fight my corner.
“Whisky or wine?”
“Wine,” I say. “The whisky belongs to Tom.”
“Belonged.” Reg corrects me in a ‘shame to waste it’ tone. He gets up, pours himself a large measure after fixing me a glass of Picpoul from the fridge. Chinking his glass with mine, he takes a swallow and looks at me as if I’m on the run from prison. Will I lash out, or come quietly?
“Whatever happened this morning,” he says, “it’s not about that. The row is only a symptom of impending breakdown.”
My brother sounds so uncharacteristically pompous that I almost burst out laughing. “Who made you an expert on relationships?”
“I’ve only been here a few weeks and even I could pick up tensions.”
“Damn right, emanating from you, and can you stop nicking my razors, please?”
“Jeez, it was only once.”
“Well, once is too much.” I glower. Silence, slithering and snake-like, encircles the pair of us. My brother would not be my first choice of confidante. We are poles apart in values and opinions. Mr Treat them Mean, Keep them Keen lives by a different code of ethics. Horribly similar to those adopted by my erstwhile lover, it seems.
Reg is still giving me the look, like he is older and, by default, wiser. “You know very well that Tom can be sparky.”
“So what? He’d be dull as hell if he were quiet all the time. It’s what fuels our relationship.”
“Fuelled,” he points out, not in a mean-spirited way but because he really wants me to understand that Tom’s departure is final.
“All right,” I say, taking a big breath. “Explain these tensions you noticed.”
He meets my gaze with candour. “Tom’s exterior doesn’t meet match the interior.”
At this, I laugh. “You mean that underneath he’s cool, calm and collected?”
“Nope. What I mean is that the silent shit is a cover for something else. Underneath, he’s a fiery, agitated and miserable mess.”
Miserable? I badly want to tell Reg that he’s talking garbage, but then I remember Tom’s peculiarities, his phobias, the way he reacted this morning and what Vick said about him. “Hardly surprising, bearing in mind his upbringing.”
“Oh yeah, the man with the tragic past.” There is an ugly note in my brother’s voice that I don’t much care for. He picks up on my disdain as only a sibling can. “Have you noticed that when a writer wants to ramp up a character in a film, their parents are always dead? Death by road accident is almost a cliché.”
“Tom’s parents died in a boating accident.”
“So he says. Funny thing is, I believe him.”
“Funny?” I explode.
“Not funny ha-ha. Nothing fake about that; unlike other aspects of his life.”
“What other aspects?” I sound as incredulous and defensive as I feel.
“Education. Friends. Places he’s been to. He’s flaky, Roz. Secretive.” His voice is sibilant, tongue and teeth chewing on the words before spitting them out.
“Private,” I thrust back.
“Yeah, right.”
“What exactly are you driving at?”
“Okay, okay, a minor indiscretion, granted, but he smokes.”
I snort derision. “He’s a chef. His taste-buds would be ruined.”
“God, Roz, where have you been all your life? All the top chefs smoke.”
Sensing I’m on shaky ground, I don’t know how to reply. I wonder whether this is why Tom’s voice sounds seasoned. Seems irrelevant now. “Anyway, how do you know?”
“He bums cigarettes off me.”
“You’re winding me up.”
Reg’s full lips puff out, like he’s blowing smoke rings. “Why would I?”
“All right,” I concede,