‘I’m Gemma Stone.’
Gemma? Gemma Stone? Gemma…Stone.
‘Your niece,’ she said sharply.
‘You’re Charlie’s daughter?’ He gasped. Now that he looked, she had the same nose and chin as his brother. ‘Is he here?’
‘No.’
‘You’re alone?’
‘Yes.’
She stuck out a foot and shook it. ‘And I’m very wet. Are you going to invite me in?’
Benedict took a few seconds to peel his hand away from the doorframe. He shook his head with confusion. ‘Um… yes.’
Gemma bent down and picked up a small, saggy rucksack that lay at her feet and slung it over her shoulder. ‘I’ll follow you, Uncle Ben.’
‘It’s Benedict, actually.’ He headed into the house and Gemma followed. Her boots squelched and left wet oval-shaped footprints on the floorboards. ‘This is the kitchen.’ Words swam in his head. ‘Can I, er, get you anything?’
‘I got a sandwich at the airport.’ She stuck her head around the door. ‘It smells musty in there. And it’s dark.’
‘I’ll switch a light on.’
‘Yeah.’
Benedict squinted as the kitchen light seemed twice as bright as usual. ‘About Charlie…?’ he tried again. How long was it since his brother walked out on him, to go and live in America? Eighteen years?
Benedict still pictured Charlie as a young boy. He’d brought his brother up, since their parents were killed in an accident when Charlie was ten and Benedict was eighteen. He sometimes reached up and touched the underside of his chin, positive that he could still feel the tickle of his brother’s copper hair tucked there.
Gemma stretched out her arms and gave a noisy yawn. ‘I’m so tired after travelling,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to bed and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?’
‘Bed?’ Benedict repeated. ‘You’re staying the night?’
But she was already making her own way up the stairs.
Benedict stared up at the ceiling as the floorboards creaked in his bedroom, Charlie’s old room and then Estelle’s studio. What the hell should he do? Should he follow her up, or try to sleep on the sofa? Should he offer her a change of clothes?
He rubbed his neck and went upstairs anyway, trying to climb them as noisily as he could, so she could hear him approaching.
When he reached the landing, he heard clattering inside the bathroom. Something fell and skittered around in the sink. The toilet flushed, water gushed and the plughole gurgled. There was a bang and Gemma said, ‘Crap.’
Benedict cleared his throat loudly. ‘Ahem.’
Gemma opened the bathroom door by a few inches and pressed her forehead against the doorframe. ‘Before you ask me anything else,’ she said, sighing. ‘I have mental and physical exhaustion.’
‘I just want to know… Well, is your dad okay? Where is your mother?’ Questions bolted around his head like piglets let loose on a farm.
Gemma switched off the bathroom light and pulled the door shut behind her. She carried her clothes in a clump and she wore a pair of Estelle’s pyjamas. They were white with large pink roses and the sight made Benedict feel light-headed. The pyjamas should have his wife inside them, not a stranger.
‘I’m going to take this room.’ Gemma jerked her thumb towards Estelle’s studio.
‘Er, okay,’ Benedict said, too taken aback to add anything else.
His niece dropped her pile of clothes on the floor and pushed her soggy rucksack and boots against the wall with one foot. Leaving the door open, she peeled back the covers and clambered into bed. ‘Thanks, Uncle Ben,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’
When Benedict woke the next day it was 7.30 a.m. and his mouth was as dry as a sand dune. He lay for a while and shielded his eyes with his hand against the mustardy light that sliced around the curtains. At first, the morning felt like every other lonely one since Estelle left, too still and silent. But then Gemma murmured in her sleep, and the strange noise made the roots of his hair stiffen.
Turning, he saw one of Estelle’s empty perfume bottles sitting on top of her bedside table. He reached over, picked it up and held it under his nose. The musky rose scent transported him back to the heat and bustle of a Greek market where his wife laughed and haggled for the amber-coloured bottle. He could almost see the glint of sunlight on the sunglasses pushed back into her black bobbed hair.
When they were on holiday, Estelle liked to go out and explore. ‘What’s the point of sitting still when we’re someplace new?’ She’d smile as she set off to walk to the nearest town. She liked to find local craft shops and, when she returned, present to Benedict what she’d bought – a small ceramic butterfly, or a hand-painted dish for olive oil.
Benedict barely glanced at them. He liked to stay around the pool, listening to families splashing around and imagining that one day he might throw an inflatable Frisbee to his own kids. He tried not to look at the trim dads in their Speedos, when he himself sported an oversized T-shirt and baggy shorts. ‘Isn’t this hotel great for kids?’ he said. ‘It’s got a children’s club too.’
Sometimes, Estelle’s moving out felt like he’d been rugby-tackled and knocked, breathless, off his feet. At other times, he told himself to be more optimistic. She was just helping out a friend and would be back soon. Things would return to normal and they’d pick up their conversation about adoption again. He would try to persuade her it was the best way forward.
Benedict picked up his mobile and saw that Estelle hadn’t replied to his text from last night. For a moment, he wondered about sending another one, but Gemma groaned in her sleep and he slipped the phone under his pillow.
He slid out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and put on his loafers. Stealing a glance in the studio, he saw his niece was curled up with her back to him. Her rucksack was on the floor and it didn’t seem to contain much, for a trip to England from America.
He crouched and strained one arm into the room and pulled her discarded clothes towards him. They were still damp from the rain. Damn, did he even know how to operate the tumble dryer?
As he gathered them to his chest, something white landed on the floor with a thud. It was the bag that had dangled from the sleeve of Gemma’s denim jacket last night. He froze, scarecrow-still, as she muttered in her sleep. When she started to snore, Benedict pushed the white bag back into the room with his foot.
Downstairs, Benedict read and reread the instructions that Estelle had handwritten and taped next to the dial on the tumble dryer. Since she’d gone, he realised how much she did in the house. It was as if a fairy magically popped in and did all the cooking, cleaning, the grocery shopping and the washing-up. For the past six weeks, he hadn’t done much. When his clothes needed a wash, he took them to his friend Ryan’s launderette, Soap’n’Suds, in the village, and Bake My Day provided most of his meals.
Benedict turned a dial on the dryer and hoped for the best.
The dining room used to be tidy, but now there were piles of his clothes, newspapers and screwed-up plastic bags on most surfaces. Estelle liked fresh flowers on the table but instead there was a pile of cork placemats and a heap of junk mail.
He used to think that the house was friendly and well lived in, but now it just looked ancient. The pine kitchen units had darkened over the years to a burnt orange colour, and the lino was torn and needed replacing. Estelle had suggested many times that they