Greenwich Park(29)
The truth is, he is right. Shopping has become my therapy, my guilty secret. Sometimes, after my hospital appointment – briefly reassured that everything is, at least for that moment, all right – I will step off the Tube feeling lighter than usual. I will go to the gift shops on Turnpin Lane, telling myself I deserve it. That I have the right to celebrate. I will thumb through the tiny jumpers with knitted animals, the little boxed bonnets and bootees, the baby blankets in pale ice-cream colours, closing my eyes as I finger the softness of the cashmere. Then I watch them being wrapped up for me in tissue and ribbon, turning my credit card over in my hand. Wondering what else I am going to do for the rest of the day.
He finishes grating the cheese, leaves the dirty grater in the sink. He huffs, rubs the sides of his face with his hands.
‘What, Daniel?’
‘Do you think you might have taken it out somewhere, left it in a cafe, maybe?’
I turn away from the cooker and stare at him. It takes me a moment to work out that he is talking about the laptop again. I turn the heat down.
‘No, Daniel, I haven’t. I haven’t taken it out of the house. I’ve been with Rachel all day today, I told you. And anyway, why would I take the laptop to a cafe?’
He exhales loudly. ‘It’d be a lot easier to find things in this house if there wasn’t so much crap everywhere.’ I survey the kitchen table. He has a point. The table is covered with newspapers and magazines I said I’d read but haven’t got round to, a stack of pregnancy books, a TENS machine, an empty bottle of Gaviscon, a yet-to-be-inflated birth ball and pump. He starts lifting the piles of newspapers and magazines from the table with unnecessary aggression, shoving them into the recycling. Leaflets drift out from between the newspaper pages and float onto the floor.
‘Hey, don’t throw away the mags. I haven’t read that Rory thing yet.’
I press my lips together. Too late. I shouldn’t have mentioned the Rory interview. It does nothing for Daniel’s mood. His hand freezes over the bin. He extracts the magazine, and chucks it onto the table.
‘Don’t be so cross, Daniel. It’ll turn up.’
‘Sorry. I’m just a bit stressed.’
While Daniel takes out the recycling, I glance over at the magazine. Rory’s face stares up from the front cover in monochrome. He looks unlike himself – menacing, somehow. Something about it reminds me of Daddy, in his bad moments. When he used to get cross, when he was someone else. I haven’t read the interview yet, but the headline is bad enough.
I stare outside at Daniel. I can see from his movements that he is frustrated with the overflowing bins. He is stuffing the bags in, one after another, even though it’s clear the lid won’t close.
He and Rory have rowed about the article, I know. After all the controversy, Daniel thinks Rory should have known it would end in tears – a big interview, just as they are poised to unveil the next phase of the development. When it came out, Daniel went mad.
Apparently, he hadn’t even known Rory had done an interview – Rory hadn’t warned the client or anything. He told Rory he was an idiot, asked why the hell he hadn’t talked to him before he agreed to it. Rory had snapped that that was rich coming from Daniel, and why hadn’t Daniel mentioned the fact he was moving the company’s money offshore, and how had he imagined that was going to look. Daniel said it wasn’t dodgy, everyone did it, it was just good accounting, and what would Rory know about that since he had never taken the slightest interest in keeping the company’s finances on track. I didn’t like the sound of it. I hate it when they fall out.
Daniel is back in the kitchen, washing his hands. ‘I’m out again on Monday night, I’m afraid,’ he says, raising his voice over the water. ‘With the client. To try and repair some of the damage.’ He dries his hands on the tea towel, then throws it back on the side in a heap.
‘All right. You haven’t forgotten about Rory’s birthday dinner this weekend, though, have you?’
Daniel blinks. He obviously had.
‘Do we have to … go to that?’
‘Daniel, he’s my brother and your business partner! Of course we have to. Come on, the article can’t have been that bad.’
‘Yeah, well, like you said, you haven’t read the article. It was bad.’
I sigh, wondering how we have ended up arguing again, when the evening started so well. I pour a glass of Sauvignon Blanc into the risotto. It bubbles up quickly, soaks into the rice. I turn the heat up, make sure the alcohol is evaporated. I smell it over the pan, heady, disorientating for a moment, then gone.
‘Want a glass?’ I pour some of the wine, pass it to him. I’ve been discouraging his drinking lately, since his performance at Rory and Serena’s, but this feels like an easy peace offering. Daniel seems mollified by the gesture. He looks at the glass, stops rummaging for his laptop. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Think I’ll have a beer, though.’ He reaches into the fridge. ‘How was your day?’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Except I’m still getting these cold calls all the time.’
Daniel frowns. ‘Sorry, I keep meaning to get that landline disconnected.’
I shake my head. ‘These are weird, though. It seems to be the same company calling, saying something about a new mortgage, or a remortgage. They’re saying I’ve applied for one.’