Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(32)

This all goes unspoken, of course. Instead I focus on the cigarettes. ‘What’s this? I thought you’d packed up? A bit stressed-out at the moment, are we?’

I don’t know why I’m goading him but it’s a habit set so hard, it’s Pavlovian.

He shrugs. ‘I tried. I failed. As my old man used to say, you’ve got to die of fucking something.’

‘Right before he dropped dead at the age of fifty-six. What are you now?’

‘Fifty-five.’ He sits up, puffs his chest out. ‘Anyway, it won’t happen to me, I’m at the gym most mornings.’

I’d rather cut my own tongue out than admit it but it shows. While a lot of men wither and stoop under the weight of spousal grief, Dad’s stock seems to have appreciated year on year. He’s certainly never looked stronger or fitter than he does now.

But then, Dad was always good-looking. Problematically good-looking, some would say. Eyes glinting green-gold and a smile like a solar flare. Even now, with his hair peppered grey and his jawline slightly softer, he’s still got that catch-all appeal that makes teenage girls want to grow up faster and elderly ladies reverse the clock.

Our drinks arrive along with a bowl of something birdseedy. ‘So I assume you’re not here to test the tap water?’ he says, eyeing my glass with disdain.

I’m here because you lied about Maryanne Doyle and now she’s dead.

‘Jacqui says you’ve rented out Radlett. What’ve you done with my stuff?’

His eyebrows shoot up. ‘And that’s what you’re here for? Honestly? You’re worried I’ve thrown out your old board games?’ He lets out a deep sigh. ‘Well, panic over, sweetheart. I haven’t actually rented it out.’ He casts me a warning glance. ‘And that goes no further than us, by the way.

‘But Jacq—’

He holds up his hands. ‘Shoot me, I lied. Look, I couldn’t bring myself to have strangers moving in but you know as well as I do that the minute I said I was moving out, that’d be Jacqui’s cue to move in. She’s always dropping hints about how it’s a more of a “family home”.’

‘There’s only three of them, what do they need a five-bedroomed house for?’

‘Trying for another baby, I think. I don’t ask much, it’s their business.’

‘Really? Finn will be seven by then, at least.’

He looks at me, confused. ‘So? Same age as Noel was when you came along. Only a year older than Jacqui.’

Mum banged out her first two in quick succession. I came later – a happy accident, apparently. They joked they’d been hoping for a new Sierra that year, instead they got me.

‘Yeah, and look how that turned out. They both hated me for getting all the attention, spoiling their fun.’

‘Jacqui didn’t hate you.’ He doesn’t have a leg to stand on with Noel. I don’t have one happy memory of him playing with me, except the time he said we’d play hide-and-seek and he locked me in the pub cellar.

‘Jacqui tolerated me because I was a toy she could show off.’ Her living breathing Tiny Tears.

‘You’re too harsh on that girl.’

‘Am I? It’s not me lying to keep her out of her family home!’

‘Oh I need this, I really fucking need this.’ He tilts his head back, aims a long, laboured breath towards the ceiling. ‘Look, I love the bones of Jacqs – and Ash’s a good bloke and Finn’s a dote – but I might want to move back in again at some point, you know, and the idea of living with them full-time .?.?.’

‘As opposed to Noel who’s the perfect house-pet?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘What do you want me to say, Cat? He’s my son and I worry about him. I worry about all my kids. Jesus, you have no idea how much I worry about you.’ I try to tell him not to bother but he railroads on. ‘I mean, did you hear about that young copper? Shot dead, somewhere in America. Pennsylvania, I think.’ A sad shake of the head. ‘She was only twenty-four. Just a child.’

A child unless you’re fucking them and then anything post A-levels is fair game.

‘Save your prayers, Dad, it doesn’t happen a lot here.’

He raises his voice. ‘It’s still a dangerous job, and you’re still my baby.’

This is new. Danger’s never really come into it before. He usually prefers grandiose speeches about ‘us’ and ‘them’ and ‘never the twain’ blah blah blah. Pithy little statements about blood-ties and trust.

‘It makes me happy though,’ I say, which is partly true. ‘And you once said I could be anything I wanted – even a Tory – if it made me happy. I bet you don’t remember, do you?’

Straight back at me. ‘I bloody do. Six years old and you announce you want to be a plasterer after we’d got all the work done in the hallway. Noel and Jacqui were laughing at you.’

‘Yeah, and you said if it made me happy, then why not? You even bought me my own set of trowels.’

This gets me, gut-level. I see it in his eyes too but he wards it off with a laugh. ‘I don’t think anyone ever got shot doing a day’s plastering. And trust me, sweetheart, when you have kids of your own you’ll realise that “safe” trumps “happy” every time.