The Couple at No. 9(10)
His dad doesn’t say anything, his body a question mark as he bends over a drawer. Theo can see the outline of his shoulder-blades through his polo shirt. He always dresses smartly – that’s one thing Theo can be grateful for. He showers every day, splashes on the same Prada aftershave he’s used for years and dresses in his favourite uniform of chinos and a smart Ralph Lauren top with a V-neck cable-knit jumper if it’s cold. If his father ever let himself go he would begin to worry.
‘Make sure you eat the lasagne. Keep your strength up.’
‘You fuss too much. Like your mother used to.’
He has an image of his lovely mum, running herself ragged in a fruitless attempt at keeping his dad happy. There had been an eighteen-year age difference between his parents. Friends at school had thought his dad was his grandfather. It used to embarrass Theo, although he probably wouldn’t have minded if his dad had acted like a kindly grandfather. Nevertheless his friends had been impressed when his dad occasionally picked him up from school in his expensive car.
Just as he’s about to leave the room his dad stands up, brushing down his chinos. He’s tall, even taller than Theo, with the same long limbs and rangy physique. Theo has to concede his dad is still handsome and fit for his age, from regularly playing golf at the club. ‘I’m going to look downstairs,’ he says, brushing past Theo. He doesn’t say what he’s looking for. ‘Are you staying for a cup of tea?’
Fuck. Now Theo is going to feel obliged. ‘A quick one. I’ve got to work tonight.’
‘Yes, you’ve said.’
His father had wanted him to go to medical school, follow in the family size-eleven footsteps. He thinks Theo’s job as a chef is little more than a hobby. It still riles Theo when he thinks about it so he tries not to.
‘I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ promises Theo, but his father doesn’t reply, slamming out of the door, the soles of his brogues clipping on the lacquered parquet.
Just as Theo is about to leave the room something catches his eye on his dad’s desk. It’s immaculate, as everything in the study always is, even after all the rummaging, but left on the padded dark green leather insert is a newspaper clipping. Theo wonders if it’s anything to do with his mother. His dad has obsessively kept everything that ever mentioned her name while simultaneously never wanting to talk about her death. He goes to it and picks it up, confused when he sees it isn’t about his mother at all. It’s dated last week and is a small article, only a few paragraphs long accompanied by a photograph, about a young couple from a Cotswold village in Wiltshire who found two bodies in their back garden. SKELETON PLACE screams the headline. The names of the couple are underlined in red as well as another – Rose Grey. Underneath the article someone has written, Find Her.
6
Lorna
It’s raining heavily and Lorna curses under her breath as her umbrella spoke suddenly springs free of the fabric so that it concertinas over her head, no longer providing adequate cover for her freshly cut hair. And now her hair, which took the stylist – the strapping Marco – for ever to blow-dry into a sleek finish, will fluff out to resemble the shape of a bell. She’d wanted to look nice for Alberto, make an effort for their date tonight. After nearly two years together she fears things have become stale between them; she works during the day while he’s out late supervising the bar he owns. She can just imagine him flirting with the young women, pretending he’s Tom Cruise from Cocktail. Why, oh, why does she always choose the wrong men? Too young. Too handsome. Too egotistical. She’ll be forty-one in three months’ time. She should know better. But, no, she won’t think negatively. That’s not her style. And, anyway, he’s promised to take the night off from the bar so they can go dancing. Maybe they can get some of their fire back.
She’s only wearing a light linen blazer over the boring hotel uniform (off-white blouse and dark green knee-length skirt, although she’s paired it with a bubblegum pink scarf) as it was hot when she left her apartment this morning. Her wedges are rubbing her heels. By the time she makes the ten-minute walk back to the apartment she shares with Alberto she’ll be drenched. But she keeps up her stride across the busy plaza, trying to ignore the scraping of flesh on her heel. She dares not stop or someone will careen into the back of her. Not that she’s complaining. She loves the hustle and bustle of San Sebastián. The sea is rough today: angry white waves roll towards the shore and some fool is surfing in the froth. Despite the bad weather a group of holidaymakers are perched on the beach, determined not to let the showers put them off.
It’s been a hard day at work. The hotel where she’s a receptionist has started to get busy as it always does at this time of year. They’ve had quite a few families from the UK this week, some of whom have complained about the weather, not expecting to leave an early-May heatwave in England for spring showers in Spain. She’d pointed them in the direction of the indoor aquarium. She understood their disappointment – they’d come on holiday for the sun and the beach and the outside tapas restaurants. She’d felt the same when she first moved here, surprised that it does indeed rain in Spain. But she loves it here, loves their little apartment with its own courtyard in a beautiful old building off a cobbled street in the Old Town. And the food. She could eat paella and prawns and squid, not to mention the pintxos, every day.