What Lies Between Us(76)

‘It’s Bobby,’ he replies abruptly.

I’ve been making that mistake more frequently recently. He offers a smile as an afterthought but it’s disingenuous.

‘Bobby,’ I repeat. The nickname his family has given him still snags in my throat. In my head he will always be Dylan.

As we make our way downstairs, he passes the partition wall and door that leads to Maggie’s floor. I see he’s curious as to what’s up there so I beat him to the punch. ‘It keeps the heating bills down if I keep that section of the house closed. It’s a big house for one person.’

I don’t know whether it’s being here that’s making him awkward, but something is amiss even when we tuck into dinner in the kitchen. I’m generating all our conversations and if I’m being honest, it has been like this the last few times we have come together. I’ve tried to shrug it off and convince myself I’m wrong, but Dylan no longer appears to share my level of enthusiasm for our get-togethers. They’ve slipped from fortnightly to monthly, and several times, he has cancelled at the last minute. I feel him slipping through my fingers and I don’t know how to stop it from happening. Perhaps I should be flattered – he no longer thinks of me as a novelty but a regular part of his life and this is how he behaves with everyone he loves. Still, it doesn’t settle comfortably with me.

‘Is everything okay with you?’ I ask, and he nods. ‘It’s just that you seem a little distant.’

‘I went to see Jon Hunter’s grave yesterday. I found the location on a fan site.’

I hesitate. It’s the last thing I expected him to say. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps to get some closure, I’m not sure.’

‘And did it work?’

‘Not really. He doesn’t even have a headstone. It was just a raised bed of soil. I left a bunch of flowers on it. It was the only one.’

‘I think you have to wait until the ground levels out before you can fit a headstone.’

‘Where are my grandparents buried?’

‘Not far from here. What about Jon? Where did they bury him?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’ My face reddens.

‘The village where his parents still live. Great Houghton. I thought about going to see them.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps raking up the past isn’t always a good thing.’

I recall making the trip there myself after Jon refused to grant me a visiting order to see him in prison. Even when I explained who I was and that I’d lost his baby two years earlier, they wouldn’t believe me and refused to talk their son into seeing me. They told me I wasn’t the first girl to turn up on their doorstep with a ‘sick fantasy relationship’ and that I wouldn’t be the last. Then they demanded I leave, and I never returned. I am unsure of what else to say to Dylan, so we eat in an uncomfortable silence for a while.

‘How are your parents?’ I ask eventually.

‘They’re good,’ he replies.

‘Have you given any more thought to telling them about me?’

He shakes his head. ‘Like I’ve said before, it’s not the right time.’

‘It’s been two years now.’

‘I know.’

‘You have every right to want to spend time with me. What’s the worst that could happen if you told them?’

‘They’d be upset.’

‘Don’t they want you to be happy?’

‘Of course.’

I steel myself for what I’m going to suggest. I’ve rehearsed it many times but I need to make it sound so casual, like it has only just come to me in the moment. ‘You know that if you told them and if you needed some space afterwards, you could always come and stay here.’

Dylan stops chewing; he’s hesitant. ‘Thanks,’ he replies.

‘I mean, it’s not like I don’t have the space. It would be lovely to have you.’

He nods, but I fear it’s more out of politeness than genuine gratitude. I need to sell him the benefits.

‘You can could come and go as you pleased, if you had any friends who wanted to stay over, that’d be fine too. You could redecorate a room to your taste . . . whatever makes you comfortable. It’d be your house just as much as it is mine.’ I stop when I sense I’m becoming too animated, too pushy. But the idea of having my son live with me excites me. ‘Is the food all right?’ I ask instead.

‘It’s great,’ he says.

‘Only you’ve not eaten much of the beef. Have I overcooked it? I have some steak in the fridge if you want me to fry that instead . . .’

‘No, it’s fine. I try not to eat too much red meat.’

‘Really? Why? The iron is good for you.’

‘My grandfather had bowel cancer a couple of years ago so we try and avoid it at home.’

‘Well, if it’s hereditary it’s not going to affect you, is it? There’s no history of bowel cancer in your real family.’ I fail to mention the lump in Maggie’s breast that is quietly causing a division in the house.

‘They are my real family,’ he responds.

He doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say so I try to clarify. ‘I understand why you might think that, but technically they’re just the family who took you in. You and I are related by blood.’