Beneath the Skin(38)

She waits for David to sit down and to speak, but he remains silent, pale and impassive, so she continues to talk. ‘The main problem is diabetes. It’s buggered up his blood sugar, which they’ll have to balance with insulin, and his blood pressure and cholesterol levels are alarming too. He’s lucky not to have had a heart attack, but there could well be one in the pipeline.’

She removes her glasses, automatically polishing the lenses with her blouse. ‘Of course I didn’t know anything about it.’ Replacing her glasses, she looks pointedly at David. His swollen nose and stubble make him look like a cliché of a criminal. His eyes shifty and hooded, he looks guilty too. ‘Did you know he was ill? David?’ she demands. ‘David? Be honest.’

‘Well, he did mention something.’

‘When? When was this?’

‘A while ago.’

‘And you didn’t say anything to me? You didn’t force him to go to the doctors or to speak to me about it? For goodness sake David, what sort of friend are you? Charlie could have died. He might still do if he’s not very careful, his arteries will be caked.’

She’s silent for a moment, embarrassed by the shrill tone of her words, knowing she’s unfairly taking out her anger and frustration on David, when it’s Charlie’s fault for not confiding in her and perhaps her fault for not being amenable to such a confidence. But she’s cross, cross with David, cross with Charlie, cross with herself and so she can’t stop.

‘And what was all that about last night in the study? All that shouting and swearing? Demanding that you leave? I’ve never seen him so upset. That’s probably what brought it on. You’re meant to be his closest friend, David. I don’t know what you’ve done but …’

Helen rages at some length as she stares at the three differently coloured lines on the monitor above Charlie’s bed, aware that she’s fully attributing blame to David when both she and Rupert have played their parts. When she turns her head to inspect David’s guilt-ridden face, he’s gone.

‘Cheer up, Rupert. Stable is good, isn’t it?’ Antonia smiles encouragingly. ‘Why don’t you give your mum a ring to see how he is now?’

It’s still only ten-thirty in the morning. She’s made Rupert several drinks, ranging from Ovaltine to a glass of soda from an antique-looking syphon, but they’ve all gone untouched. Rupert remains slumped in an armchair chewing his thumb. She’s been through Helen’s kitchen cupboards in search of something a youth might like to eat – crisps, biscuits, even jam for toast.

‘My parents don’t do junk, treats, whatever you’d call them. “Not very healthy” they say, which is ironic, considering,’ he mutters. So Antonia resorts to creating something from the ingredients she can find, trying not to pay too much attention to the long-gone ‘best before’ dates.

‘Like Ready Steady Cook,’ she declares, which is rewarded with the slightest of smiles. ‘Flour, sugar and butter. That’s all it takes to make a biscuit, right? Come on, you need to help me out here, Rupert. I hated domestic science. Always skived it at school.’

‘You’re joking, right? Come on, Auntie Antonia, Dad’s always on about your fantastic cooking. I bet you were the perfect schoolgirl, top of the class, star of the week, every week.’

It strikes her then how little anyone really knows about anybody else. But Rupert is animated, at least for a while, as the warm shortbread is eaten. Then time hangs again with nothing to say and Rupert retreats to his chair.

‘Mum should have called me by now. I’m her son. She’s meant to care about my fucking feelings. She’s never loved me, neither of them has.’

Antonia tries to argue, to cajole and reason with him. ‘Of course they love you, Rupert, of course they do,’ but her words aren’t convincing. Not even to her. Helen and Charlie sent him away from the local primary school in Hale where he was happy and settled, to a far-away boarding school, a fragile only child who needed his mum. Then when he was home for the holidays, they barely noticed he was there, leaving him alone for long days with their elderly housekeeper.

For a moment, but only for a moment, the thought pops into Antonia’s head that perhaps it was better to have her father, as terrible as he was, rather than to have no father at all. But then she remembers the dream on the sofa last night, so deep and intense that she thought it was real, that her father was real. And her words to poor David when she thought he was him. ‘Get off. You disgust me. Don’t touch me. Never again. Do you hear?’

She checks her mobile with a sigh. There’s no answer from David to her texts, but that’s not surprising. He’s at the hospital with Charlie where no mobiles are allowed. They’re probably laughing about old times, Helen looking on, bored. She’ll try again later.

‘I know, Rupert. How about a game of Snap?’

A groan in reply from Rupert. ‘I’m not ten, Auntie Antonia.’ But at least there’s a smile.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Sami’s face is tight, his body tense as he strides past the flurry of lunchtime shoppers in St Ann’s Square. He’s angry with her for humiliating him, for making him look like a fool. But most of all he’s angry with himself. He’s said too much to her, he’s exposed his inner self and let emotion get in the way.