Chapter Fifteen
Mike had checked the peephole before he opened the door, so he wasn’t surprised to see Sophie’s son Tom standing in the hallway. It was abundantly clear by the baffled expression on Tom’s face that he hadn’t been expecting to see Mike.
‘You,’ Tom said, ‘are not my mother.’ He held his phone out like he’d been about to hand it to someone. One single brow slowly went up. ‘Where is my mother?’ His gaze dropped down and seemed to take in Mike’s rumpled and probably unsavoury appearance and got entirely the wrong impression. ‘And why are you here?’
Mike couldn’t bring himself to be affronted by this, because if he was being honest, he wished he had been opening the door after an evening of torridly sweaty sex. He wanted an evening that could only be described as carnal . He wanted Sophie with such a blinding intensity that he was certain that if she’d been well, they’d have done things in her flat that would break laws .
This sudden frustration coupled with an instinctive need to protect her well-being – she was only now feeling better and she shouldn’t have to deal with anything – made his voice sharp. ‘Yes, me.’ He wanted to growl that it was none of Tom’s bloody fucking business why he was there, except Sophie had been ill, her son obviously cared for her, and so it was, in fact, kind of his business.
He sighed, letting his misplaced irritation go. ‘Sophie’s been ill, so I came to help. She’s only just started feeling better, so if this can wait—’
To his credit, Tom was instantly concerned. ‘She was ill? Is she okay?’
‘Better, yes,’ Mike said quietly. ‘Her fever has gone and she’s had some soup.’
Tom blew out a breath. ‘Good. That’s good.’ He glanced at his phone, his face twisting into a scowl. ‘I’m afraid she won’t thank me for waiting. Not on this.’
Mike nodded, stepping back to let Tom into the flat.
Sophie was sitting at the table, attempting to plait her wet hair. ‘Tom! What a surprise. Well, I guess it’s not really a surprise since you’re only one floor away, but still.’ Her bright expression dimmed. ‘Are you okay? Is there something wrong with Marisa?’
Tom pulled up a chair at the table. ‘I tried texting you, but you didn’t answer.’
‘Her phone was dead,’ Mike said. ‘I put it on the charger, but she’s been out of it and I’m afraid I didn’t hear it ping at all.’
‘I probably had it on silent,’ Sophie said.
Mike went and fetched it for her, before heading back into the kitchenette to put the kettle on. From Tom’s demeanour, he had a feeling this was a conversation that was going to call for tea.
Sophie, for her part, sounded calm as ever. ‘I know that face. What is it, then?’
Tom shook his head, tapped his phone awake and shoved it towards her, his entire body stiff with barely suppressed rage.
Sophie took the phone from him, concern lining every feature, as she peered at the screen.
Then, what little colour she’d managed to regain from soup, fluids and rest, drained from her face. Her hand trembled as she held the phone, her eyes slowly sliding shut.
Mike didn’t stop to think twice as he stepped forward and plucked the phone from her loose fingers. He sent a questioning look to Tom, who was holding himself tight and chewing on his lip. Tom managed a terse nod of permission, which was good, because Mike was pretty sure nothing was going to keep him from looking at whatever had bled the joy from Sophie’s face.
The phone was open to Tom’s Instagram. It was a photo of a man, probably in his late fifties, handsome in a bland, generic kind of way. His arm was around what appeared to be a much younger woman – thirty, perhaps. Her hair was bobbed and sleek, her smile wide as she stared up at the man with open adoration. They were both holding a photo. Mike fished his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and looked more carefully. Was that an ultrasound photo? He peered down at the text below the photo.
These Swanns are nesting! Can’t wait to grow our little family with the greatest man on earth. Thanks for making my dreams come true, Honey Bear.
The endearment ‘Honey Bear’ was a bit insipid, but nothing to cause the reaction the post was getting from Sophie and Tom. Mike stayed confused until he glanced at the account name, LiveLaughLori – or more importantly, the person she’d tagged in the photo, Andrew Swann.
Oh.
Oh no .
He clicked the phone off, the sound loud in the otherwise silent room.
Sophie had frozen like some sort of ice sculpture while Tom was practically vibrating with anger.
Mike wasn’t sure what to do. Did Sophie want comfort? Would she want it from him? He would understand if she never wanted to see another man in her life after that post. The kettle whistled and he escaped for a moment to the kitchen, preparing three mugs of tea before returning to the table. Tom had collapsed in his chair, slumping in defeat, but otherwise the scene was the same.
He set mugs in front of both of them, set his on the table, then took Sophie’s hand and lowered himself onto his haunches so he could see up into her face. He wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Are you okay?’ would be a ridiculous question, because of course she wasn’t. He finally settled on, ‘What do you need?’
She blinked at him, her eyes dry, probably still in shock. ‘I don’t know.’
Tom rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘He didn’t even tell us he’d remarried, let alone—’ He growled and dropped his hands. ‘A phone call. Would it be so bloody hard for him to pick up a phone and call ? He knows, he knows what we’ve been going through, and I’m not saying people can’t be happy about things going well for them, but for fuck’s sake. I don’t even follow her. It showed up because she tagged him.’
Sophie didn’t say anything. Her hand in his was icy, and Mike sandwiched it between both of his and tried to rub some warmth into it.
‘Marisa’s gutted. If he’d just called . . . But we weren’t prepared for it. Completely blindsided.’ Tom bit off the last word, his jaw tight. He rubbed a weary hand over his face. ‘I’m too old to get a surprise sibling.’
Sophie sniffed, then spoke with a quiet voice. ‘Remember when you were little and I asked you if you wanted one?’
Tom’s expression softened, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. ‘I told you I’d rather get a dog. Gemma Davies had been showing off her new puppy and I was extremely jealous.’ He reached out and took the hand that Mike wasn’t holding and squeezed it. ‘I still think I’d rather get a dog.’
Sophie burst out laughing then, though it sounded a little wet, like there might have been some tears mixed in. She laughed until she started hiccupping. ‘I’m just.’ Hiccup. ‘So.’ Hiccup. ‘Angry.’
‘Livid,’ Tom said, giving her hand another squeeze before dropping it so he could clasp his mug, taking a long sip. ‘Marisa was quiet when I left. I’m worried about her. I’d have felt a lot better if she’d been screaming into a pillow or even throwing things.’ He sighed, his voice going quiet and sad. ‘She’s still so angry, which is fine, but she’s not letting it out.’
The room grew quiet again, Tom and Sophie struggling with this new, unwelcome information. They were both so crushed and Mike wasn’t sure what to do. If Rahul had been there instead of Tom, Mike would have hugged him, or at least squeezed his arm or his hand, something to let him know he wasn’t alone. Only Mike wasn’t Tom’s father – which was good, because Tom’s father was a complete prat – and to Tom, Mike was basically a stranger.
Fuck it. Mike reached out and squeezed Tom’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry your father is being an absolute bell end.’
Tom barked a laugh, the sound obviously surprising him.
Mike dropped his hand, his attention going to Sophie, who was trying to sip her tea even though she was still hiccupping. The tension in the room had dropped, but Mike could still feel the anger, the hurt, flowing off them in waves. They were still holding themselves so tightly, keeping all those overwhelming emotions in.
This, at least, was something Mike understood. How many times had he sat just like this, a toxic mix of grief and rage bubbling up inside him like acid, eating away at his insides until he was hollowed by it. Content to be hollowed by it, even, because that meant those corrosive, terrible emotions wouldn’t splash over onto his children. They’d had enough grief of their own.
Except he didn’t want that for Sophie, or Tom and Marisa. While Tara had been worth the grief, Andrew Swann absolutely wasn’t worth this kind of pain. He knew Andrew wasn’t the only subject of grief here, but he thought Tom was right – Marisa needed an outlet.
And Mike . . . had an idea. He wasn’t sure they’d go for it, but it wouldn’t hurt to put it forward. He cleared his throat. ‘I have an idea, if you’re up for hearing it.’
Sophie continued to hiccup, but he had her attention now.
‘Mum, hold your breath,’ Tom said, his voice weary now. ‘That always helps me.’
‘Amaya – that’s my daughter,’ he threw in for Tom’s benefit, ‘told me about this place her friend went to after a bad break-up. I thought it might be fun for Sophie’s blog, so I looked it up to see if there was one in New York. There is.’
Tom rested his chin in his hand, frowning. ‘What kind of place?’
‘They’re called rage rooms. You go to these places and they put you in safety gear and give you a crowbar or a cricket bat or whatever and turn you loose in a room. Then you smash things. Supposed to be very cathartic.’
‘Smash things?’ Sophie asked. ‘What kind of things?’
Mike shrugged. ‘Dishes, printers, whatever they have.’
Sophie turned to Tom.
Tom tilted his head to the side, considering. Finally, he looked at Mike. ‘Couldn’t hurt.’
Mike pulled up the website on his phone. ‘I’ll book us a slot.’