Chapter 40
Adam
Okie’s focus is razor sharp, but I’m not with it. I’m tired — Hugh moved back into his residential home yesterday evening, and I stayed until the early morning to make sure he settled. Every time my mind veers onto something practical, like A Levels and mortgages, Eve is pushed into my mind — the way she looked, crying on the sofa... my stomach twists.
Okie has already packed up his things and is halfway out of the door by the time I remember what I’m doing, and Mr Adayemi is walking through with two cups of coffee.
He sits down opposite me.
‘He’s done really well again today.’ I say, trying to find something new to add. ‘But you probably guessed that.’
Mr Adayemi doesn’t respond. Instead, he gazes out of the window. ‘Perhaps the exams aren’t such a good idea.’
It takes me a second to compute what he’s said. ‘What? But he’s doing so well, there’s only—’
‘They’ve cut my hours.’ It seems difficult for him to say this, as though sharing something so personal is painful. ‘It’s just not possible.’
I shake my head, dispelling the memory of Bil’s suggestion that I’m getting too invested. ‘Let me help.’
‘No.’ He looks at me for the first time, and his eyes are determined. ‘He’ll take the exams next year, or in two, with everybody else.’
Mr Adayemi reaches his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out my envelope. ‘Thank you again, Adam.’
‘Please, this isn’t insurmountable, we can—’
‘I think it’d be best if you came once a fortnight from now on. Until the situation improves.’
‘If I’m not tutoring Okie for his A Levels, there’s nothing I can do for him,’ I say bluntly.
He looks at me, and then nods. ‘Then it’s settled.’
I grip the back of my chair, helplessness washing over me. ‘Please — there’s got to be a way.’
‘I’m grateful for all of your help.’ Mr Adeyemi pushes his cup to the side and stands up, straightening his jacket. ‘Goodbye, Adam.’
* * *
I rattle through my last two students’ sessions, but my heart isn’t really in it. I can’t process the unfairness of the situation: finances shouldn’t stand in the way of education. They shouldn’t stand in the way of a fulfilled life, whatever that means. I understand that Okie goes to school, that he’s generally considered too young to go to university, but it’s such a waste. A waste of a year or two of his life, time that he could be spending happy. A waste of potential.
I cycle home the long route, passing through the park, pedalling hard. I’m taken back to the last time I felt this fired up, when I was riding my bike on the phone to Katie, telling her that I’d been given the go-ahead to tutor Okie into university. That feels like such a long time ago now.
I briefly wonder what Katie is doing — I haven’t heard from her, but I know it won’t be long before she wants an update on the house — and I push the thoughts from my mind and bear down on the handlebars. My thighs are burning, and I focus on the pain as I try to think about how I can salvage this.
I need the money that Okie’s sessions give me, of course I do, especially now I’m trying to buy half of my own house. But that isn’t the point, it’s a busy time of year for me, and there are other students on the waiting list. I could add extra sessions to make up for the lost income. What’s really eating at me is that we were so close. We almost got there, and now we won’t.
I eventually arrive home and as I open the door, I immediately notice that something feels different. There’s a smell — perfume — and the air is off somehow, like things have been moved. There’s an envelope on the side by the front door, with nothing written on the front of it.
I pick it up and step through into the living room as I run my finger under the flap, and my suspicions are confirmed. I might not have noticed, if it weren’t for the envelope and the smell of perfume, but things are missing. The pink and green scatter cushion on the sofa; half the contents of the book case; the pointless little wooden bowl filled with pointless little wooden balls that used to sit on the coffee table. All of Katie’s stuff. I don’t need to go upstairs to know that the wardrobe will be mostly empty now, too.
The edge of the envelope slices into my finger, and I rip it open in frustration. It’s as if I’ve willed this here by thought.
Dear Mr Parks,
I have been instructed by my client, Miss Katherine Dean, to inform you of her intentions to place the below-mentioned property, of which she owns 50% of the equity, on the market...
I screw the letter up and throw it onto the now-empty coffee table. I call Katie.
‘Hello?’ She answers as if she doesn’t know who it is. Perhaps she’s deleted my number. Get the stuff, drop off the letter, delete the contact. Clean slate.
‘Katie, it’s Adam.’
‘Oh.’ There’s a pause. ‘You got the letter.’
‘And you got your stuff, I see.’
I always wondered how ex-partners got into such bitter disputes over possessions — thought I’d be better than that, more rational and benevolent — but right now, I get it.
‘I thought it’d be better if I came while you were out—’
‘You want to sell the house?’ I interrupt. ‘I thought I was buying you out?’
She sighs. ‘We both know you can’t do that.’
‘Oh, you know that?’
‘Adam . . .’
‘Tell your solicitor to back off. This isn’t a divorce.’ I can’t control the anger in my voice. ‘You could have called me.’
‘I wanted things to stay simple. Amicable.’
‘Right, and formal letters are renowned for their friendly approach.’ I run my hand through my beard, tugging at the moustache hairs that are creeping over my top lip. ‘I’m buying it, Katie. Just give me a few weeks to figure things out.’
I hear her sigh, and it grates on me. That sigh — that irritability at everything I say — how didn’t I see it? ‘I really could do with things moving along. Rich and I are buying—’ She stops herself.
‘That sounds sensible,’ I chirp, my voice false and bright. ‘Buy a new house with the guy you’ve been dating for two weeks. Rich, is it? Pass him my very best wishes.’
‘Grow up, Adam. People move on, there’s no time—’
I hang up. I’m angry with myself for being childish, for rising to the bait and getting petty. Rich. The thought of him doesn’t cut as deeply as I thought it would. I’m not trying to picture him. Instead I’m picturing this house, being mine. A more solid foundation for Hugh and me to build our lives upon.
I stalk through to the kitchen and flick the kettle on. The letter caught me at a bad time, after the news about Okie’s exams. I’ll be better prepared next time I talk to Katie. It’s Friday, so I can do my marking at the weekend and spend this evening looking at mortgages, loans, exploring my options.
The kettle rises to a noisy boil, and I don’t hear the knocking until I’ve filled the cafetière. When I register it, I put the kettle down and walk through to the front door.
‘Hello.’
It’s Eve. She’s standing on my doorstep, her face calm, her hair curling up around her jaw. She’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, and there’s a plastic box by her feet.
‘Eve, hi.’ I take a breath. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you, are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ She smiles broadly. ‘Old Sausage is from Windermere. Do you fancy a trip?’
I’m trying to process what she’s saying, but it sounds like gibberish. ‘Windermere? How — what do you mean?’
‘I took her to the vets. The chip is registered to...’ she checks her phone, ‘Brierfield Close.’
I look down at the box by her feet. There’s a grate on the front, and through it I can see Old Sausage, peering at me. ‘In Windermere.’ I’m parroting her, trying to process the fact that she’s here, that she has information.
‘Yes, in Windermere.’ She looks impatient now. ‘Well?’
‘It’s almost five o’clock, shouldn’t we—’
‘Adam.’ She meets my gaze and her eyes glint. ‘Are you coming or not?’