Chapter Twenty-Five Nico
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nico
The next morning I wake up sprawled uncomfortably on the too-small sofa with a drumline playing in my head and Taco licking my face.
‘Okay, okay,’ I mumble, getting to my feet so that I can put some food down and let him outside. Despite the fact I only had a few glasses of wine last night, I’m still feeling a certain tenderness in body and spirit. Getting older sucks.
The corner of my laptop sticks out from under the sofa where I shoved it before I eventually fell asleep last night and I eye it warily for a moment.
Last night after my conversation with Lee I opened up the pictures from our night in Vegas, and as the screen comes to life now they pop up in front of me.
They’re some of the last photos that I properly took the time to edit, and seeing them now is strange.
First of all, there are some great shots in there, and I remember how buzzed I was about them at the time.
Frankie Martelli and his friends have the most incredible faces, their personalities sing through every image, and the way I’ve worked on the pictures really makes the most of the moody setting, emphasising a curl of cigar smoke through the diffused light here, a vibrant pop of deep red there.
I click through the photographs until I get to the one I’m looking for.
It’s of Lee.
She’s sitting at the poker table, an enormous stack of chips in front of her. Her fingers are pressed over a fan of cards, still face down. No one knows yet that it’s a winning hand.
Her face is turned towards one of the other players, and she’s grinning at something they said, her eyes half shut, the dimples in her cheeks on display.
Her hair is falling out of the long, mermaid-y braid she had it in; the top two buttons of her white silk shirt are unbuttoned, revealing the hollow at the base of her throat.
There’s something about this picture, something magic. It’s Lee. She’s luminous. Strands of gold thread through her hair, her skin is all pearls and moondust. She’s not just sitting in the light. She is the light.
I draw in a shuddering breath. Look at her. Is it any wonder I married this woman? I probably dragged her down the aisle. She never stood a chance.
There was this moment last night where she had one of those stupid flashcards taped to her head, and she was laughing at some story Tara told, and the light from the candles I’d teased her about flickered over her face.
I heard the camera shutter go off in my head.
I wanted that picture so badly, my hands shook.
I wanted to catch her in that instant and keep her for ever.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with all these feelings.
Suddenly, the bedroom door opens and Lee tiptoes out. She’s wearing bright pink cotton pyjamas, covered in photographs of cats. Her hair hasn’t been brushed, and she startles at the sight of me.
I slam the laptop shut, looking guilty as hell.
‘Sorry,’ her eyes widen, ‘I thought you’d still be asleep. I was going to creep past for a glass of water.’ She winces. ‘Maybe some ibuprofen.’
I dread to think what she imagines I was doing… Still it might be better than the reality, which is mooning over a photograph of her face.
‘Yeah, it’s no Vegas hangover,’ I manage, getting to my feet, ‘but half a bottle of wine is a pretty heavy night for me these days.’
‘Me too,’ Lee agrees. After a second’s hesitation, she crosses to the kitchen and pours two glasses of water from the jug in the fridge, before extracting matching his and hers doses of painkillers from the First Aid box.
I’m about to call Taco back inside, but clearly he’s heard his beloved’s voice because he comes barrelling past me like a bullet. I open my mouth but instead of jumping all over Lee as I expect him to, he sits and gently leans against her leg.
‘He knows I’m feeling delicate this morning, don’t you, my sweet boy?’ Lee asks, scratching him behind his ears while he whimpers in delight.
‘Before you got here it used to take me fifteen solid minutes of swearing and threats to get him back inside.’
Phoebe’s door opens then and she comes in, wearing her black cat hoodie.
‘Oh, good, you’re both up,’ she says and climbs up onto one of the kitchen stools, last night’s bad dream forgotten.
I guess I should be happy that they don’t seem to linger in her mind, but each one takes a week or two off my life.
I grab my glass of water and swallow my pills before turning to her. ‘Let me guess. You’re starving and you want something disgustingly unhealthy for breakfast.’
Sensing weakness, she blinks at me. ‘There’s half a tub of Miss Rita’s peanut butter ice cream left in the freezer.’ Her eyes widen further. ‘And peanuts are legumes, Dad.’
‘I told you that was going to come back and bite me,’ I mutter to Lee, but I extract the tub of ice cream and a spoon and hand them to my daughter.
‘Hey, I like your pyjamas.’ Phoebe waves her spoon in Lee’s direction.
Lee glances down and grimaces, clearly registering her outfit for the first time. I bite back a smile. She looks so cute.
‘This is the first time I’ve seen you look…’ Phoebe purses her lips. ‘Un-fancy.’
‘Oh,’ Lee looks flustered, running a hand over her hair to smooth it.
‘Phoebe,’ I chide.
‘What?’ Phoebe asks around a mouthful of ice cream. ‘I like it. Lee fits in with us.’ She gestures to the two of us – me in my pyjamas, her in hers with the cat hoodie over the top.
Lee’s cheeks are pink. ‘I like silly pyjamas,’ she says, like it’s a confession. I suppose the bright pink PJs are not exactly what I’d imagine Lee to wear in bed. Not that I’ve spent a lot of time imagining what else she might wear as she slept in my bed… lace… or silk… or nothing at all.
‘Coffee?’ I bark, hustling over to the machine.
‘How come you like silly pyjamas?’ Phoebe asks, and this is great… let’s all remain focused on Lee’s sleepwear.
Lee swipes a mug from the cupboard and hands it to me, her attention still on Phoebe.
‘I think,’ she starts tentatively, ‘that my clothes are a bit like my armour. I love them, but they also make me feel… more confident? More in control. When I’m just hanging out around the house I don’t need that so much. I can just be… silly.’
I’m suddenly struck by a memory from Vegas of those pyjamas covered in the little tropical fruits and my heart feels bruised, tender like a peach.
‘Yeah,’ Phoebe nods thoughtfully. ‘Like how I always feel so powerful when I wear my soccer uniform. But we like you when you’re silly. You don’t need to wear your armour with us, right, Dad?’
When my daughter looks at me with her sweet, serious face I feel as if I’ve been punched in the solar plexus by my love for her. Lee’s stunned expression leads me to believe she might be experiencing something similar. Underneath her snarky attitude, my girl has the biggest heart.
‘That’s right, little Bee,’ I agree, my voice a bit hoarse.
‘Cool,’ Phoebe nods, like she hasn’t just totally decimated the emotional wellbeing of two adults, and turns her attention back to her ice cream. I busy myself making coffee while Lee casually runs a finger under her lashes.
‘Cool,’ Lee echoes softly. ‘So, I was thinking maybe we should go and get hot chocolate at Bean & Gone this week,’ she says to Phoebe, and the words are hesitant like she’s not sure her invitation will be welcome. ‘I could pick you up from school one day. There might be cinnamon buns, too.’
Phoebe perks up at this and agrees enthusiastically, and I don’t even think it’s about the buns.
While the two of them chat, I start making some toast. Ice cream isn’t going to cut it for me and Lee – not that it looks like there’s any going spare – when we have a busy day with plans to take Tara out sightseeing, as well as getting everything ready for the trustee’s arrival tomorrow.
‘Shall we watch cartoons now?’ Phoebe asks, but before I can answer, we’re interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
‘Who can that be?’ I mutter.
There’s a man standing on the front porch. He’s probably in his sixties, he’s wearing an immaculate three piece suit, and his thinning brown hair is swept back from his long face. He blinks at me from behind a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses.
‘Nicolas Hart?’ he asks in a plummy English accent.
My stomach sinks. ‘Yes,’ I agree reluctantly.
The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. ‘Charles Saunders,’ he says, confirming my worst fears. ‘Of Saunders, Saunders and Sneed. You’ve been expecting me?’
‘Not until tomorrow.’ I look down at the card in my hand, which is thick and embossed and clearly the business card of someone not to be messed with.
It also looks like the trustee is a partner in a prestigious law firm.
I’m sure he’s delighted to be spending two weeks in small-town America, observing me like a high school science experiment.
Charles frowns. ‘I apologise. My assistant must have forwarded incorrect details. I will look into the matter.’
My brain is working slowly, but after a long, awkward moment I realise he’s waiting to be invited in. I glance over my shoulder, to where Phoebe and Lee are still chatting in the kitchen.
‘Er, come in,’ I say finally. ‘I’m afraid you’ve caught us having breakfast.’
When I turn back into the house, Lee glances up and I catch her eye. ‘Honey,’ I say brightly. ‘It looks like we had the date wrong. Charles Saunders, my father’s lawyer, is here.’
The coffee cup slips from Lee’s fingers, shattering on the kitchen floor. Taco is barking like mad, charging around in circles, while Lee tries to stop him stepping on any of the broken splinters.
‘Oh!’ Lee exclaims. ‘Oh, no, I…’
I head towards her, grabbing a roll of kitchen towel as I go. I put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t move,’ I say as calmly as I can manage, mopping up the small amount of coffee she had left in her cup. ‘You have bare feet.’
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry, I…’