Chapter Twenty
Lissa parks the car as close as she can to the address Ash gave her.
It’s a house right at the southern edges of Bath, trees leafier and greener than they must have been just weeks ago lining each side of the street.
She checks the address again on her phone.
It’s near to where she dropped him after his car broke down.
She glances up and down the street and sees him leaning against a small stone wall, eyes on his phone screen.
He’s wearing a black jacket, jeans. His dark hair is messed up in that way teenage boys in her secondary school used to try to emulate.
And just seeing him, for the first time in weeks, causes an inadvisable prickle of anticipation across her forearms, down the back of her neck.
So no. Maybe it wasn’t only the alcohol making her want him.
She gets out of the car. She has no idea what she’s doing here – he insisted on being cryptic throughout the message exchange, enough that it made her agree just to see what he was planning.
That and the tarot reading. The Knight of Cups and a leap of faith.
Does it matter, really, if tarot is ‘real’?
If she identified with what was being said, then maybe it’s just a different kind of therapy.
She walks along the street to the cottage – grey stone like the wall, with a front garden that looks a little overgrown but still loved, daffodils coming to the end of their lives in one corner.
Ash notices her before she reaches him, lifting his head like he can hear her footsteps.
She worries for a moment that it will be awkward, given the last time they saw each other, and given the fact that she’s so clearly pulled back from him afterwards.
But his crooked mouth softens into a smile when he sees her. ‘Hey. Glad you came.’
She smiles back, because it’s impossible not to. ‘I said I would.’
Ash jerks his head towards the front door, bright red against the green of the garden.
She frowns as she follows him. She’s gone through various theories in her mind – none of them involved a small cottage in a pretty suburban area.
Her frown deepens when he fishes a key out of his jeans pocket, lets himself right on in.
Does he live here? Somehow she can’t imagine him somewhere like this.
And if it really is his house, then why meet her outside?
‘Ash, what are we—’
He holds up a hand to silence her as he shuts the door behind them. ‘Dad?’ he calls, and Lissa’s stomach does an uncomfortable backflip. He brought her to meet his father? Without telling her? ‘We’re here!’
‘Ash.’ She hisses it this time, her voice full of warning. He only glances at her, the picture of innocence.
And she can’t say anything more, because there is a man now limping into view from the room on the right.
He is older than she would have imagined Ash’s father to be, what little hair there is left turned stone grey on his head.
He walks with a stick, his left leg seeming to drag behind him, and his skin is tinged with yellow.
His eyes, though – she can see Ash in his eyes.
A paler blue, but the same shape, somehow the same texture.
And his smile, she thinks, as his eyes crease. He has that same easy smile.
Ash walks towards his dad, clapping him lightly – carefully, Lissa thinks – on the back. His dad is wearing slippers, and a checked shirt over fraying jeans. He is cleanshaven, though Lissa can see several nicks there. Despite the stick, he stands very straight.
‘Dad, this is Lissa,’ Ash says. ‘A friend of mine.’ He gestures to where she is standing in the doorway, unsure what to do with herself. ‘Lissa, this is Jack.’
‘Hi, Jack.’ Her voice comes out embarrassingly squeaky.
But parents are not her thing. She can’t even manage a successful relationship with her own, let alone someone else’s.
Should she shake his hand? Hug him? She settles for an incredibly awkward wave.
And sees the way Ash’s lips twitch, finding her amusing of all things.
‘Well come in, come in,’ Jack says, his voice a pleasant rumble. ‘Can’t stay loitering around in the hallway, not with this bloody leg.’
They follow him into the living room, because obviously Lissa has no choice but to go along with it now that she’s here.
It’s clean and tidy, with a neat stack of books on the coffee table – a combination of crime novels and non-fiction from what she can tell.
There is a faintly musty smell, though, like a window hasn’t been opened in too long.
Lissa takes a seat on a blue armchair, while Jack sits on the sofa, where the cushion is indented, like he always sits in the same spot.
Over on the mantel above the fireplace, framed photographs smile out at them.
‘So, Dad,’ Ash says, perching on the arm of the sofa. ‘Did you go to the doctor’s today as planned?’
‘Can you believe this one?’ Jack asks Lissa, jerking his head in his son’s direction. ‘Always checking up on me.’
‘Dad,’ Ash says, voice firm. Lissa notices his knee is doing that bouncing thing it sometimes does, like he doesn’t want to be sitting still.
‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ Jack says, waving it off with a hand. ‘Or maybe you could see if you could pick the prescription up for me?’
‘It’s not only the prescription, though, is it? Didn’t you have an appointment?’
‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ Jack repeats, just as firmly. ‘Now let’s not get hung up on it,’ he adds, speaking over Ash’s protest. He smiles at Lissa. ‘We’ve got company.’
Ash hesitates, like he might be about to push the point. Lissa wonders what the appointment was for. She wonders why he didn’t go. ‘All right,’ he says eventually. He stands up. ‘I’ll go make us some tea, shall I?’
‘Good idea,’ Jack says with a nod. ‘I’ll take butter in mine.’
Lissa laughs, assuming it’s a joke, but Jack looks at her oddly. She glances at Ash, whose expression flickers, a muscle contracting in his jaw. He catches her looking at him and smiles a little sadly. And Lissa feels a slow sinking sensation inside her.
‘So,’ Jack says, propping his stick between his knees and leaning forward on it, spine still very straight. ‘Are you a friend or a friend?’
Lissa laughs again, surer of the intent this time, and his eyes light with it, the way Ash’s do sometimes. ‘Just a friend,’ she says firmly. ‘The regular kind.’
‘Hmm.’ It’s the same ‘hmm’ that Ash sometimes gives – an inherited sound, apparently.
‘Hmm?’
‘He doesn’t really bring girls to meet me,’ Jack says, scratching his chin.
‘Or boys, for that matter. Doesn’t seem to be able to make anything stick.
’ Lissa glances in the direction Ash headed in, wondering if he would mind his father telling her this.
‘There was someone at university,’ Jack muses.
‘Missy? Maisie? Can’t for the life of me remember.
But no one since then. I suppose he moves around too much to settle down. ’
‘I suppose,’ Lissa hedges. At least they have one thing in common – an inability to commit, form a long-term relationship. Though she imagines Ash finds it easier than her to form short-term ones.
‘He mentions you a lot,’ Jack says, voice a little sly. She decides she likes him more for that slyness.
She also decides to play it innocent. ‘What’s that?’
‘Ash. He talks about you. Nothing major,’ he adds, while she works to keep her face carefully neutral.
‘I barely know the first thing about you, but he throws your name in every now and then. I remember that. I used to do it with Nicola when we first met. Try to think of ways to bring her into the conversation, just so I could say her name.’
Lissa feels her cheeks warm at that, and can think of absolutely nothing to say. She glances around the room by way of distraction, catches sight of a photo above the fireplace of someone who can only be Ash’s mum. A wide smile, curly hair, slightly crooked teeth.
‘That’s her,’ Jack says, following the direction of Lissa’s gaze. ‘That’s my Nicola.’ He sighs. ‘It was such a long time ago really, but I still miss her every time I look at her. You ever get that?’
‘Yeah,’ Lissa murmurs. ‘I get that.’
He nods sombrely. ‘Yeah. Fact of life, loss. But it’s not a fun one.
She was brilliant. Nicola, I mean. Vivacious, nononsense.
You would’ve liked her.’ Lissa wonders how he can possibly know that, having only just met her, but he waves a hand in the air like he can guess her thoughts.
‘Everyone liked her, but more than that, Ash likes you, so you would’ve liked her.
’ There’s a logic in there, she’s sure of it.
Ash likes you. She hates what that does to her insides, making them all fluttery. Get a bloody grip, Lissa.
‘Things haven’t ever been the same since she died,’ Jack continues, and Lissa looks again at the photo.
She thinks of Ash losing his mum. A teenager, he said he was.
She feels suddenly, impossibly sad about that.
‘I thought, maybe I’ll get back to my old self one day.
But I haven’t.’ He sighs again. ‘I was a bad parent.’
‘I’m sure you weren’t,’ Lissa says automatically. Because she can feel the love, the warmth coming from him.
‘That’s kind of you, but I was. I wouldn’t leave the house. That’s when it started. Well, I suppose it started before then, but it used to be manageable. Nicola made it manageable. But after … Well, Ash had to do everything for me. I couldn’t even go out and get milk for a while.’
Lissa watches him as he talks, sees the way he twists his walking stick. She wants to ask what he means exactly. Was he depressed? Was it like her mum after Chloe died?
‘I think that’s what made him, you know,’ Jack continues, his voice shrewd.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ash. He’s always so restless, isn’t he?’
He seems to want an answer to that. ‘I guess?’ But he just likes to do things, doesn’t he? Keep busy, make the most of life. The total opposite of her.
‘He is,’ Jack says, nodding. ‘He always used to do stupid things that I told him not to. Took part in some car rally when he was a teenager. And did you know he went skydiving when he lived in Morocco?’
Lissa feels her mouth quirk into a smile at the total incredulity in Jack’s voice – like no one sane could possibly want to go skydiving. And true, she herself wouldn’t want to do it – definitely not – but lots of people enjoy it, don’t they? It’s not that far-fetched.
‘No, I didn’t,’ she says. She didn’t even know he’d lived in Morocco. It makes her realise how little she knows about him. It makes her want to ask him about it.
‘Yes,’ Jack says with a sigh. ‘I think he’s seen just how fragile life can be, and he’s seen, from me, how fear can eat you up. He fights against that. And that’s good,’ he continues, nodding. ‘I don’t want him to end up like me either.’
His mouth thins then, a hard line. And Lissa’s heart twists a little at the self-judgement there. She wants to say something, to offer comfort. She starts to open her mouth, not totally sure what she’s going to say but hoping it’ll come to her, when Jack beats her to it.
‘He’s been a while, hasn’t he?’ His voice is different now, a little brighter.
But she feels, because she’s done it so many times herself, the effort it takes for that brightness to come.
Still, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it any more, and that’s fair enough.
She’s not totally sure how they ended up in such a deep conversation so quickly anyway.
‘Maybe he’s forgotten where the tea is,’ Jack says, and he pushes down hard on his stick, making an attempt to get up. He loses his balance as he’s rising, rocks back onto the sofa. Lissa jumps to her feet.
‘Let me,’ she says, and he concedes with a nod.
She heads out of the living room, and as she does, she hears a high-pitched incessant beeping. She follows the noise to the kitchen.
Ash is standing there, staring into the fridge. One hand holds a carton of milk, index finger hooked through the handle, the other rests on the open fridge door. He is still – frozen, almost – and doesn’t seem to notice the beeping.
‘Ash?’ Lissa asks hesitantly. He jumps and spins to her. His expression is tight, and his gaze flickers past her, down the corridor. He turns back slowly, reaches for something inside the fridge, then shuts the door. The beeping stops.
He faces her again, and this time he holds something up in his free hand. A set of keys. Lissa frowns at them. ‘What …?’
‘He put them in here,’ Ash says, his voice hoarse. ‘My dad.’
‘Oh.’ For a moment, she doesn’t know what to say. She wonders if she should brush it off, say that everyone misplaces things sometimes, that we can all be absentminded. That she herself has been known to store keys in the fruit bowl and then forget about them.
Instead, she crosses to him, lays a hand on his rigid arm. She feels his muscles relax, just a little, under her touch. Their gazes hold, and she squeezes his arm. He blows out a breath, nods. And just like that, the right thing to say is nothing at all.