Chapter 5
I’m woken by the sound of a cockerel crowing. I’ve no idea where it’s coming from. I turn over and squint at my watch. It’s just before six a.m.
Well, I’m awake now so I might as well get on with it.
I sit up and take in my surroundings. Light’s streaming through a little window we left open because it was so hot—and some of it falls on Theo’s face.
He’s gorgeous when he’s sleeping, but he looks very different when he’s awake.
Ordinarily, he’s strong and authoritative, especially when he’s around his kids.
But there’s a gentleness to him when he’s asleep, a vulnerability, a fragility.
It offers me a glimpse into the man who tried to protect a trans pupil from bullying only to end up having a mental health crisis of his own, a crisis that led to him coming out.
I’m overcome by a need to care for him, to make sure he’s never hurt again.
I feel an itch coming from my lower body. I look down and see a trail of mosquito bites on my left leg and a cluster around my right ankle. Shit! They must have got in through the open window.
I stand up as quietly as I can and close it. I’m pretty sure there’s some antihistamine cream in a drawer in the kitchen. I put on a pair of sliders and a light dressing gown I found in Wilf’s wardrobe and sneak downstairs.
As I pass through the house, I don’t open any of the shutters as I don’t want to wake anyone.
Once I’ve found my cream, I pull open the big front doors as quietly as possible—which isn’t very quietly at all as they catch on the floor.
I pause and listen to see if there’s any stirring from upstairs.
When there isn’t, I step outside and onto the patio.
I slather my bites in cream, then sit down on a wooden bench, holding my dressing gown open so the cream can dry.
Even though the house and the grounds—my house and grounds—are starting to look familiar, I’m struck by their beauty all over again.
There’s much more greenery than when I first came here at Easter.
The trees and bushes are in full leaf, various grasses and ferns have shot up and fanned out, and there’s even the odd prickle-covered cactus.
The vine twisting in and out of the pergola is bursting with heart-shaped leaves, and hanging from it are bunches of small, not-yet-ripe purple grapes.
The view of the valley and the rippling hills is also much greener.
It’s still specked with the gray of buildings and the blue of swimming pools but it no longer contains much brown.
Although, curiously, the lawn and patches of grass around the house have turned brown, presumably burned by the sun.
I realize they won’t have been watered since Wilf died and make a mental note to do this regularly.
Likewise, the plants at the edge of the lawn bear signs of neglect, although some of them—presumably the hardier ones—have come into flower: bursting out of the green are lilacs, pinks, oranges and a dash of blue.
I wonder if the edge of the hill has eroded over the years.
Where was it when Wilf arrived and has it crept back, closer to the house?
I can’t escape the sense that, not only are we surrounded by nature, but we’re almost battling it, trying to hold it back or halt its advance.
A white butterfly flutters from flower to flower and a twittering comes from the birds swooping through the sky.
I’m hopeless at identifying species but I can tell that these are swallows because I once dated a man called Mark who had a tattoo of a swallow on his right thigh.
Until he got to know what I was like and dumped me for a nude life-model who had pierced nipples with bolts through them.
Not that this was the first time he’d cheated on me; from what I heard, when I wasn’t around he’d behave like a sailor on leave.
In fairness, he had told me on our first date that he was struggling with sex addiction—but I convinced myself I could help him beat it.
Actually, had I? Or was Ian right when he said the whole relationship was some form of self-sabotage?
Some way of proving to myself that I wasn’t good enough?
Although my relationship with Mark is hardly a happy memory, I’m glad it’s popped into my head. Because it reminds me of what I have with Theo—however challenging the kids may be. It reminds me of why I want to fight for it. And it makes me even more determined.
But before I do anything, I need a coffee.
I fasten my dressing gown, go back into the kitchen and twist open the gas canister that’s under the stove.
Then I make myself a coffee in Wilf’s old aluminum moka.
When I first took possession of the house, I had to Google how this worked, but now I can whiz through the process in seconds.
Once the pot’s smoking, I pour my coffee and go back to sit on the bench.
By now the population of the valley is stirring. I can hear the ringing of church bells, the low hum of light Sunday-morning traffic, plus a bus giving a hoot of its horn as it rounds a tight bend in the road that winds up the hill.
Oh, the kids are bound to come round. They have to like this place. And if they don’t, there must be some way of making them like it.
I look up the opening hours of the supermarket and decide to slip on some clothes and drive down. But first, I’m going to clean out the kitchen cupboards and remove all trace of the rodents.
Yes, those kids are going to love this place!
Pushing my trolley through the aisles of the supermarket, I marvel at the size of the tomatoes, the fragrance of the bundles of fresh basil, and the plumpness of the cherries and artichokes.
I pile everything in, along with an abundance of cheeses and hams. My mind is already buzzing with ideas for sauces and salads I can make.
But right now I need to plan breakfast—a breakfast to win the kids round.
I pick up several bags of fresh oranges that I’m going to squeeze using Wilf’s old lever-arm juicer, visit the bakery counter for a crusty ciabatta and a herb-topped focaccia, and grab a few boxes of eggs and a selection of yogurts and jams. I also buy the kids some of the treats I know they love: milk chocolate buttons for Archie, the same brand of white chocolate Theo gets in for Mabel, and a handful of protein bars for Callum.
I feel the same excitement as when I’m shopping for a dinner party and am confident my menu is going to hit the target.
At the same time, it’s strange to be shopping for a family.
It’s something I never imagined I’d be doing.
When I reach the front of the line, I smile at the assistant, a middle-aged woman with a bored expression. “Buongiorno!”
“Buongiorno,” she echoes, with noticeably less enthusiasm.
As I pack my groceries, I wonder who she thinks I’m buying for. Does she assume my partner is a woman or is it obvious I’m gay? I wonder how she’d respond if my Italian was good enough to say, “I’m shopping for my boyfriend and his kids.”
When she’s finished scanning, I reach into my wallet for my new credit card—held jointly in the names Mr. T Armstrong and Mr. A Webb—and feel a thrill as I hand it over.
Theo set it up, saying it would be the simplest way for us to buy food and essentials, saving us the hassle of working out who owes what with every bill.
While I don’t dispute this, it also felt like a sign we were taking our relationship to the next level.
But I remind myself Theo’s a dad. He and his kids come as a package. So I can only really take our relationship to the next level if I can bring them along with us.
When I get back to the house, Theo has lifted the outdoor table and chairs out of the wine store and arranged them on the patio, where he’s sitting drinking a coffee.
At his feet, Archie is wearing a Captain America baseball cap and playing with his action figures, organizing a rescue operation for Black Panther, who’s stuck in a plant pot.
Theo stands up and helps me with the shopping.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask, as we carry the bags into the kitchen.
“Yes, thanks. I feel like a new man.”
I load the milk and butter into the fridge. “Brill! So you didn’t get bitten by mosquitoes?”
“No. They didn’t come near me.” He lifts out two cantaloupe melons and puts them in the fruit bowl. “I seem to remember it’s got something to do with blood groups.”
“Or maybe they’re just not that into you,” I quip.
“Maybe.” He chuckles. “How about you?”
“They’re really into me!”
He grabs me around the waist and pretends to nibble my ear. “I’m not surprised—you’re bloody gorgeous!”
I slap him away, giggling. “Theo! Archie’s outside!”
“And?”
I grab the bottles of water and slot them into a cupboard. “Anyway, it’s fine. I’ve got some cream and I’ll pick up more spray and candles this afternoon. What time do you want breakfast?”
Theo tells me that Callum and Mabel still haven’t got out of bed but he’s going to give them till eleven o’clock, then wake them. As that’s only forty-five minutes away, I start work.
“What can I do?” asks Theo.
I thrust some dishcloths and antibacterial spray at him. “Give the table a wipe and set it.”
While Theo gets on with that, I clear myself a space on the only available worktop.
Not only does the kitchen have hardly any counter space but most of the knives and peelers are blunt, I have to crack my eggs into a salad bowl to beat them, and all the pans are ancient, with no nonstick covering and their undersides black.
Theo also tells me there’s only just enough crockery for the five of us—and that’s after taking down a decorative plate from the wall and giving it a wash.
“Didn’t your uncle cook for anyone?” he asks, as he towels the plate dry. “Didn’t he have any friends?”
“I don’t know.” I pause my chopping and shrug. “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t like people. Or maybe they didn’t like him.”