Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-two
Frank
It’s the photos that do it. The sunny, happy pictures of his family, apparently taken yesterday when they were picnicking in Princes Street Gardens without him.
Carly and Eddie, with Lyla and her mother and some good-looking man who he doesn’t know.
Something seems to clench in Frank’s chest as he sits in the truck’s doorway, glaring forensically at the photos. He doesn’t bother with social media normally, but recently he’s been sucked right in. He pores over pictures of Ana and Bella out and about in Dundee and London, hoping to feel closer to his family – or at least have a vague idea of what’s going on. Carly posts rarely, and Eddie never does, he’s discovered now. He’s also started watching Suki’s account (not Lyla’s – that would feel a bit wrong. There’s a law, Frank believes, against following the account of a younger person you’re not biologically related to).
It’s one of Suki’s pictures he’s examining now as Badger nuzzles his bare ankle. Frank zooms in, not to study the faces; he’s done that already, wondering why Carly was at a picnic with a man he’s never seen in his life. Trying to quell a rush of insecurity, he homes in on the inanimate objects in the photo, thinking that’ll be less painful.
He’s wrong. Because sitting there in a white box are several pastéis de nata. The Portuguese custard tarts that nearly ruined his family. Not these actual tarts, being enjoyed in an Edinburgh park on a beautiful summer’s day with a handsome bastard in a grey T-shirt. No, the almost life-ruining pastries are the ones Frank produced, or tried to produce – having hired a dopey guy who claimed to have ‘loads of baking experience’, yet spent most of his shift smoking weed in the alleyway and turned up with suspicious white powder caked around a nostril. It wasn’t icing sugar, Frank knew that much.
What had he been thinking, taking on the lease of the bakery in a faded seaside town? Frank wonders if his brain had turned into actual custard at that time. In fact, maybe it has now. Ana and Bella seem to think so, judging by the barrage of messages he’s received, since they first found out he was living here. Frank’s only consolation is that neither daughter has rushed back to Sandybanks to try and force him to go home. But perhaps that’s not such a good thing. Maybe his beautiful girls are scared of what he’s turned into here in his weird little lair.
Frank won’t be here much longer. Already, Dev has deduced that he’s been living in the truck, and nags him constantly to move into his place temporarily. That is, if he really can’t go home. But he doesn’t want to impinge on his friend, even though Dev is single and has plenty of room. Frank has another idea instead. So on this cool, breezy Sunday morning, he heads for the beach where he strolls along, keeping an eye out for Carly in the distance and torturing himself over possible identities for Picnic Man. Is something going on? ‘Fast work,’ he and Carly agreed, when it became apparent that a baby had been conceived before Eddie had so much as unpacked his toothbrush. Frank might say the same about Carly, creating a new life of friends and picnics and unfamiliar men, without him.
There must be something, he reflects, brow set in a frown as he climbs the steps back up to the seafront. Otherwise, why wouldn’t Carly have asked him to go to Edinburgh too?
Frank winces as his gut aches, although that might be from the rank supermarket steak pasty he chomped down for breakfast. But there’s another duller, deeper pain that never leaves him now. He adores Carly. He always has. He is in awe of her beauty, her intelligence, her compassion and infinite kindness. And, he decides now, he is no good for her. On this bright August morning, Frank feels as if his heart has broken.
He strides into town, momentarily grateful that the library is closed, as is pretty much everywhere on a Sunday around here. The town is sleepy with just a small cluster of people waiting at the bus stop. When he sees Thelma Campbell approaching with her little white dog, Frank steps quickly into a side street. Carly accuses him of never remembering the names of anyone he’s not biologically connected to – but he knows her, and she seems to be everywhere. The other day she loomed at him like a store detective as he bought shaving foam in the supermarket.
The diversion has sent Frank in the direction of home. He keeps walking, as if he is powerless to stop. It’s as if Kilmory Cottage is emitting a powerful magnetic force. But when he sees the house in the distance, and his old banger parked outside it, he knows he can’t just walk in as if nothing has happened. With a deep sadness in his gut, he decides he’ll fetch his car tomorrow when he knows Carly will be at work. In the meantime he has something else to attend to. So he turns around and heads back to the town’s main street, where he stops outside the letting agent’s. Affecting an overly casual stance, he skims the selection of flats to let in other nearby towns. Then, glancing up and down the street to check that no one he knows is in the vicinity, he quickly takes photos of any place he could possibly bear to live in, and afford.
Then he strides back through town and along the seafront, past the birthday cake roundabout that’s as redundant as he is – at least as a partner and dad. What a fuck-up he’s made of everything, storming out after a stupid squabble over Kenny living with them. Okay, it wasn’t just that. It was a build-up of things that finally burst out of him, and this normally gentle and mild-mannered man just lost it. And then the days went on, with his family seemingly managing perfectly well without him. And Frank was too ashamed, too wrapped up in dogged stubbornness, to go home.
At least he still has a job – and a plan now. First thing tomorrow, he’ll call the letting agency and find himself a proper building to live in, rather than a truck. And then, Frank decides, he can start to live something vaguely resembling a normal life.