‘So don’t encourage her. If she comes round, tell her we’re busy or we’re going out.’
He looked pained. For all his street smarts Sean was rubbish at lying, at playing games.
‘Though we probably won’t see her for a bit, the way we left things. Least not till she’s running short,’ Rachel said.
Sean nodded, pulled her close, kissed her. Rachel felt uncomfortable, too hot, and twitchy. She drew away. ‘Think I’ll have a run,’ she said.
‘Now?’
‘Wind down.’
‘What’s wrong with the sofa, Thai chicken curry?’
‘Sean-’
‘All right,’ he said, ‘do what you got to do.’
He was so grateful to have her there he’d bend over backwards rather than say anything to challenge her. But instead of being thankful, that made her feel worse. She made an excuse: ‘Bitch of a day.’
‘Go,’ he said, ‘I’ll be here when you get back.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘course you will.’
‘Sammy, I need to talk to you,’ Gill said. ‘Turn that off.’
‘I cleared up the other day,’ he objected.
‘It’s not that.’
He looked at her, picking up on her serious tone, paused his game.
Gill crossed and sat in the armchair. She felt anxiety fluttering behind her breastbone. ‘It’s about your dad,’ she said. ‘He’s gone into rehab.’
‘Where?’ Sammy said.
‘A place in Cheshire. Like a hotel.’
‘Without a minibar.’
She smiled, ‘Exactly.’
‘How long will he be there?’ Sammy asked.
‘I don’t know, as long as he needs.’
‘OK.’
She rubbed at the cloth, the piping around the edge of the chair arm. They had picked the design together, her and Dave, argued about the colour scheme. She won. And later he admitted it worked, both comfortable and stylish at the same time. They had christened the couch the night it was delivered. Days when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Sammy sound asleep upstairs. They’d been so bright back then, nothing seemed too hard. Gill working all hours solving murders, Dave gaining promotion. Both ambitious. Both still on the way up, proud of each other. Good prospects. Good money. Enough to build this place, enough for good food and clothes and cars. And Sammy. The blessing of Sammy.
All that and now this.
She made a fist, tapped it on the chair a couple of times. ‘Your dad, he’s been – well, you know he’s been having problems for a while.’
‘Yeah,’ a hint of sarcasm there. She was stating the bleeding obvious. She kicked herself. ‘Well, he came here drunk last night, broke into the summerhouse, blacked out. And now he’s getting help, professional help.’
Sammy’s mouth twisted, he shook his head in disgust. Seeing this, his loss of respect for his dad, hurt more than anything.