Michelle’s youngest and by far her favourite brother. There was a seven-year gap between her and the two older ones, Ben and Jonathan, and it might as well have been a whole generation. Owen was twenty-four, the surprise baby and recipient of all the surplus charm, good looks and luck in the family. He got away with murder with everyone but Michelle, who’d spent her teenage years filling in the mothering that their mother had been too busy to deliver. As a result, she’d built up a certain immunity to his chat, while he’d learned a few valuable lessons about talking to girls – something he’d exploited at every opportunity since.
‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said, unlocking the door. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘Not really. Got a lift with a mate who was going to Birmingham. Here, take these off me?’ he added, pushing the roses into her hand. ‘I feel like a bridesmaid. And I cannot tell a lie – on this occasion they’re not from me. They were on the step when I got here.’
Michelle pointed to his shoes and the rack by the door, and reluctantly he started to prise off his trendy trainers. While he was distracted, she ripped open the gift card and her throat, still raw from her run, constricted even further.
‘Sorry not to see you on Christmas Day, babe,’ said Harvey’s smooth voice through the florist’s innocuous handwriting. ‘I miss you. Let’s make 2012 our year. All my love, Harvey.’
Michelle shoved the card back into the flowers and dropped them on the table as if she’d found a snake in the heart of the bunch. She didn’t even want to see them in her house: something about them was pure Harvey – the roses were pearly and perfect, but completely scentless, force-grown and flown in at the wrong time of year, delivered on a super-expensive day because if you paid enough, you could always get what you wanted. And yet on the surface it was a thoughtful gift that only a churlish, impossible-to-please cow would find fault with.
Poor Harvey. Always trying so hard. He didn’t want Michelle to walk out on him, you know. He thought the world of her.
He wants to remind me that he knows where I live, she thought.
‘From Harvey?’ Owen asked.
She nodded. A paranoid voice in her head wondered if Harvey himself had been the ‘mate who was going to Birmingham’. No, she told herself. Harvey would fly.
‘He was asking after you yesterday at Mum’s,’ Owen went on, looking round her hall. ‘I think he was hoping you’d be there. Oi! Why don’t you have any photos of us in here?’
Carole Nightingale’s hallway was proudly crammed with photographs of her children achieving things, or displaying their own offspring. In Owen’s case, there were as many again of him just looking handsome and devilish. They made up for the pointed lack of graduation photos of Michelle, the only one without a degree.
‘Because I don’t like to scare my guests when they arrive. How come Harvey ended up having Christmas Day with you?’ Michelle added, unlacing her own trainers so her brother wouldn’t notice her shaking hands.
‘He was all on his own, poor guy,’ said Owen. ‘Mum invited him over, the more the merrier. She likes him. We all do.’
‘You don’t know him, Owen.’ Michelle had long since given up trying to explain to the rest of them, but Owen understood her a bit more than they did.
‘Don’t I?’ Owen looked reproachfully at her. ‘You can’t blame Mum for inviting him round, Shell. He’s been her son-in-law for years. Dad’s just promoted him again. And you’re still married to him . . .’
‘Technically,’ Michelle snapped. ‘In another eighteen months, I won’t be, whether he likes it or not. Separation without consent after five years. No one’s fault.’
Owen raised his hands. He hadn’t been at home when Michelle had left Harvey; he’d been travelling round India, getting stoned and acquiring a tattoo Carole still didn’t know about. He’d
‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said, unlocking the door. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘Not really. Got a lift with a mate who was going to Birmingham. Here, take these off me?’ he added, pushing the roses into her hand. ‘I feel like a bridesmaid. And I cannot tell a lie – on this occasion they’re not from me. They were on the step when I got here.’
Michelle pointed to his shoes and the rack by the door, and reluctantly he started to prise off his trendy trainers. While he was distracted, she ripped open the gift card and her throat, still raw from her run, constricted even further.
‘Sorry not to see you on Christmas Day, babe,’ said Harvey’s smooth voice through the florist’s innocuous handwriting. ‘I miss you. Let’s make 2012 our year. All my love, Harvey.’
Michelle shoved the card back into the flowers and dropped them on the table as if she’d found a snake in the heart of the bunch. She didn’t even want to see them in her house: something about them was pure Harvey – the roses were pearly and perfect, but completely scentless, force-grown and flown in at the wrong time of year, delivered on a super-expensive day because if you paid enough, you could always get what you wanted. And yet on the surface it was a thoughtful gift that only a churlish, impossible-to-please cow would find fault with.
Poor Harvey. Always trying so hard. He didn’t want Michelle to walk out on him, you know. He thought the world of her.
He wants to remind me that he knows where I live, she thought.
‘From Harvey?’ Owen asked.
She nodded. A paranoid voice in her head wondered if Harvey himself had been the ‘mate who was going to Birmingham’. No, she told herself. Harvey would fly.
‘He was asking after you yesterday at Mum’s,’ Owen went on, looking round her hall. ‘I think he was hoping you’d be there. Oi! Why don’t you have any photos of us in here?’
Carole Nightingale’s hallway was proudly crammed with photographs of her children achieving things, or displaying their own offspring. In Owen’s case, there were as many again of him just looking handsome and devilish. They made up for the pointed lack of graduation photos of Michelle, the only one without a degree.
‘Because I don’t like to scare my guests when they arrive. How come Harvey ended up having Christmas Day with you?’ Michelle added, unlacing her own trainers so her brother wouldn’t notice her shaking hands.
‘He was all on his own, poor guy,’ said Owen. ‘Mum invited him over, the more the merrier. She likes him. We all do.’
‘You don’t know him, Owen.’ Michelle had long since given up trying to explain to the rest of them, but Owen understood her a bit more than they did.
‘Don’t I?’ Owen looked reproachfully at her. ‘You can’t blame Mum for inviting him round, Shell. He’s been her son-in-law for years. Dad’s just promoted him again. And you’re still married to him . . .’
‘Technically,’ Michelle snapped. ‘In another eighteen months, I won’t be, whether he likes it or not. Separation without consent after five years. No one’s fault.’
Owen raised his hands. He hadn’t been at home when Michelle had left Harvey; he’d been travelling round India, getting stoned and acquiring a tattoo Carole still didn’t know about. He’d
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