Page 21

When did you start to suspect Joseph Carver?
When I saw him prowling around his garden party with a meat cleaver, that’s fucking when.
He hears himself tell Erin he loves his present and feels himself cringe-grin his thanks.
‘I got you this, too.’
Her second gift, wrapped in tissue paper, is a brown leather apron. Branded across the front are the words:WORLD’S OKAYIST COOK.
‘I’ll be honest,’ she says. ‘I mainly bought it to cover up whichever gross old T-shirt you’d chosen to throw on. And then, against all expectations, you suddenly discover an interest in fashion. It’s a shame to cover up your new shirt, but at least this way you won’t ruin it.’
Erin touches his shoulder, then flicks it, as if removing lint. ‘Joe?’
He braces for another question about last night. ‘Yes?’
‘I’d really like to get back to the way we were.’
Joseph lifts his gaze to his wife’s face – and is surprised by the fragility he sees in her expression. Fine lines have appeared around her eyes, almost as if she’s in pain. ‘The way we were?’
‘You must know what I’m talking about. Sometimes it feelslike we’re two strangers living in the same house. I know it’s partly my fault. I’ve been spending far too much time at work. But being married to you – it’s been lonely at times, particularly these last six months. I mean, we don’t even …’
She sighs. ‘Are you happy, Joe? With me and with Tilly? Do you still want this?’
Joseph stares at her, dismayed. In the space of a few breaths, another crisis has blindsided him. He has a sense, suddenly, of something incredibly delicate balancing between them – a crystal vase teetering on a high shelf.
‘It’s not your fault,’ he says. ‘And yes, I still I want this, of course I do. I always will.’
Has it taken the horror of his current situation to show him that? Perhaps it’s only natural to crave most intensely what’s most in danger of being lost. Last night, in the kitchen, he’d feared that the last safety line tethering him to his son had been severed. Now, it seems the rope he’d known was fraying is down to its very last thread.
But just as he can’t share with Erin the events of last night, nor can he share the depthless chasms of guilt into which his heart plunges each morning when he wakes; the increasing reserves of energy he expends daily to separate thebeforefrom thenow;the crippling shame he still feels for his abandonment of Max in the early stages of his new relationship.
To love someone completely, perhaps one needs to be complete. He loves Erin, but only with what’s left of the man he was five years ago. Increasingly, that feels like not much of a man at all.
Although he’s tried to hide it, this year has been one of the most difficult he’s faced. Max’s departure date has felt like an enormous black hole, creeping inexorably closer. Focusing all his attention on his son, he’s deliberately turned his back on his wife. He need look no further than Erin’s face for evidence of the pain that’s caused.
Her lungs fill. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me, Joe? Nothing else at all?’
‘Only that I’m sorry. And that I’ll try harder.’ He returns the meat cleaver to its box. ‘Thanks for this. It was a very romantic gift.’
‘Maybe you could butcher something for me. Reconnect with your inner caveman.’
‘I’ll work on that.’
Back outside, and with the barbecue coals lit, Joseph rejoins his guests. More people are arriving, now: the Cheungs, who live next to Ralph Erikson, others from further up the street.
Someone hands him a beer, which he drinks far too quickly and vows is his last. He might wish to take the edge off his anxiety, but he needs to keep a clear head.
Soon, he finds himself among a group gathered around Owain Dart, the cul-de-sac’s newest resident. Owain is finishing a rambling anecdote that grows more grotesque each time Joseph hears it.
The gist is that after burying his dead guinea pig in his garden, Owain had been presented with it a few weeks later, courtesy of his grave-dirt-spattered miniature schnauzer. In this retelling, Owain has nearly coaxed the carcass from his dog’s jaws when the Schnauzer bites down hard and showers Owain in rotten guinea pig.
Everyone in the circle cries out in pantomime horror, including Gemma Robinson, who catches Joseph’s gaze and grins.
He looks past her, tunes out, sweeps the garden for Erin. He spots her near the gazebo, clutching a white-bearded man by the shoulder and doubling up at something he just said. The old man laughs too, delighted by her response. Erin excuses herself with a squeeze of his forearm. Then she moves on, effortlessly joining another group.
Joseph watches, newly captivated by his wife. She’s a fairy presence among their guests, sprinkling magic dust. Her gift is in forging instant connections, in making each person she greets the centre of her world. She listens,reallylistens. And she touches constantly – a nudge here, a press there, a squeeze or a tap or a gentle stroke. She communicates with her eyes and her fingers, with her body posture and her laugh. The combination is bewitching, intoxicating. In her wake she leaves people smiling, then flinching as if waking from a dream – and discovering that the reality to which they’ve returned isn’t nearly so pleasurable as the Erinland they’d briefly inhabited.
Joseph should have been celebrating, every day, the miracle of her love for him. Instead, he’s made her miserable. However desperate his current situation, he sees now that it’s not just Max he has to fix.