Page 182 of Every Silent Lie

Dec looks at me with high, thrilled eyebrows. “I get to choose first.”

“Oh? And what are we doing?”

He puts his palms over Albi’s ears and brings his mouth close to mine. “We’re going to have endless sex without being disturbed,” he whispers.

I snort as Albi bats his dad’s hands away.

“How long until Friday?” Dec asks.

“It’s Christmas Day!” Albi sings, jumping off my lap and wading through the piles of toys, claiming one of the endless boxes of Lego. “Daddy, can we build the police car?”

I smile my thanks to April and Blaine, who both wave off my appreciation as Dec tucks our Year of Dates behind a vase on the mantelpiece. “In the kitchen,” he orders Albi gently. “You need some breakfast, and I’ve got to peel some spuds.”

“I’ve had breakfast,” Albi declares, holding up a selection box with three chocolate bars missing from the moulded tray.

“Jesus Christ, you’ll be hyper.”

“What’s hyper?”

“You,” Dec says over a laugh, scooping him up from the floor and throwing him over his shoulder. “No more chocolate.”

As I watch Dec cart Albi out of the lounge, I remember something. But it’s not wrapped. “Mind if I steal this?” I say, grabbing a piece of paper.

“Um, sure.”

“Thank you.” I jump up and hurry out of the lounge, racing up the stairs to find my bag. I pull out the snow globe first and admire it for a few moments. He saw me looking at it when we were out on the anniversary of Noah’s death. He knew it symbolised something.

I place it on the bedside table and dip back into my bag, pulling out the desktop calendar. I could read it again right now. All his thoughts and words over the past few weeks, but I can’t. I put it next to the globe and return to my bag, rummaging through and pulling out the Spitfire. Improvisation is my friend right now. Dropping to my knees, I flatten the paper and execute some impressive origami skills that I haven’t utilised since?—

The memory catches me off guard, but rather than fight it off, I let it take me, breathing through the pictures in my mind, of Noah and me making paper planes and launching them from the patio to see how far down the lawn they flew. His won. Always. I made sure of it. He declared himself a pilot in training that day.

I smile to myself.

What would you have become, my darling boy? A pilot, a doctor, an adventurist?

I ponder that as I wrap the Spitfire without the help of tape, lifting and inspecting my handy work. “I think Mummy did okay,” I murmur as I stand and take it downstairs. “I have something for you.” I disturb Albi from tipping out the pieces of his Lego onto the counter. “Well, it’s actually from Mr. Percival. He gave it to me to give to you.”

“What is it?” he asks, as Dec turns away from the fridge, a carton of orange juice tipped at his lips.

“Open it.”

Albi tears the paper off and gasps his surprise. “Oh my gosh,” he whispers, turning the plane around in his little hands to look at it from all angles. “It’s an actual Spitfire from the war!” His Lego is forgotten, and he sets the plane down and gets onto his knees on the stool to inspect it closely. “This is the best Christmas ever!”

“Shall we build that Lego?” Dec asks.

“I want to play with my Spitfire.”

He looks to the ceiling in silent gratitude.

“It’s very special,” I tell him. “And very old. You must look after it, like Mr. Percival has looked after it for many years.”

“I will,” he says, captivated, gently touching the wing with a fingertip. “Can I fly it?”

Huh?

“You’re not fitting in that cockpit, fella.” Dec says over a laugh, as he sets out some breakfast things—croissants, jam, and cereals.

“What’s a cockpit?”