Page 165 of Oleander

He looked like he might ask me to tell him anyway. But he said, “You don’t look at me the way you used to.”

Because I’m afraid to, I wanted to say.

“Well, thank god for that,” I said instead.

A strange, lost look flitted over his face before he shut his eyes and began to breathe evenly and slowly, slipping into a drunken sleep.

I lay there watching him for a long time, thinking over his words and his behaviour and what it all meant. He was here last minute without Blackwell; he was telling me he missed me, he had tried to kiss me. He’d said everything was fine, but all the evidence suggested the opposite. Was he thinking about leaving him? What did it mean if he was? I wouldn’t even dare to hope.

I decided that the following day, I’d ask him outright what was going on with him. I wouldn’t mention the pills I’d seen in his bag, but I’d make it clear I was here for him, that I was a safe pair of hands if he needed them, if he wanted to talk about anything.

I woke in the very early hours of the morning to find the bed next to me empty. As I made my way to my own bed, I heard noise downstairs. He was at the counter, stirring something steaming in a mug.

“Hungover?” I asked.

He looked up and shook his head. “I don’t get them.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“God really does have favourites, huh?” I poured myself a glass of water and stood next to him to peer into the cup he was still stirring. It smelled citrusy.

“Lemon and ginger tea,” he said before lifting the cup and wandering back towards the stairs. Without looking back, he said, “Goodnight, Jude.”

Twenty-one

Iwoke late that afternoon. After showering, I made my way downstairs to find the kitchen empty. Unlike other mornings, there was no sign of food having been recently cooked or any evidence that he’d been here, so I assumed he was still sleeping.

I made myself a quick brunch of cheese omelette, bacon, and toast and went to sit out by the pool. It was another stifling day, with no breeze to speak of and very little cloud, and I soon fell asleep on one of the loungers by the pool.

When I woke up an hour later and he still hadn’t appeared, I went inside to wake him up. His room was empty.

A momentary panic gripped me that he’d gone back to Boston without even saying goodbye, but when I checked the bathroom and saw his toiletry bag was still there and pulled open the wardrobe to see his suitcase, I relaxed.

It was another two hours before I heard the sound of the front door opening, a muffle of voices, one of which was Ken’s, the other Cas’s.

I’d been half-watching a film in the living room and got up to go meet them at the door. Ken was carrying three plastic shopping bags while Caspien was carrying a fourth.

“…down to the kitchen for you?” Ken was asking.

Caspien spotted me as I came out into the hall, and his face was a mask of inexpression.

“It’s fine, Ken. Jude can carry them down,” he said. “Jude, take them will you?” I obeyed, watching as Caspien handed Ken a folded £50 note.

“You should have said, I’d have come shopping with you.” I was putting away the groceries while Cas lifted them out of the bag and set them on the counter.

“I was at an orthopaedic appointment,” he told me. “I went shopping on a whim; we needed a few things.”

I stopped what I was doing and turned to him. “What did they say? Is it healing alright?”

“Seems like it.”

“Did they tell you when you’d be able to play again?” I asked. “Piano, that is, not tennis.”

His mouth twitched with a small smile. “I’ll need to wear the splint for another eight weeks or so.” He’d played every day when we’d been in Deveraux. I couldn’t imagine how he was feeling.

“I’m sorry, Cas.”