With a screech of brakes, Jon stops the Mercedes right next to a field full of cows, and turns to face me. “Didn't your mother tell you about the funeral?” “Of course she did!” I say. “It happened. Dad was... cremated or whatever.”
“That's it?” I rack my brain. I'm sure Mum didn't say anything else about the funeral. She changed the subject when I brought it up, I suddenly recall. But, I mean, that's normal for Mum. She changes every subject. Shaking his head in disbelief, Jon puts the car back into gear. “This is unreal. Do you know anything about your life?” “Apparently not,” I say, a bit rattled. “Well, tell me! If it's so important.” “Uh-uh.” Jon shakes his head as the car moves off again.
“Not my call. Your mum has to tell you this one.” He turns off the road and pulls into a gravel drive. “We're here.” So we are. I hadn't even noticed. The house is looking pretty much as I remember it: a redbrick house dating from the 1900s, with a conservatory on one side and Mum's ancient Volvo parked in front. The truth is, the place hasn't changed since we moved in twenty years ago; it's just got more crumbly. A length of gutter is hanging off the roof and ivy has crept even farther up the walls. Under a moldy tarpaulin at the side of the drive is a pile of paving stones that Dad once dumped there. He was going to sell them and start a business, I think. That was... eight years ago? Ten? Through the gate I can just glimpse the garden, which used to be quite pretty, with raised flower beds and a herb patch. Before we got the dogs.
“So... you're saying Mum lied to me?” Jon shakes his head. “Not lied. Edited.” He opens the car door. “Come on.” The thing about whippets is they look quite slight, but when they stand on their hind legs they're huge. And when about ten of them are trying to jump up on you at once, it's like being mugged. “Ophelia! Raphael!” I can just about hear Mum's voice over the scrabbling and yelping. “Get down! Lexi, darling! You really did rush down here. What is all this?” She's wearing a corduroy skirt and blue-striped shirt with fraying hems at the sleeves, and she's holding an ancient “Charles and Diana” tea towel. “Hi, Mum,” I say breathlessly, manhandling a dog off me. “This is Jon. My...friend.” I gesture at Jon, who is 318 gazing a whippet straight in the eyes and saying, “Put your paws on the floor. Step away from the humans.” “Well!” Mum seems flustered. “If I'd realized, I would have rustled up some lunch. How you expect me to cater at this late notice” “Mum, we don't expect you to cater. All I want is that folder. Is it still there?” “Of course.” She sounds defensive. “It's perfectly all right.” I hurry up the creaky green-carpeted stairs and into my bedroom, which still has the floral Laura Ashley wallpaper it always did. Amy's rightthis place stinks. I can't tell if it's the dogs or the damp or the r o t . . . but it should get sorted. I spot the folder on top of a chest of drawers and grab itthen recoil. Now I know why Mum was defensive. This is so gross. It totally smells of dog pee. Wrinkling my nose, I gingerly extend two fingers and open it. There's my writing. Lines and lines of it, clear as day. Like a message from me t o . . . me. I scan the first page, trying to glean as quickly as possible what I was doing, what I was planning, what this is all about I can see I had written some sort of proposal, but what exactly? I turn the page, my brow wrinkled in bewilderment, then turn another page. And that's when I see the name. Oh. My God. In an instant, I understand. I've got the whole picture. I raise my head, my heart thudding with excitement. That is such a good idea. I mean, that is such a good idea. I can already see the potential. It could be huge, it could change everything Filled with adrenaline, I grab the folder, not caring how it smells, and rush out of the room, taking the stairs two steps at a time. “Got it?” Jon is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Yes!” A smile licks across my face. “It's brilliant! It's a brilliant idea!” “It was your idea.” “Really?” I feel a glow of pride, which I try to quell. “You know, this is what we needed all along. This is what we should have been doing. If this works out, they can't give up carpeting. They'd be mad.” A dog jumps up and tries to chew my hair, but even that can't dent my mood. I can't believe I put together this deal. Me, Lexi! I can't wait to tell everyone “Now!” Mum is approaching bearing a tray of coffee cups. “I can at least offer you a cup of coffee and a biscuit.” “Really, Mum, it's okay,” I say. “I'm afraid we have to dash off” “I'd like a coffee,” says Jon pleasantly. He what? Shooting him daggers, I follow him into the sitting room and we sit down on a faded sofa. Jon takes his seat like he feels totally at home there. Maybe he does. “So, Lexi was just talking about piecing her life together,” he says, crunching a biscuit. “And I thought maybe knowing the events that happened at her dad's funeral would help.“ ”Well, of course, losing a parent is always traumatic...“ Mum is focused on breaking a biscuit in two. ”Here you are, Ophelia.“ She feeds half to a whippet. ”That's not what I'm talking about,“ Jon says. ”I'm talking about the other events.“ 320 ”Other events?“ Mum looks vague. ”Now, Raphael, that's naughty! Coffee, Lexi?“ The dogs are all over the biscuit plate, slobbering and grabbing. Are we supposed to eat those now? ”Lexi doesn't seem to have the fullest of pictures,“ Jon persists. ”Smoky, it's not your turn...“ ”Stop talking to the fucking dogs!“ Jon's voice makes me leap off my seat. Mum looks almost too shocked to speak. Or even move. ”This is your child.“ Jon gestures at me. ”Not that.“ He jerks a thumb at a dog and gets up from the sofa in an abrupt movement. Both Mum and I gaze up at him, transfixed, as he walks over to the fireplace, ruffling his hair, ignoring the dogs clustering around him. ”Now, I care about your daughter. She may not realize it, but I do.“ He focuses directly on Mum. ”Maybe you want to get through life in a state of denial. Maybe it helps you. But it doesn't help Lexi.“ ”What are you talking about?“ I say helplessly. ”Mum, what happened at the funeral?“ Mum's hands are fluttering around her face as though to protect herself. ”It was rather... unpleasant.“ ”Life can be unpleasant,“ Jon says bluntly. ”It's even more unpleasant if you don't know about it. And if you don't tell Lexi, I will. Because she told me, you see.“ He crunches the last of his biscuit. ”All right! What happened was...” Mum's voice descends into a whisper.