The Love She Left Behind Read Free Page B

their childhood, pre-Patrick home were of irritably enforced cleanliness and order: knick-knacks that were purged of dust every few days, coasters that protected table surfaces, Mum advancing on rooms spraying Mr. Sheen ahead of her like tear gas at a riot. It seemed that much had changed. Of course Mum had been ill, as it turned out. For how long, though?
    Turning to the mounded clothes on the bed, Louise could hear the sound of the TV from downstairs: Holly and Patrick were watching Homes Under the Hammer together. There was a tiny room off the corridor from the kitchen, like a nest, with a sagging sofa and tired cushions and years of scattered Sunday supplements, all arranged around a huge, spanking new flat-screen. It felt like the most inhabited room in the house, and was certainly the most inviting. There was a dust-dimmed gallery of framed photos on the shelves that surrounded the TV, mostly of Patrick or Patrick and Mum together, none of them recent. Helping Holly to find the remote, Louise had scanned the shelves and quickly killed the small hope of discovering any pictures of herself. In one, the oldest photo and the only one without Patrick, her mum was a young woman, holding Nigel as a blurred baby on her miniskirted knee, before Louise existed. It must have been the only photo she’d taken with her when she left.
    It was getting to be late for lunch, and Louise needed a break. They also needed to decide what they were doing: she and Holly had brought their bags from the B and B so that they could get straight to the train, but if they went at three there would be stacks left undone. Louise really couldn’t afford to stump up for another night away, and she wasn’t entirely secure about the status of herreturn on the train. But supposing they stayed here in the house—could she really trust Jamie to get himself up in the morning? Not that it was the end of the world if he overslept; he was only doing work experience.
    Patrick would never agree to it, probably.
    â€˜Where’s Patrick?’
    Down in the den, Holly was alone in front of the flat-screen, cradling her phone. She shrugged.
    â€˜How are you feeling, chick?’
    She shrugged again. It wasn’t like her not to be hungry. Ordinarily she’d be shouting the house down about needing her lunch by now. Poor little thing. She still looked pale.
    Louise went to the study door and knocked. When there was no answer, she opened it to find Patrick at his desk, smoking, a whisky bottle to hand.
    â€˜Sorry to disturb you.’
    No lights blinked in the housing of the ancient nicotine-beige computer that sat to his right. Its screen was equally lifeless. There was no other sign that he was writing, not so much as a piece of paper in front of him. Just the ashtray, the bottle and the glass.
    â€˜I don’t want anything,’ he said.
    â€˜Oh.’ It hadn’t occurred to her that he might want anything. She took up the cue. ‘I could make you a coffee. Or I was wondering about going out to get a bit of lunch.’
    He didn’t respond to this.
    â€˜Patrick . . .’
    His hair stuck up at the back, in need of a cut as well as a wash. There was still a lot of it. Louise remembered her mother pushing it back off his face, where it always fell. Adoring him.
    â€˜You don’t look anything like her,’ he said. ‘You never have.’
    â€˜No.’ Louise waited a second or two. ‘I’m making headway, but there’s quite a bit to do . . .’
    â€˜Burn the fucking lot, as far as I’m concerned. Put me on the pyre and have done.’
    What was she supposed to say to that?
    â€˜Well. Even if it’s the charity shop, they’ll be grateful for it. It’ll take me a little while yet, though.’
    He drank. The whisky bottle was from Sainsbury’s: ‘Basics,’ said the label.
    â€˜Would it be all right for Holly and me to stay the night? I could make up one of the