Lucy Gordon - The Rinucci Brothers

‘Are you all right?’ Mark asked her.

‘I’m fine.’

‘I thought you looked a little sad.’

‘Not me,’ she said untruthfully.

It was late when they reached home and Mark’s eyelids were drooping. When Evie suggested that he go to bed he agreed without protest. Justin bade his son goodnight and immediately opened his computer.

‘I think I’ll go to bed, too,’ she said.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’

She regarded the back of his head with exasperation.

‘Goodnight,’ she said, and went upstairs.

She tucked Mark in and sat down on the bed. ‘You didn’t enjoy today, did you?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘It was like it used to be.’

‘Used to be? When?’

‘Just before Mum left. She and Dad—they were polite but it was horrible.’

Evie groaned. Why hadn’t she thought?

‘I’m sorry, Mark. We were just both in a bad mood. It didn’t mean anything. Don’t worry. Go to sleep, and everything will be all right in the morning.’

But when she’d gone to bed and switched out her light she wondered if she’d spoken truly. How could everything be all right after this?

She lay for a while, trying to get to sleep, but actually listening for the sound of Justin climbing the stairs. Instead she heard something from the next room that made her sit up in bed. There it was again—a wail from Mark’s room.

She was out on the landing in a moment, pushing open his door to find the child sitting up, his eyes closed, tears pouring down his face.

‘Mark,’ she said urgently, taking him into her arms. ‘What is it, darling?’

‘Mum,’ he wailed, ‘Mum!’

She tightened her arms, feeling the frail body shaking with misery against her. He’d given up on words now and simply lay against her, crying uncontrollably. At last she felt his hands grasping her arms tightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he hiccuped.

‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. But please, tell me what’s the matter. Did you have a bad dream?’

‘No, it was a lovely dream.’

‘Was it about your mother?’

‘Um!’ He nodded against her shoulder.

‘You miss her all the time, don’t you?’ she whispered.

‘It’s worse at night, because then I dream she’s alive. She comes home to me and says it was all a mistake and she didn’t mean to go without me. Then we run away together. Or sometimes she stays home with me. It was a mistake, you see. She didn’t really leave me because she wouldn’t do that.’

His voice rose on the last few words and he buried his face against her, shaking with sobs.

‘No, darling, she wouldn’t,’ Evie murmured, racked for him.

Gradually he grew quieter. She continued to sit there, holding and soothing him, but actually alert, because her sharp ears had detected a faint sound from just outside the door.

‘She would have come for me,’ Mark said, ‘if she hadn’t died.’

‘Of course she would. And I know she never stopped thinking of you, all the time.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘Then why didn’t she come home? Do you think Dad stopped her?’

‘No,’ she said swiftly. ‘I know he wouldn’t do that.’

‘You don’t really know.’

‘Yes, I do. He’d never do anything to hurt you. Mark, you must believe me.’

‘But he wouldn’t bring her home when she died.’

‘That’s different. When she was alive—’

She paused. She had no right to repeat to Mark what Justin had told her. After a moment she realised that she had no need to say any more. The child had fallen asleep against her shoulder.

Gently she laid him down on the bed and drew the covers up. Then she kissed his cheek before slipping quietly out of the room and closing the door.

It was dark in the corridor, but the sliver of moonlight from the window was just enough to show her Justin standing there, leaning against the wall, his head back, motionless.

‘Waiting at the window every week,’ he whispered.

‘Justin—’

‘Standing there for hours because today would be different—today she’d really come.’

Of course he’d heard his son’s words, and his heart had understood. If only he could talk directly to Mark like this. She could see the tears on his cheeks. He didn’t try to brush them away. Perhaps he didn’t know about them.

She reached out and held him, enfolding him in the same gesture she had used to comfort his son, and at once she felt his arms go around her, clinging on to her as if he were seeking refuge.

‘But she never came—’ he murmured.

‘Justin!’ She took hold of him, giving him a little shake.

He looked at her despairingly. ‘I was sure she’d come, but she never did.’

‘You?’ she echoed, wondering if she’d heard him clearly.

‘She promised,’ he said huskily. ‘I knew she wouldn’t break her promise—but I never saw her again.’

Only then did she understand that Justin wasn’t empathising with his son’s loss. He was talking about a loss of his own.

It was as though a pit had opened beneath her, and from its depths came an aching misery that left her shattered. It clawed at her, howling of endless despair, grief too great to endure. The man in her arms was shuddering with that grief and she held him more tightly, helplessly trying to comfort something she did not understand.

They mustn’t stay here, she thought. Mark might hear them and come out. Gently she urged him across the landing to her own room. He could barely walk.

Inside, she closed the door without switching on the light. He almost fell on to the bed, taking her with him, for his hands were holding on to her like grim death.

Once before he’d held her in an unbreakable grip, but this was different. Instead of arrogance, she felt only his need and desperation and everything in her went forward to meet it, embrace and console it.

‘It’s all right,’ she murmured, just as she had done with the child. ‘I’m here. Hold on to me.’

He kept his eyes fixed on her. He was still trembling like a man caught in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

‘Justin, what’s the matter? It’s not just about Mark’s mother, is it?’

‘No,’ he said hoarsely.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I can’t—so many things—there’s no help for it now.’

‘There’s help for everything, if you’ve got someone who really wants to help you,’ she said. ‘But how can I, if I don’t understand?’

‘How can you understand, when I don’t understand it myself?’ he whispered. ‘I want to ask why—I’ve always wanted that—but there’s nobody to ask.’

She couldn’t bear his agony. Without thinking about it, she leaned down and laid her lips tenderly over his.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to make it all right.’

She had no idea what she meant, or what she could do to help him. But the details didn’t matter. What mattered was easing his pain in any way she could. So she kissed him again and again until she felt him begin to relax in her arms.

It was unlike the other kiss in every way but one, and that was the slow burning inside her. But whereas that first excitement had been entwined with anger, this one was a part of pity and sorrow. She wanted him to find oblivion in her, lose himself in her completely, if that could give him a respite from suffering.

So she offered herself to him without reservation, waiting for the moment when his own desire rose and he reached out, taking over the kiss, turning her so that he was above her on the bed.

He checked himself for a moment, as though the earlier memory had come back to him. Seeing his doubt, she began to unbutton his shirt while her smile told him enough to ease the dread in his face. Then he was opening her pyjama top and laying his face against her warm skin.