Chapter Three

      The plan had been for the family to spend the night at Rosemary Cottage. Della had changed all the beds, opened the windows to let in a waft of fresh Yorkshire air and set vases of garden flowers on the bedside tables in the four low-ceilinged bedrooms. However Isaac and Noah had kicked up a stink about ‘sleeping where someone’s died’: ‘What if she haunts us?’ Noah had exclaimed. ‘What if she touches my face in the night?’ No amount of persuasion – including Della reminding them that Grandma Kitty had actually ended her days at Perivale House – had changed their minds. Tamsin, too, had admitted that staying there might be ‘a little creepy’, and naturally Roxanne wasn’t happy to sleep in her childhood bedroom alone. So here they all were in Della’s lounge: far too many of them, arranged on the two facing sofas as if waiting for a train.

      ‘So,’ Jeff said, turning to Sophie, ‘are you really sure about art college? I mean, is it the wisest choice?’

      She picked at a burgundy-painted fingernail. ‘Well, yes, Uncle Jeff. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I’ve got my place, my accommodation, it’s all sorted out.’

      ‘Yes, but those childhood dreams, whims, whatever you want to call them …’ Della glared at her brother, who was holding court whilst making inroads into a second bottle of red. ‘I don’t mean to rain on your parade,’ he blustered on, ‘but have you thought about the small matter of how you’re going to make a living afterwards?’

      ‘Jeff,’ Della spluttered, ‘Sophie’s only eighteen. All that can come later.’

      ‘And we’ve discussed it all with her,’ Mark added, his cheeks flushed, either from the wine or annoyance or perhaps a combination of the two. ‘It’s all been carefully considered.’

      ‘Dad, please don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,’ Sophie snapped.

      Throughout this exchange Mark’s parents had sat jammed close together on one of the stone-coloured sofas, as if they felt themselves unworthy of sitting on it. Val sipped her requested tap water and nibbled tentatively on a tortilla chip. ‘Well,’ Jeff boomed on, ‘let’s hope your parents are prepared to support you when you’re starving in a garret.’

      ‘Jeff!’ Tamsin exclaimed, turning to pat Sophie’s knee. ‘He’s only joking, darling.’

      Sophie turned to her father. ‘What’s a garret?’

      ‘An attic,’ Mark said briskly.

      ‘Not just an ordinary attic,’ Della added, refilling her own wine glass. ‘It’s cold and miserable, probably with a bare bulb and a cracked window and the wind whistling through …’

      ‘Nice,’ Sophie retorted. ‘Sounds perfect, Mum. When can I move in?’

      Della forced a smile and touched her brow. It was sticky with perspiration. Actually, a draughty garret did sound appealing right now; it was terribly hot in here, or perhaps her internal thermostat had gone haywire. This had been happening lately – the sudden power surges to her face, and waking up in the night with the sheets clinging to her drenched body. Maybe that’s why Mark had taken to sleeping at the very far edge of the bed. It couldn’t be pleasant, lying entwined with someone bathed in sweat: a bit like sleeping with a fish. Della often tried to reassure herself that this was the case, rather than the possibility that he no longer found her remotely attractive. Anyway, was it realistic to expect a passionate relationship when they’d been together for over two decades?

      Tamsin chuckled awkwardly and picked a bobble of fluff off her pink Boden cardi. ‘I think what Jeff means’ – why did she do this, as if an interpreter was needed? – ‘is that maybe, I don’t know, there are more lucrative routes you could take, Sophie. Like, er …’

      ‘Like banking?’ Sophie snorted.

      ‘No, I mean like, er … packaging design.’

      ‘What kind of packaging?’

      ‘Well, everything needs designing,’ Jeff said loftily. ‘Washing-powder boxes, cereals, labels for jam …’

      ‘But I don’t want to design labels for jam!’ Sophie exclaimed.

      ‘What about websites?’ Tamsin chipped in. ‘Everyone needs a website these days, you could make a fortune that way.’

      ‘But Sophie loves art,’ Della said, more forcefully than she’d intended, ‘and she’s really good. Don’t you believe in following your passion? I mean, isn’t that what being young is all about? Why should she design marmalade labels when she wants to paint amazing landscapes and portraits?’

      ‘Jeff only meant—’ Tamsin started.

      ‘Yes, well,’ Della charged on, aware of her heartbeat quickening, ‘there’s the rest of her life for Sophie to grow old and cynical and, I don’t know, worry about bills and drains and the garden fence blowing down and—’

      ‘Our fence blew down?’ Mark exclaimed. ‘When did that happen?’

      ‘No, no, that was just an example.’

      ‘And what’s wrong with our drains?’

      ‘Nothing,’ Della said sharply.

      ‘If the shower’s blocked again it’ll be because of your hair. I had to hoick out a great wodge of it last time that happened.’

      ‘There’s nothing wrong with the drain, Mark!’

      ‘No need to shout,’ he muttered, glaring at her.

      Della cleared her throat, aware of Isaac and Noah giving her foreboding stares, like two miniature policemen about to arrest her for breach of the peace. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s just been … quite a day, that’s all.’

      Tamsin smiled sympathetically. ‘Of course it has, Dell, and you managed everything so beautifully.’ She paused. ‘And, you know, you’re right about Sophie following her dreams. Passion is great, of course it is.’ She turned and gave Jeff’s earlobe a little tweak, a gesture that made Della’s stomach swirl disconcertingly. She excused herself, heading for the kitchen where, a little fuzzy with wine now, she poured herself a large glass of water. ‘For God’s sake,’ Sophie muttered, having followed her. ‘All they care about is money, Mum.’

      ‘That’s probably why they have loads of it,’ Della remarked.

      Sophie smirked. ‘Yeah, but what about creativity, doing something you love?’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘I mean, Aunt Tamsin doesn’t even work.’

      ‘Well, she’s a full-time mum,’ Della reminded her.

      ‘Yeah, and the boys are, like, ten! They go to school … that’s if a school will have them. What does she do all day?’

      Della glanced at her daughter: so like Mark, with her sharply defined cheekbones and wide, generous mouth. Her wavy brown hair was dyed black at the moment, her brown eyes smudged with dark shadow, her red lipstick almost worn away. How Della would miss her fire and spark when she left for college in two weeks’ time. It would be just her and Mark then; the phrase ‘empty nesters’ made her feel more than a little panicky.

      ‘I’m sure she manages to fill her time, love.’

      ‘What, with lunches and shopping?’

      ‘Probably. I have no idea actually.’

      ‘And