“You really think his missus is fine with this?”
“Why wouldn’t she be? She’s away herself, remember. With her parents. They don’t get on with Andrew, apparently.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“What then?” Peggy hissed.
“Come off it, you really think he isn’t interested in you?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Okay, well, are you interested in him then?”
“. . . I’m not answering that either.”
“I don’t think you have to.”
“Please can we just change the—”
“I know things are shite with Steve but this isn’t the answer.”
“You’ve no idea what things are like with Steve.”
“Of course I do, I’m your sister. He’s obviously up to his old tricks again. And the sooner you get out of that the better. It’s just like Dad—constantly begging for forgiveness and saying it won’t happen again. I can’t believe you’re being so naive.”
“Don’t. Just don’t, okay?”
There was a pause, then Peggy spoke again.
“Look. It’s so lovely being here. You know how much the girls adore you, how . . .”—her voice broke ever so slightly—“. . . how I do, too. I just want to relax for a few days, get myself together again. If things go the way I think they are—with Steve, with work—I need to be in a good frame of mind to deal with it all.”
Another pause.
“Ah, pet, I’m sorry,” Imogen said. “I just worry about you.”
“I know, I know,” Peggy said, her voice muffled by what Andrew guessed was another bear hug from Imogen.
“Peg?”
“Yeah?”
“Pass us the cookies.”
“You pass us the cookies, they’re equidistant.”
“Are they bollocks,” Imogen said, and Peggy let out a slightly tearful giggle.
Andrew retreated a few steps, both in an attempt to calm his thumping heart and to make his entrance seem more genuine.
“Hello hello,” he said. Peggy was sitting on the sofa where he had been before so she could look at her phone, which was charging nearby, meaning he had to choose whether to sit next to her or Imogen. Peggy smiled at him as he hovered, the light from the TV showing the dampness in her eyes.
“Everything . . . okay?” he said.
“Oh, aye,” Imogen said, patting the space next to her. “Sit yer arse down here.”
Andrew was glad to have his mind made up for him, even if it meant a missed opportunity to be closer to Peggy.
“Let’s finish these buggers off then,” Imogen said, divvying up the remaining cookies.
“You get through okay?” Peggy said.
“Huh? Oh, yes. Thanks.”
“Good-o,” Imogen said. “The signal can be pretty patchy that side of the house.”
“My luck must have been in,” Andrew said.
It was then that his phone—which had been on the mantelpiece where he’d put it when he’d first arrived that afternoon—began to ring.
— CHAPTER 18 —
So, yeah, I’ve got two phones. One’s a work one that I got ages ago. I’m not sure if Cameron even knows about it so, you know, best keep shtum!”
Andrew kept replaying his garbled explanation over and over in his mind. Neither Peggy nor Imogen had seemed to know what he was blathering on about, which just meant he carried on and on, digging an increasingly large hole. Thankfully, they’d continued to just look at him blankly, like two bored customs officials ignoring a foreign traveler’s desperate attempts to explain their plight, and the climax of the romcom provided enough of a distraction for the conversation to move on.
Andrew had assumed that they would be going to Barter Books the next morning, but Peggy and Imogen had other plans. What followed over the next couple of days were boat trips to the Farne Islands, where Andrew was unceremoniously shat on by a puffin (much to Suze’s delight), and blustery coastal walks punctuated by tea and cake pit stops (much to Imogen’s delight), followed by delicious dinners back at Imogen’s and two occasions where Peggy fell asleep on Andrew’s shoulder (much to Andrew’s delight).
Alone in the guest room, he thought of the conversation he’d eavesdropped on.
“Okay, well, are you interested in him then?”
“. . . I’m not answering that either.”
“Interested in him.” Could that have meant anything other than romantic interest? Maybe it was from a purely anthropological point of view—that Peggy was planning to make scientific field notes: A squat specimen, frequently observed making a twat of himself. Either way, Peggy had refused to answer the question, and Andrew had watched enough episodes of Newsnight to know this meant she was avoiding telling the truth. He only wished Imogen had gone full hostile BBC interviewer on her.
—
Finally, the following morning they headed to Barter Books. Andrew got the sense that Peggy had been delaying the visit not because she’d somehow lost interest, but because she was scared that it was going to end in failure.
The kids had stayed behind with Imogen, who had promised to make them a cake so chocolatey it would send Bruce Bogtrotter into a diabetic coma. Peggy had taken Imogen’s Astra, Imogen explaining all the car’s various problems and how to cope with them, many of which involved punching things and swearing.
“Bastard,” Peggy grumbled, yanking the gear stick violently back and forth and making a joke about her first boyfriend’s eyes watering that caused Andrew to wind down the window for a moment.
They passed a sign saying they were fifteen miles from Alnwick.
“I’m feeling a bit nervous,” Andrew said. “How about you?”
“Dunno. Yeah. Sort of,” Peggy said, but her attention was on the rearview mirror as they merged onto a busy road.
The more miles they chewed up, the more fraught Andrew felt, because the closer they got to the bookshop, the closer they were to their adventure’s ending. Most likely they’d just be returning home, deflated with defeat, and Alan would be buried with just them and a disinterested vicar for company. Then it would be back to the daily grind.
They passed another sign for Alnwick. Five miles, now. Someone had somewhat unimaginatively graffitied the word “shit” onto the sign in angry red. Andrew was reminded of something he’d seen coming back from a rare school trip to the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. He remembered the evening sky being scorched pink, his eyes following the telegraph wires silhouetted against it as if they were a blank musical score, when he noticed the letters painted white and bold on a fence in the distance: “Why Do I Do This Every Day?” The memory had stayed with him despite his not understanding its commuter-baiting message at the time. It was as if his subconscious was saying, This won’t mean much to you at the moment because you’re too young and your major concern is whether Justin Stanmore is going to Chinese-burn you again, but just give it thirty years or so and its significance will really hit home.
He sat forward.
Maybe he’d just tell Peggy everything. Now. Here. In an overheating Vauxhall Astra on a dual carriageway.
He shifted in his seat, half exhilarated, half terrified at the possibility. Everything could be out in the open. Not just about his growing feelings for her, but about the big lie, too. Peggy would hate him, maybe never even talk to him again, but it would end just . . . this. This relentless misery—of still clinging on to something that barely provided him solace anymore. The realization came to him like a radio signal finding its way through static: a lie can only exist in opposition to the truth, and the truth was the only thing that could free him of his pain.