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Jeff finally managed to get his legs moving again. He hurried down the last few stairs. “Tim, just wait up.”

Tim dropped the shoulder bag, and folded his arms across his chest. “Oh, this should be good. Go on, Dad, tell me why it doesn’t matter. Explain how we can all live happily ever after.”

“We were going to tell you.” Even before it came out, Jeff knew that was completely the wrong thing to say.

“Really?” Tim said with acid sweetness. “How were you going to tell me? Would I have to access it on your life site? ‘Hello folks, I am now pleased to announce that I am screwing my son’s girlfriend’?”

Jeff wanted to close his eyes, to cast the whole nightmare back into darkness. The way Tim was standing, his whole body quivering and moisture glinting in his eyes, Jeff couldn’t tell if he was going to burst into tears or simply go berserk and charge at him with a chainsaw. Natalie Cherbun was giving him a look of pure contempt, while Lucy Duke had tilted her head back in despair, no doubt calculating what kind of damage-limitation exercise was going to rescue this one. It was the only time Jeff had ever wanted to consult with her on anything.

Still, he thought, at least I know the worst of it now, that he saw everything. So that’s good. A desperate laugh threatened to rise up his throat, one which would tail off into a crazed burble if he ever let it out. “What Annabelle and I do together is between us,” he said with false dignity. “We didn’t tell you about us because we didn’t want to hurt you. Tim, I know this is hard, but she’s not your girlfriend. She hasn’t been for a while now. We were going to let you get over the breakup, but we were going to tell you.”

“How long?”

“How long, what?”

“How long have you been screwing her, Dad?”

“Don’t, Tim, you’re only hurting yourself.”

“Night of the Summer Ball, wasn’t it?”

Jeff found Tim’s keen gaze slicing clean into him. He hadn’t thought it possible, but he was actually feeling even more wretched. His shoulders slumped in confession.

“Yeah,” Tim breathed, bitter with triumph. “You really waited, didn’t you, Dad. Does Annabelle know what a bastard you are?” He gave his head a brief shake, as if suddenly puzzled. “What am I saying? She’s as bad as you; I saw that clearly enough.” He picked up his shoulder bag, and gave Natalie Cherbun a very determined look. She sighed and stood to one side.

Tim walked across the hall, his big suitcase juddering and squeaking along behind him. Lucy Duke gave him an uncertain look.

“Please,” Tim snarled at her. “Try getting in my way.”

“Where are you going?” Jeff called.

“What the fuck do you care, Dad?”

“You haven’t even got a coat on. It’s pouring down outside.”

“So? I don’t catch cold.”

The dull certainty of his voice made Jeff draw in a gasp of surprise. He can’t know that… “Tim, you can’t just walk out. This is your home. Don’t be so melodramatic.”

Tim opened the front door. Raindrops swirled in, splattering on the marble around his feet. “That would be melodramatic as opposed to having an illicit affair? Did that make it more exciting for you both, Dad? Sneaking round behind my back.” A last contemptuous snort, and he closed the door.

Jeff put his head in his hands. “Oh, shit.” All he could think of was that he now had to go upstairs and explain to Annabelle. Then there would be a call to Sue. And—oh God—Alison.

Natalie Cherbun coughed discreetly.

“What?” he snapped at her.

She gave his waist a very pointed look. Jeff groaned in frustration, and pulled his robe over to cover his continuing erection.

Natalie Cherbun and Lucy Duke looked at each other. And what must they be thinking?

“We should consider how to minimize the media interpretation of this,” Lucy Duke said.

“You can’t minimize a total fucking disaster, you—All right. Okay. Not now, all right? We’ll do press releases and site revisions later.” He got to the top of the stairs, then turned round. “Natalie, he probably respects you more than anyone else here right now. Could you go after him and give him a lift, please? Don’t stay with him afterward, just help him get there.”

“Very well.” She nodded shortly, then paused. “Where?”

“He’ll be going to his aunt Alison. And I know Tim, he’ll walk the whole bloody way there even in this rain.”

“I’ll get him.”

The bedroom door was closed. Jeff squared his shoulders, and opened it.

39. HOME COMFORTS

“I HAVEN’T USED THIS ROOM FOR AGES,” Alison said as she showed Tim into the bungalow’s back bedroom. “It might need a little freshening up.”

Tim looked around, and managed a small smile. The bed was covered in big cardboard boxes full of books, stacked three deep. Not that it mattered; there was no way to reach the bed anyway. More boxes and plastic storage bins were littering the floor, along with other stuff, intriguingly shaped items wrapped tightly in newspaper that was yellowed and crumbling. Polyethylene shopping bags were stuffed full of clothes, or at least bundles of fabric. When he looked down at his feet, he saw a pair of ancient hiking boots, so old the dark brown leather had dried out and cracked. It wasn’t the kind of footwear he would ever normally associate with Aunt Alison.

“Ah, those,” she said wistfully, following his surprised gaze. “I’ve worn those on three continents, you know—other than Europe. Tramped along the Peruvian coast, marched up the Uluru rock even though you’re not supposed to, and wandered over the Serengeti. Good times, before the world went the way we know it today.”

“Yeah,” Tim said miserably. “It’s a pretty rotten place now.”

Alison’s arm went around his shoulder. “I was speaking in general terms, not what happened to you. Now, come on, let’s get some space cleared for you.”

They stacked the boxes along one of the walls, making a precariously high half-pyramid. Other containers were taken out to the garage, once Alison had inspected them and reluctantly admitted she might not use them again. The rear wall of the garage wasn’t even visible, there was so much junk stored inside already.

When they cleared the bed and she found him a clean duvet cover they went back into the living room. The storm had cleared, leaving the sun glinting brightly off the leaves and flowers in the unkempt garden.

Alison settled herself in a deep old armchair and poured a large gin and tonic. Tim was sent to the kitchen to fetch some ice. The freezer was badly frosted up, with just a couple of packets inside, both of them ready-made meals for one, long past their expiration date.

“What do you eat?” he asked when he came back with a few ice cubes clinking round in the glass. “There’s hardly anything in there to cook.”

Alison took a long sip, and relaxed even further into the squashed nest of cushions. “The thing is, Tim, I don’t really do cooking. Never was much good at it, not even the microwave stuff. I either pop down to the pub, or get myself a takeout. You don’t mind having those kind of meals, do you?”

“No. That’s fine.” Tim was perched on the corner of the couch, staring out across the big reservoir without really seeing it.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“I think you’re supposed to. All my friends who talk native psychobabble say you should rationalize events back to their origin point so you can acknowledge their structural integration within your life flow.”

“Alison, that’s…that’s…such a load of crap.”