Page 37 of The Key to My Heart

I nod.

‘Okay, well—’

‘I mean, I think I might want to. But … it’s a big step, and …’

Tom nods again, calmly, watching me, his hands inhis pockets. Sometimes I wonder if Shauna’s put him up to this. I don’t think she has, not really, but I do wonder sometimes, if he shows up, gives me his time, listens to me,talksto me, because she tells him I need it. And he does it. As a favour for his mum, the friend of the poor, young widow. Doesn’t he have anything else he’d rather be doing, than standing here, in this cramped kitchen, with me?

‘Anyway,’ I say, turning on the tap, squirting in a splodge of Fairy Liquid. ‘You must have stuff to do, things to—’

‘“Anyway?” No, what were you going to say?’

I look over at Tom, from the sink, at his kind, watchful eyes, his lips, parted. He has a beautiful mouth. I noticed that, at the nature reserve. A perfect, full, bow. I wondered if his twin Laurie, has the same. If his dad does.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I can’t really explain what I mean because I really don’t know what to do about this house. I sometimes struggle topinpointwhat I feel at all, about anything. But it’s like my brain is scared to actuallysayhow I feel, because once it’s out there, it’s out there, you know? You can’t take it back. So, it’s easier to be like, shrug, I don’t know.’ I pause. Force a weird, awkward laugh. ‘Okay, I probably don’t make any sense—’

‘No. No, you do.’

The water in the sink rises. When I shut off the tap, it sways, like a bubbly, soapy ocean.

‘I don’t know what I want to do,’ I add. ‘Pure and simple. And I don’t know what I feel. About the house, my friends … the bloody tiles. My life in general really.’

Tom watches me again and I feel … uncomfortable. Like I’ve said too much, like I want to gather all the words back up into a little pile and swallow them down.

‘Anyway. Let me show you around, you came all the way here—’

‘Do you have a word?’ Tom jumps in.

‘Do I have a …?’

‘A word.’ Tom slides his hands into his pockets. ‘When I was in college, we had this mental wellbeing day, and one of our teachers said: just try to find a word. And I’m a total classic constipated male – shamefully – so half the time I have no idea what I feel, but it helps even now. Starting with a word. Just one, about how I’m feeling. I dunno, but it works, somehow – it’s a good starting point.’ Tom shrugs. ‘One word usually brings with it another and another and – you get the picture.’

I nod. ‘Yeah. That makes sense.’

‘She’d say write them down, then lock them away somewhere. Or tell a mate. Whatever works.’

‘Not sure about telling a mate. They’d probably send an emergency carrier pigeon to the bongo-drumming bereavement counsellor.’

Tom laughs quietly. ‘Maybe try one that won’t? Or you can text them to yourself, like I used to. It’s like reading back some fucked-up experimental poetry, though, I’ll warn you.’

I laugh. ‘Wowzer.’

‘Is that your word?’ Tom asks drolly. ‘Wowzer.’

‘No.Not sure I’ve got one just yet.’

‘You’ll find one. And then probably a truckload. It’show it works.’ He pushes off the side of the counter. ‘Right. So, this cheeky damp in your bathroom … can I go and have a look?’

‘Be my guest.’

Tom stays until one p.m. He fixes the broken coving from the bedroom ceiling, hunched over a small woodworking bench in the garden, a pencil lengthways between his lips, and after, the pair of us paint the damp, together, in the bathroom and bedroom with specialist anti-damp paint. I ask him why he doesn’t do it anymore – ‘building stuff ’.

“‘Building stuff ”’, he smiles down at me, where I’m cross-legged, painting the bottom of the wall. ‘Well, it was just sort of decided, when we were kids, really. It’s what Dad does. What his dad did, you get the picture. Dad owns his own construction company now. It’s all corporate and shiny and …’ He screws up his face. ‘Anyway, I got bored. I always wanted a creative job, I guess. And the idea of staying in the same job for years and years out of habit … sort of scared the shit out of me.’

‘And what does your dad think of the photography?’

Tom gives a small, ironic laugh. ‘Not real work. Well. That was until a portrait of mine was in theGuardian. Then I was thewunderkind son.The Jesus Christ of photography.’

I laugh. ‘Wow,’ I say, as if to myself. ‘Just here, hanging with the Jesus Christ of photography, who’s fixing my damp and coving. What an honour.’

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