Page 75 of The Last Train Home
My mum breathes deeply. ‘Ken!’ she calls and then my dad’s voice sounds.
‘Hello again,’ he says.
‘So you and Tom are now a thing?’ I tease, trying to make light of the conversation I’m about to embark on. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing him?’
‘We’re telling you now,’ Dad says.
‘But you didn’t tell me you’d bumped into him, and you didn’t tell me you’d madeplanswith him.’
‘They weren’t reallyplans– more that I mentioned the rally and we swapped numbers, in case he wanted to meet while we were there.’
‘And he messaged you when he arrived and you spent the whole day with him?’ I prompt. I have no idea why I need to know every single detail of what happened and what they talked about.
‘Ye-es,’ Dad says in exactly the same tone my mum used on that word a few minutes ago.
I force a light and breezy tone into my voice. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘Cars,’ my dad replies.
‘Ha-ha.’
‘It’s the truth,’ he says. ‘Abbie, what’s going on? I know you two don’t talk any more, so is this conversation upsetting you?’
‘No, this conversation isn’t upsetting me,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I just want to know how Tom is.’
‘All right,’ my dad says. ‘He’s fine. He seems happy; his son is delightful, a real credit to him, very well behaved. Not like you were at that age.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
My dad’s getting into the swing of this now. ‘They’re thinking about having another baby—’
‘They’rewhat?’ I ask and hate that I’ve said it aloud.
‘He said it’s something they’re considering – having another child.’
I don’t know what to do with this information. My body has tensed without me realising. I remember Tom’s face when he told me Samantha was pregnant the first time. It was panic, fear, and maybe I’m remembering this wrong, maybeI’m remembering that conversation from years ago how I want to remember it, but I swear to God he was devastated. And now they’re actively planning to grow their family.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right.’
‘I told him you were engaged. I hope that was all right?’
Yes, I think savagely. I’m glad Tom knows I’m engaged. I want him to know I’m happy, doing well. And then I hate myself all over again and I can feel tears welling up. I have no right to feel like this. I walked away from Tom. I don’t want him to be unhappy. But I don’t want him to be ecstatically happy, either.
‘He wanted me to pass on a message to you. He saidhiand that he was happy for you.’
‘He was happy for me? When did he say that?’
‘In the pub after Wimbledon,’ my dad replies.
‘But that was weeks ago,’ I say.
‘I didn’t think it was avitalmessage,’ he replies. ‘I was going to tell you as and when I next spoke to you, which is today.’
‘Are you going to see him again?’ I ask.
My dad breathes in. ‘I won a golf day at the school raffle and invited Tom along. He plays, apparently. I’m thinking about getting into it for when I retire.’
It’s my turn to make an exasperated noise.
