Page 57 of The New House

He acknowledges the point with another heavy sigh.

‘Millie, trust me when I say this is coming from a place of love,’ he says. ‘But you’ve never had a female friend before. This isn’t the way it works. Nothing about it rings true. It’s all too much: inviting you into her inner circle so quickly, taking you to her fancy club, copying your clothes, even yourhair. She’smirroringyou. It’s what people do when they’re trying to connect with you and get inside your head.’

I hadn’t noticed the hair, though now Tom mentions it, shehasadopted the same neat chignon I favour. As do a million other women.

I don’t need my husband to tell me how inexperienced I am at friendship. And he’s right: I did – I do – bask in the warmth of Stacey’s attention. But it has nothing to do with flattery. It’s about redemption and forgiveness. Tom should know that.

The front door suddenly slams. Moments later, Meddie appears in the kitchen and heads straight over to the fridge without even stopping to take off her backpack. ‘There’s never anything to eat in this house,’ she complains, staring at the packed shelves. ‘It’s all lettuce and kale and green shit.’

‘Dinner will be in less than twenty minutes,’ Tom says, ignoring thegreen shit.

Meddie grabs a Babybel from its netting. ‘I’m not going to be in for dinner,’ she says, peeling off the red wax coating. ‘I’m meeting Noah at Nando’s.’

‘Who’s Noah?’ Tom asks.

She’s already heading back down the hall. ‘My boyfriend,’ she calls thickly through a mouthful of Edam. ‘Mum says it’s OK as long as I’m back by nine.’

‘She has aboyfriend?’ Tom demands, as the front door slams again.

I shrug. ‘He’s a friend. He’s a boy.’

‘She has a boyfriend! She’s thirteen!’

‘Nearly fourteen,’ I correct.

I check on the grilled chicken, and then open a bag of collard greens and start to make an apple-cider and yoghurt dressing for the salad. My chest is tight with anger. Clearly Tom and I are on opposite sides of this divide between the Porters: his willingness to automatically believe the middle-aged, middle-class man makes me almost incandescent with fury. I know,I know, Felix is abusing his wife. His attacks are getting more blatant: sooner or later, if someone doesn’t stop him, he’s going to kill her. Just by giving him airtime and sympathy Tom is enabling him.

My husband hovers at my elbow, getting in my way.

‘What?’ I snap finally.

‘We need to talk about Peter,’ he says.

I look up sharply. I can’t remember the last time Tom voluntarily raised the subject of our son.

‘Well,Staceyliked him,’ I say, deliberately baiting him. ‘She’s offered to take him into work and let him sit in the gallery next time she’s at the studio.’

‘That’s kind of her,’ Tom says sarcastically.

‘Sheiskind.’

A beat falls.

I take an apple from the fruit bowl, and cut it in half. I’m in no mood to let Tom off easily. ‘If you think Stacey’s so dangerous, why were you so happy to leave our son with her?’

‘I didn’t say she was dangerous. Don’t put words in my mouth, Millie. But if I was a betting man, I’d put my money on Peter anyway.’

The words hang in the air. It’s the first time Tom has come close to acknowledging the truth about our son aloud, and the relief of it rolls through me like a wave.

I’ve barely let Peter out of my sight since Sunday. But in less than two weeks, the school term starts again. The teachers can’t watch all the kids all the time. There’ll be plenty of opportunities for a boy like Peter. Bunsen burners left unattended. Children walking to school along busy main roads.

Tom refuses to meet my eye. He has an oddly hangdog air.

And then suddenly it hits me.

Heknows.

He knows what our son is, but he’s let me carry the burden on my own because he’s been too much of a coward to acknowledge the truth.

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