How Not to Die Alone

— CHAPTER 11 —

For the next three months, each time he returned home it was with trepidation at the prospect of another envelope addressed to him in Carl’s spidery scrawl.

The letters arrived erratically. Some weeks there would be two or three—tearstained and inkblotted—then there would be four weeks without one at all. But Carl’s anger never wavered—if anything he furiously doubled down on how Andrew had conned Sally out of her money. You are pathetic and cowardly and worthless, and you don’t deserve Sally’s forgiveness was how he’d ended his latest note. Andrew wondered if Carl would be surprised to know that he was broadly in agreement with this assessment.

Each time he opened the door to find a letter he would trudge upstairs and sit on the side of his bed, turning the envelope around in his hands. He told himself to stop opening them, but he was trapped in an unforgiving cycle: the more he read, the guiltier he felt, and the guiltier he felt, the more he thought he deserved Carl’s anger. This was especially true when Carl once more accused Andrew of contributing to Sally’s ill health by never reaching out to her, because the more he thought about it, the more he started to convince himself that this was true.

—

It was long enough now after Sally’s death for some sense of normality to have returned in the way that people were treating him. Cameron had gone through a phase of putting a hand on his shoulder when he spoke to him, looking at him with his sad, bulbous eyes and knitted eyebrows and doing the head tilt, but thankfully that had now stopped. More of a relief still was the fact that Keith, who had briefly restrained himself, was now back to being a complete arsehole.

After several aborted attempts, he’d finally built up the courage to tell the subforum about Sally.

Hi, chaps. Sorry I’ve been a bit quiet of late. Had some sad news. I lost my sister. I’m still feeling a bit numb about it all, to be honest. As soon as he’d hit “post” he wondered if he’d done the wrong thing, but they’d all responded with sympathetic, well-judged messages and, in a move of touching solidarity, had changed their avatars from dancing tomatoes and cheerful fat controllers to match Andrew’s plain, sky-blue square.

But while things were largely back to normal, there was something that had been brought sharply into focus, something that Andrew was finding hard to ignore. He had always justified continuing to lie about having a family on the grounds that it was harmless. But, subconsciously, the fact that Sally was still around (no matter how strained their relationship) had meant that the fantasy he’d created just existed alongside his real life, and he knew deep down that he had something tangible to fall back on in his sister. But now, with her gone, he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about Diane, Steph and David. As a result, when family came up in conversation with Cameron, Keith and Meredith, he no longer felt the little thrill he used to when inventing some mundane detail about how things were at school or what his weekend plans were. But it was worse—much worse—when it came to Peggy. The day after he’d bailed on the pub quiz, he’d been racked with guilt and apologized far more earnestly than was necessary, much to Peggy’s amusement and confusion. After a few more weeks in her company Andrew realized she wasn’t the sort of person to sweat the small stuff like that. She had continued to shadow him, so they had spent almost all their time at work together: attending more property inspections, as well as the office grind of registering deaths and compiling details of unclaimed estates to send on to the treasury.

And then there had been the funeral.

Andrew had mentioned in passing to Peggy that he was going to attend the service of Ian Bailey, having not been able to track down any friends or family. He wasn’t expecting Peggy to ask if she could come.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “It’s not compulsory—or technically part of the job, in fact.”

“I know, but I’d like to,” Peggy said. “I’m just following your lead, really. If the point is to help see the person off with some company, then me doubling the numbers is a good thing to do, right?”

Andrew had to concede that this was a good point.

“Not to sound patronizing,” he said, “but it’s maybe worth taking a bit of time to prepare yourself for it. As I’ve said, they can be pretty bleak affairs.”

“Don’t worry,” Peggy said. “I was thinking I could do a bit of karaoke to cheer things along. ‘Africa’ by Toto, something like that?”

Andrew looked at her blankly. He saw her face falter. God, why couldn’t he just respond normally to things? He forced himself to try to rectify the situation.

“I’m not sure that’d be appropriate,” he said. Then, before Peggy could respond sincerely, “I think ‘The Final Countdown’ might be more fitting.”

Peggy chuckled while Andrew went back to his screen, torn between self-reproach at trivializing the funeral and relief and pride at managing to successfully devise and deliver a real-life joke to a real-life human being.

That Thursday they stood in church, waiting for Ian Bailey to arrive.

“It’s nice—well, not nice, but, you know, a good thing, there being two of us today.” Andrew winced slightly at how clumsily this had come out.

“Three of us actually,” Peggy said, pointing up at the rafters, as a sparrow flitted over from one beam to another. They were quiet for a moment, watching the bird, which then briefly disappeared out of sight.

“Have you ever imagined your own funeral?” Peggy asked.

Andrew kept his eyes on the rafters. “I can’t say I have; you?”

Peggy nodded. “Oh yeah. Loads. When I was about fourteen I got really obsessed and planned the whole thing, right down to the readings and the music. I seem to remember everyone was going to be dressed in white, so it was different from normal, and Madonna was going to do “Like a Prayer” a cappella. Is that weird? I mean, the planning of it, not the Madonna part—I know that’s weird.”

Andrew saw the sparrow flit to another beam. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose it makes sense. We’re all going to have one, so why not think about how you want it to go?”

“Most people don’t want to think about it, do they? Understandably, of course. But then for some of us, it’s always at the back of our minds. I think that’s the only real explanation why some people do such stupid, impulsive things.”

“Like what?” Andrew said, giving in to neck ache and lowering his head.

“Like people who embezzle money from their business even though they’re obviously going to get found out. Or . . . that woman who was on the news for getting caught pushing a cat into a wheelie bin. It’s like, in that moment, they’re sticking a middle finger up to death. You’re coming for me, I know you are—but watch this! It’s like a pure burst of living, isn’t it?”

Andrew frowned. “You’re saying pushing a cat into a bin is a pure burst of living?”

Peggy had to cover her mouth to stop herself from laughing, and for one dreadful moment Andrew thought they were both about to get the giggles, like naughty schoolchildren. Then a memory came to him, quite out of the blue, of he and Sally convulsing with laughter in a fish and chip shop as they exchanged fire with chips across the table, while their mother was distracted by a conversation with a friend at the counter.

Try as he might, as the service proceeded he found it impossible not to think about Sally. Surely there had been more moments like that? Had her leaving for America been such an all-consuming betrayal that it had biased his memory? After all, he thought, suddenly feeling faint, there had been one particular memory that he’d spent the last twenty years trying to let go, where Sally had done her utmost to help him, and he hadn’t let her. He pictured himself in his flat, rooted to the spot, hearing the phone ringing on and on and on, unable to answer. When he’d finally picked up, he heard her voice, pleading with him to talk to her, to let her help. He’d let the phone slip from his hand. He told himself he’d answer the next day when she called, and then the day after that, and every day for the next month after, but he never did.

Andrew’s mouth had gone very, very dry. He was only vaguely aware of the vicar’s soft address. At Sally’s funeral, he had been numb, horribly self-conscious next to Carl. But now, all he could think of was why he hadn’t answered the phone.

His breathing had become shallow. The vicar had just finished delivering part of the service and nodded to the back, whereupon an organ clunked into life. As the first chord filled the church, Peggy leaned over to Andrew. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said. But as he stood there, the music getting louder, his head bowed, the church floor swam in front of his eyes, and he had to grasp onto the pew in front with both hands to stop himself from falling. His breaths were coming in shuddering bursts, and as the music echoed around the church, and he realized he was finally beginning to mourn his sister, he was vaguely aware of Peggy’s hand gently rubbing his back.

By the time the service was over he had managed to compose himself. As he and Peggy walked out of the churchyard he felt it necessary to explain.

“Back there,” he said, “I was a bit . . . upset . . . because I was thinking about my sister. Not the person—Ian. Not that I wasn’t thinking about him, but . . .”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Peggy said.

They walked on in silence for a while. Andrew began to feel the tightness leaving his throat and the tension draining from his shoulders. He realized Peggy was waiting for him to be the one to speak first, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead, he found himself softly humming Ella’s “Something to Live For.” He’d been listening to it the previous evening—the version from Ella at Duke’s Place. He’d always had an odd relationship with the song. He loved it for the most part, but there was a particular moment that always seemed to leave him with a gnawing pain in his gut.

“There’s a piece of music,” he said, “which is one of my favorites. But there’s this moment, right at the end, that’s jarring, and loud, and sort of shocking, even though I’m expecting it. So when I’m listening to the song, as much as I’m enjoying it, it’s always sort of spoiled by the fact I know this horrible ending is coming. But there’s nothing I can do about it, is there? So, in a way, it’s like what you were saying earlier, about people who are comfortable with the fact they’re going to die: if I could just accept the ending’s coming, then I could concentrate on enjoying the rest of the song so much more.”

Andrew glanced at Peggy, who seemed to be trying to suppress a smile.

“I cannot believe that you had that pearl of wisdom up your sleeve,” she said, “when you let me wang on about someone pushing a cat into a bin.”

—

Peggy began to attend all the funerals with him after that. Without really thinking about it, Andrew realized that he now felt relaxed around her, glad to have her company. It was an odd sensation to feel so normal discussing everything from the meaning of life to whether the vicar was wearing a wig. He was even starting to hold his own when it came to playing along with the games she and her kids had invented. His proudest moment had been coming up with one of his own, devising a challenge where you had to argue in favor of arbitrary opponents: the color red versus Tim Henman, for example. On occasion, at home in the evenings, he found his mind wandering, thinking about what Peggy might be up to at that moment.

Schedules permitting, they would have lunch in the pub every Friday, where they would review the week, marking property inspections from one to ten on the “harrowing scale,” reminding each other of the latest personal hygiene disaster from Keith or snarky comment from Meredith. It was as he was on the way to one of these lunches, enjoying the sun on his back after days of gray skies, when Andrew had a sudden realization and stopped dead in the street, causing a man behind him to take evasive action. Could it really be true? He supposed it must be. No, there were no two ways about it: he was dangerously close to making a friend. The thought actually made him laugh out loud. How on earth had this happened? It was as if he’d managed to do it behind his own back. He carried on toward the pub with a new swagger, so much so that he overtook the man whose path he’d just accidentally blocked. As soon as he sat down, though, unable to stop grinning like an idiot, Peggy raised her eyebrows and jokingly speculated that he’d just popped over to Diane’s office “for a quickie or something.”

And therein lay the problem: the closer they got, the worse it was when he had to lie. It felt like a ticking time bomb—like it was only a matter of time before Peggy found out the truth and he’d lose the first friend he’d made in years. One way or another, he knew that something had to give. As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long.

—

The day had begun with a particularly grueling house inspection, not helped by the fierce July heat. Terry Hill had slipped in the bath and lain there dead for seven months. Nobody had missed him. It was only when his overseas landlord finally stopped receiving rent that his body was found. The TV had still been on. A knife, fork, plate and water glass sat gathering dust on the kitchen table. Andrew had opened the microwave to find something festering inside and accidentally inhaled a great waft of rancid air, coughing and retching as he ran from the room. He was still feeling like he might be sick when Peggy, who valiantly dealt with the microwave horror while he recovered, turned to him and said, “We’ve not talked about tonight, have we?”

“What’s tonight?” Andrew said.

“So, the week you were off work, before the funeral, Cameron started on again about his stupid Come Dine with Me family dinner party thing. Every day it’d be an e-mail or he’d mention it out of nowhere in a meeting.”

“Jesus,” Andrew said. “Why is he so obsessed with this idea?”

“Well, I think there are probably two explanations.”

“Go on . . .”

“Okay, one: it’s something he’s been taught to do in a course. It’s a box-ticking exercise to show he’s getting the team to bond, and he’ll be flavor of the month with the bosses.”

“Hmm. And two?”

“He hasn’t got any friends.”

“Oh,” Andrew said. The bluntness of it caught him off guard, but thinking about it, Cameron’s general behavior did seem to make more sense if that was the case.

“That would explain a lot,” he said.

“I know,” Peggy said. “So anyway, he made us get a date in the diary—we delayed it as far down the line as possible, obviously. He didn’t want to ask you about it when you were away, but I ended up saying I’d ask you, largely just to get him off my back for five minutes. I just haven’t found the right moment to tell you. But as far as Cameron’s concerned, you’re coming.”

Andrew started to protest but Peggy interrupted. “Look, look, I know it’s a massive pain in the arse, but I for one cannot bear him going on and on about it all the time with his sad face all crumpled in disappointment when we put it off. He’s going to host it tonight, the others and I are going. His missus will be there but it’s optional if we want to bring partners.”

Well that’s one thing at least, Andrew thought.

“I think you should come,” Peggy said. “It might be fine—okay, it’ll definitely be awful, but . . . well, what I’m really saying is, please just come so we can get shitfaced together and ignore the others.” She put her hand on Andrew’s arm, smiling hopefully.

Andrew could think of many things he’d rather be doing that evening—most of them involving his testicles, some jam and some aggrieved hornets—but he suddenly felt a rather strong urge not to disappoint Peggy.

—

That evening he arrived at Cameron’s carrying a bottle of corner shop merlot and feeling firmly out of his comfort zone.

Who even likes dinner parties, anyway? he thought. Dutifully doling out compliments just because someone’s managed to shovel some stuff into a pot and heated it to a point where it won’t kill anyone. And then there was all the competitive conversation about books and films: “Oh you simply must see it. It’s a Portuguese art-house epic about triplets who befriend a crow.” What a lot of nonsense. (Andrew did take the occasional bit of enjoyment from hating things he’d never actually experienced.)

Keith and Meredith had been particularly abhorrent that afternoon, with Cameron in particularly irritating form. Quite why the man thought their all spending an increased amount of time together in an enclosed space was going to help, Andrew had no idea. It was like trying to force the negative ends of magnets together.

He was looking forward to spending time with Peggy, of course, although she’d seemed unusually subdued when she’d left the office, something that was possibly connected to the phone call he’d overheard her having on the back stairs, during which she had employed the word “wanker” several times. Delivered in her Geordie twang, it sounded like music to him.

He rang Cameron’s doorbell and hoped to god that Peggy was already there. Ideally they could just sit next to each other, ignoring the others and arguing whether tiramisu was better than Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance.

The door was answered by what appeared to be a very short Victorian dandy, wearing a velvet jacket complete with waistcoat and bow tie. It took Andrew a moment to register that this was, in fact, a child.

“Do come in. I’ll take your coat?” the child said, holding Andrew’s jacket between thumb and forefinger as if he’d been handed a sack of dog turds. Andrew followed him into the hall as Cameron appeared, aggressively brandishing nibbles at him. “Andrew! You’ve met Chris, I see?”

“It’s Christopher,” the boy said, turning from the coat hook, smiling frustratedly. Andrew had already gotten the impression that Christopher held his father to very high standards that Cameron rarely met.

“Clara?” Cameron called.

“What now?” someone hissed back.

“Darling, our first guest’s arriiiiived!”

“Oh, just a second!” This voice bore almost no resemblance to the first. Clara appeared in an apron, smiling to reveal several thousand pristine white teeth. She had closely cropped auburn hair and was so pretty that Andrew felt flustered even before they exchanged an awkward handshake, which became a hug and then a kiss on each cheek, a three-for-the-price-of-one greeting, Clara pulling him toward her as if leading him in a ballroom dance. Cameron handed Andrew a bowl of cashew nuts and asked Clara how the starters were coming along. “Well,” she said, through ever-so-slightly gritted teeth, “if someone hadn’t turned the stove all the way off we would have been bang on time.”

“Oh dear—guilty!” Cameron said, clapping his hand to the top of his head and grimacing theatrically. Andrew looked at Christopher and the boy rolled his eyes as if to say, Tip of the iceberg.

Meredith and Keith arrived together—not by coincidence, Andrew guessed, his suspicions confirmed by the fact that they were both clearly quite tipsy. Keith ruffled Christopher’s neatly parted hair and the boy left the room with a murderous look in his eyes, returning—to Andrew’s disappointment—brandishing a comb and not a revolver.

By the time Peggy arrived they had already sat down for the starters. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, hurling her coat onto an empty chair. “Got stuck on a bus. The traffic was an utter bastard.” She glanced at Christopher. “Oh, sorry, is that a child? Didn’t mean to swear.”

Cameron laughed uncertainly. “I’m sure you’ve heard worse from us, haven’t you, Chriss-o?” Christopher muttered something darkly into his soup.

Conversation was stop-start, in the way that magnified every slurp of food and clink of cutlery. They all agreed that the soup was delicious, although Meredith did add a caveat that it was a “bold choice” to have added quite so much cumin. Keith smirked at this, apparently enjoying the backhanded compliment, and Andrew was suddenly, horribly aware that there was some knee touching going on under the table. He wanted to bring this to Peggy’s attention, if only to share the burden of horror, but she seemed distracted, pushing soup slowly around her bowl like a disillusioned painter mixing colors in their palette. Andrew felt a strong urge to get her away from the others and ask if she was okay, but it was hard when you had Cameron to contend with. He had clearly anticipated lulls in conversation and was beginning to bring up topics that were as disparate as they were fruitless, the latest being their taste in music.

“Peggy? What tickles your fancy in that regard?” he asked.

Peggy yawned. “Oh, you know, acid house, dubstep, Namibian harpsichord stuff. All the classics.” Meredith hiccupped and dropped her spoon on the floor, disappearing to retrieve it and nearly sliding off her chair in the process. Andrew raised his eyebrows at Peggy. He had never really understood the point in getting hammered at social events like this. Surely you were just more likely to say something stupid and then spend the rest of the evening regretting it? Then you’d need another drink just to get over that.

(“That,” Peggy would later say to him, “is drinking in a nutshell.”)

Once they’d finished the main course Clara asked with exaggerated winsomeness if Cameron could give her a hand in the kitchen.

“You’re sure I won’t just be in the way?” Cameron asked with a little chuckle.

“No, no. Just don’t go near the stove,” Clara said.

Cameron headed after her with a You got me there! gesture and shut the door after him. A symphony of slammed cupboard doors occurred shortly afterward. “There may be trouble ahead,” Peggy sang quietly.

Meredith and Keith, again by total coincidence, decided that they needed the toilet at exactly the same time. Andrew and Peggy listened to the sounds of excited footsteps on the stairs.

“Those two are definitely shagging then,” Peggy said. “Sorry for swearing again, Christopher,” she added. Andrew had entirely forgotten the boy was still there.

“Not at all,” Christopher said. “I better go and see what’s happening in the kitchen.”

Peggy waited till the door was closed, then leaned over to Andrew.

“At least the poor sod’s got his mother’s looks. Anyway, bollocks to this, I’m off.”

“Oh, are you . . . Do you think you should just . . . wait?”

“Absolutely not,” Peggy said, swinging her coat on and making for the door. “I’ve had a rubbish enough day as it is without having to endure another second of this. You coming or what?”

Andrew hesitated, but Peggy wasn’t going to hang around for an answer. He swore under his breath and dashed to the kitchen, opening the door to find Clara in full flow.

“You know Wednesday is book club night, yet as usual you didn’t give any bloody consideration to what I might— Andrew! Is everything okay?”

Cameron spun around.

“Andrew! Andy-boy. What’s up?”

“Peggy’s not feeling very well so I thought I better make sure she gets home okay.”

“Oh, are you sure? There’s ice cream!” Cameron said, eyes wide in desperation. Luckily, Clara stepped in and, with a bit too much intensity for Andrew’s liking, said, “There’ll always be ice cream, Cameron. It’s chivalry that’s in short supply.”

“Look, I better go . . . ,” Andrew said, hearing the argument renewed in earnest as soon as he’d closed the front door.

—

He had to jog to catch up with Peggy. When he arrived at her side he was too out of breath to say anything, and Peggy only offered a quick “All right?” before falling quiet. They walked on without speaking, Andrew’s breathing finally leveling out, until gradually their steps became in sync. It was a comfortable silence, but it felt charged in a way that Andrew couldn’t put his finger on. As they waited to cross the road at some traffic lights, Peggy pointed out a pool of dried blood on the pavement.

“I’ve walked past a similar patch on my road every day this week and it’s barely faded,” she said. “Why is it that blood takes ages to wash away?”

“I think it’s because it carries all the proteins and iron and everything,” Andrew said. “And it’s so thick because it coagulates. Hard to get rid of, blood.”

Peggy snorted. “‘Hard to get rid of, blood.’ Now, that’s the most serial killer–y thing I’ve heard in a while.”

“Ah. God, I hadn’t . . . I just meant that—”

Peggy laughed and nudged him with her elbow. “I’m only messing.” She puffed out her cheeks. “God, I shouldn’t have come out tonight. I really wasn’t in the mood for it. Think anyone noticed?”

“I’m sure they didn’t,” Andrew said, trying not to picture Cameron’s forlorn face. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh I’m fine, really. I’m just having a bit of a hard time of it. With Steve, actually.”

Andrew wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but Peggy didn’t need a prompt.

“You remember I told you about my friend Agatha, the one who clearly didn’t approve of him?”

Andrew nodded. “The spatula. The one that you, well . . .”

“Chucked at his head? Yes, well. That’s not the only thing I’ve felt like throwing at him recently. It’s just so bloody hard, sometimes. I remember when Agatha told me her doubts about him when he first proposed, I just couldn’t even consider what she was saying. I was so fiercely proud of what I had, I thought she was just jealous. Sure we used to row a bit, but we’d make up. Better that than those couples who never raise their voices but keep each other awake grinding their teeth.”

“And what seems to be the problem?” Andrew said, wincing at how he’d managed to somehow sound like a 1950s doctor talking disapprovingly to his patient about their libido.

“So there’s the drinking,” Peggy replied. “I know things are on the verge of going tits-up when he starts singing, and last night it was ‘Yes Sir, I Can Boogie.’ Next thing he’s getting all boisterous and asking complete strangers to dance, buying shots for everyone in the pub. Then he finally has too much and starts getting confrontational with people for no reason. But it’s the lying about the drinking that I really can’t stand. It’s just relentless. Last night I went home before him as he was having ‘one for the road.’ He gets back steaming at two a.m. Usually I can handle him by giving him a quick bollock-wallop, but last night he was determined to go and say good night to the girls, but it was so late it was practically morning, and I didn’t want him to go and wake them up, so then it became ‘Oh, you’re not letting me see my own kids.’ He ended up sleeping on the landing under a Finding Nemo duvet in some sort of protest. I left him there snoring this morning. My youngest, Suze, came out and saw him lying there. She just looked at me, shook her head and said, ‘Pathetic.’ Pathetic! I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

An ambulance flashed past, lights on but no siren, ghosting through a gap in the traffic.

“You got an apology this morning, presumably?” Andrew said, not entirely sure why he’d decided to play devil’s advocate.

“Not exactly. I tried to talk to him, but he gets this scrunched-up face when he’s hungover and it’s hard to take him seriously. Honestly, it goes all mad and blotchy. Like he’s a clumsy beekeeper. We’d have had it out this evening if I hadn’t had this nonsense to go to. The only reason I stayed as long as I did was because you were there. I mean, that lot are just the absolute worst, aren’t they?”

“They really are,” Andrew said, wondering whether Peggy had seen just how wide he’d smiled about him apparently being the only reason she’d stayed.

“I wonder if Meredith and Keith are still up in that bathroom,” Peggy said with a shudder. “Oof, it really doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“It really, really doesn’t,” Andrew said.

“And yet now I can’t stop picturing them sweating away.”

“Oh god, sweating?!”

Peggy sniggered and linked her arm into his.

“Sorry, there was no need for that, was there?”

“There absolutely wasn’t, no,” Andrew said. He cleared his throat. “I have to say, it’s felt like a lifetime, having to deal with those idiots by myself, so it’s nice . . . it’s been really good to have, you know, a friend, to share the burden with.”

“Even when I make you think of them at it?” Peggy said.

“Okay, maybe not then.” Andrew wasn’t exactly sure why his heart was beating almost uncomfortably hard. Or, for that matter, why he’d allowed them to walk past at least three stops from which he could have caught a bus home.

Peggy groaned. “I’ve just realized Steve’s going to have written me an apology song on his stupid guitar. I actually can’t stand the thought of it.”

“Hmm, well, we can always head back to Cameron’s for pudding,” Andrew said. Peggy elbowed him again.

They were both quiet for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. A siren sounded in the distance. Perhaps it was the same ambulance that had gone past with just its lights on, Andrew thought. Had the paramedics been on the radio, waiting to hear if they were needed after all?

“Are your lot still going to be up when you get in?” Peggy said.

Andrew winced. Not this. Not now.

“Diane, maybe,” he said. “The kids should be asleep by now.”

They were approaching the station Andrew guessed Peggy was getting her train from.

“Is it bad,” he said, fighting the voice in his head warning him that this wasn’t a good idea, “that sometimes I just sort of wish I could escape from it all?”

“From what?” Peggy said.

“You know, the family . . . and everything.”

Peggy laughed and Andrew immediately backtracked. “God, sorry, that’s ridiculous, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, are you kidding?” Peggy said. “I dream of that on a regular basis. The bliss of it all. The time you could actually spend doing things you wanted to do. I think you’d be mad not to fantasize about that. I spend half my life daydreaming about what I’d be doing with myself if I wasn’t stuck where I was . . . and then that’s usually when one of the kids ruins it by drawing something beautiful for me or being inquisitive or loyal or kind, and I feel like my heart’s going to explode with how much I love them, and then it’s all over. Nightmare, eh?”

“Nightmare,” Andrew said.

They hugged good-bye outside the station. Andrew stayed for a while after Peggy had gone, watching people coming through the ticket barriers, blank face after blank face. He thought of the property inspection that morning and Terry Hill with his knife, fork, plate and water glass. And that’s when the thought hit him so hard it practically winded him: living this lie would be the death of him.

He thought about how he’d felt in the brief moment Peggy had hugged him. This wasn’t physical contact through formality—an introductory handshake. Nor was it the unavoidable touch of the barber or dentist, or a stranger on a packed train. It had been a genuine gesture of warmth, and for that second and a half he was reminded about how it felt to let someone in. He had resigned himself to the fate of Terry Hill and all those others, but maybe, just maybe, there was another way.