The Perfect Son Read online

  It doesn’t seem to matter to Ian that he hasn’t lived here for a good twenty years, he still treats the house like it belongs to him, like your mother is still alive and rattling around the place.

  He’s my big brother, Tessie. He means well.

  Maybe, but he never stopped treating you like a stupid teenager, and me and Jamie like we were a temporary phase of your life.

  You’re just as bad. You never gave him a chance either.

  I kick my boots off in the nook and pad into the kitchen in my woolly socks. The tiles freeze my feet. The heating has clicked off and the temperature inside is the same as the outside. Not that it matters. There could be a tropical heat wave in our kitchen and I’d still feel cold.

  Ian leans against the worktop by the sink and the window that overlooks our driveway. He stares at the table and my and Jamie’s half-eaten breakfast bowls. My Weetabix have bloated, congealing into one soggy mass. I catch Ian’s frown, the disdain for the mess. He adjusts his tie and stands a little straighter.

  “Here,” Ian says. He lifts his hand and for the first time I notice the carrier bag he’s holding. “I bought you some grapes, and some chocolate. I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  He looks disappointed and I wonder if I should be more grateful. Maybe you’re right, maybe I never gave him a chance.

  “That’s really kind,” I add.

  “I’m sorry to ask this, Tess,” Ian says, “but it can’t wait any longer. The thing is, I need that money.”

  Money. The word pinballs in my mind. I should’ve known Ian didn’t come to see me, or to ask after Jamie. He’s here because of money. Money he says you borrowed from him.

  “I told you, I don’t know anything about any money.”

  “Have you looked at the accounts?” he asks.

  “No.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a beat. You used to do that.

  “I explained all this at the funeral,” Ian says. “Mark told me you knew about it. He needed my inheritance from Mum, just for a few months while you sold the house in Chelmsford.”

  I swallow, and for a moment my teeth chatter together again. I don’t remember much about the funeral. I remember the rain spattering on the stained-glass windows. The cold of the stone walls seeping through my coat and my dress, all the way to the block of ice already inside me. The rest is blank—a black hole, a deleted scene in my head.

  “Tess?” Ian’s impatience jolts me. His eyes seem darker in the gloom of the kitchen and I can’t help wishing we’d stayed outside to talk—not that I had a choice in the matter.

  “The Chelmsford house sold straightaway,” I say. I turn my back on him and focus on clearing the bowls. Ian sidesteps away from the sink but doesn’t offer to help. “We sold the house in Chelmsford and used it along with Mark’s inheritance from your mum to buy out your half of this house and got a mortgage for the rest. It was all handled through your solicitors. I was with you and Mark in your partner’s office when we signed all the paperwork. The money was transferred straight to you. You were there. So was Jacob Barlow.”

  “Yes.” Ian nods and I have that sense of being treated like a child, of not understanding the simplest of things. “And then you borrowed some of it back.”

  “No, we didn’t.” The start of a headache throbs behind my eyes.

  “I need that money, Tess.” Ian takes a step toward me. He’s so close that I can smell the citrus spice of his cologne, and I stop moving, bowls in hand. Something flashes in his eyes. Desperation, I think, or maybe frustration.

  “Jacob wants to retire and sell his half of the solicitor’s,” Ian continues. “I have some of the money I need from a bank loan and savings, but not all of it. If I don’t buy him out we’ll be forced to sell into one of the umbrella companies. We’ll keep the name and the office but we’ll have to do everything by a tick box. All my hard work and my reputation down the drain. I know there’s a death benefit from Mark’s job, and a life insurance policy. He declared it all when you made your wills. You can use some of that to pay me back.”

  I grit my teeth, clamping my mouth shut before I can say something I’ll regret. I hate how your brother knows so much about us. Things I don’t even know. “He’s my brother, Tess. We need a solicitor and he’ll give us a good rate,” you said. “Ian won’t represent us. His partner can do that.”

  But Ian still poked through our files, though, didn’t he? He still read your will.

  A flash of memory surfaces in my thoughts. Ian, sharp and composed in a black suit and tie, standing behind the pulpit and reading the eulogy he wrote. His words washed over me but I remember Ian spoke about a boyhood of climbing trees and swimming in the river. A life in this very house, a life before us that I knew so little about. Ian tagged Jamie and me on at the end as if we were an afterthought in your life.

  “I . . . I haven’t thought about the finances or any of that yet,” I say. “It’s still so soon.”

  “It’s been over a month, Tess.” Ian’s voice softens. “I know you’re grieving but you really need to get in touch with Jacob. He’s been calling you too. You’re the executor of Mark’s will. Until you begin the process you won’t have any access to his finances.”

  “And neither will you.”

  He has the decency to look embarrassed. “True. But I’m trying to help you. These things can take months to sort out.”

  I shake my head. “Hang on. How much are we talking about? How much did you lend Mark?”

  “A hundred grand.”

  “What?” I splutter, dumping the bowls in the sink. A spoon clatters against the porcelain. It’s so much money. An unimaginable amount to loan someone, isn’t it?

  Ian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Mark said it was for improvements to the house and a new kitchen. It was only supposed to be until the extension on the mortgage came through. He said you knew.”

  “Does this look like the face of someone who knew?” I say, turning to Ian.

  My question seems to throw him, but only for a moment. “Maybe Mark was sorting it out as a surprise then, I don’t know. But I’m really sorry, I do need that money back,” he says. “I can’t wait much longer.”

  “Yeah, well, I need my husband back, and short of that I’m going to need the death benefit to tide us over for as long as it can.”

  Then what? I’ve been so focused on your death that I’ve not thought about money. How are we going to survive on the money from my tutoring? And that’s if I even have any students to go back to. Ian’s phone calls aren’t the only ones I’ve been ignoring. The GCSE mock exams are coming up. Parents won’t wait for me.

  Is Ian right? Is there a life insurance policy? I try to remember the details of the wills we made. We were sitting side by side in the conference room, moaning about the bitterness of the coffee and planning where we’d go for lunch afterward. I didn’t care about the rest. I didn’t think it mattered.

  I should’ve paid more attention. You should’ve made me pay more attention, Mark, instead of letting me live with my head in the sand and keeping all the little things to yourself. Like when your mother was dying of pneumonia in hospital and you told me it was a chest infection, nothing to worry about. A version of the truth but not all of it.

  I was trying to protect you, Tessie.

  Was I really that in need of protecting?

  I didn’t want you to worry so much. It wasn’t good for you to be worrying all the time.

  “Look, Tess,” Ian says, dragging my thoughts back to the kitchen. “Like it or not, you are the only one right now who can begin the distribution of Mark’s estate. I knew my brother. He wouldn’t want this to drag on. If he was alive right now, he’d have paid me back already.”

  The anger comes from nowhere, rising up and surprising me as much a
s Ian. “How dare you,” I hiss. Ian jerks back, my words a physical push. “How dare you say you know Mark. I knew Mark. I knew my husband. You two, you hardly ever spoke to each other, for God’s sake. What would you know about what he did or didn’t want?”

  “We were brothers, Tess. We might not have spoken much, but we grew up together. I’ve known him a lot longer than you have. And if you knew your husband so well, why didn’t he tell you about the money he borrowed from me?”

  There’s something knowing in his tone that I hate. As if Ian is holding something back. “We went over this at the funeral,” Ian says again as if that will suddenly make things clear to me.

  “You mean when you cornered me in the pews. Let me ask you a question—did it not cross your mind to wait a week, or even a day? You only live twenty minutes down the bloody road. Why did you have to talk to me about it at the funeral?”

  The tears racing down my cheeks burn my skin with the same intensity as the anger scorching inside me. “I’ve lost my husband,” I gasp. “He was the love of my life, you know?”

  Something shifts in Ian’s posture, and his voice when he speaks is quiet once more. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should’ve waited.”

  I nod, and just like that the intensity is gone and the darkness hits me again. “I’m not trying to be difficult, but I really don’t know anything about a loan. Mark handled the finances. We talked about having a new kitchen at some point but we were going to save up for it. I’ll look at the bank accounts, I’ll get in touch with Jacob, I promise. We certainly haven’t made any big purchases, so if Mark borrowed it—”

  “He did, Tess. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it right away. I didn’t even want to lend him the money in the first place. It was only supposed to be for a couple of months.”

  “OK. I’ll check the accounts.”

  “Thank you.”

  We stand in silence for a moment. Neither of us sure how to continue.

  Jamie’s coping fine, by the way, I want to say. You know, your nephew? I don’t know why I’m so surprised he doesn’t ask about Jamie. Ian has always been the ten-pound-note-in-a-birthday-card type of uncle. There’s no point expecting him to be any different now.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Sorry this has happened, I mean.”

  “Me too.” I nod and dab my fingers under my eyes, catching the next tear before it falls.

  “I’ll come back next week.”

  The way he says it, it sounds threatening somehow. Ian must think so too, because then he says, “I can bring some food. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I’ll check the accounts and let you know.”

  Ian nods. I can tell there’s more he wants to say. Another push he wants to give. But my anger, my tears have rattled him, I think.

  “Good-bye, Tess.” He strides out the side door without a backward glance. The door catches when he shuts it, bouncing back open. I wait for Ian to shut it properly, but he doesn’t. He’s already gone, crunching his polished shoes across the gravel back to his Land Rover.

  It’s only when I reach the door to shut it that I see the flowers. Rich green stems wrapped in a rubber band, thick leaves and deep purple heads. Tulips. An entire bouquet of them—twenty at least.

  There’s no cellophane. No note. Just two rubber bands keeping the stems together.

  Ian is reversing out of the driveway and before I can stop myself my feet are scrambling and skidding across the stones. He’s almost gone, but I have to know. He’s looking in the rearview mirror checking for passing traffic, only seeing me when the palms of my hands slam against his window.

  Ian starts, surprised by my sudden appearance or the crazed look in my eyes.

  “Did you leave those flowers?” I blurt out the question before the window has finished opening.

  He shakes his head. “What flowers?”

  “The ones by the side door. You didn’t leave them?”

  “No.”

  I stumble back and turn to the doorway, half expecting to find it empty, the flowers a figment of my imagination; but they are still there in the corner, half-hidden by a mound of dark leaves that have collected in the open porch. Did someone leave them while Ian and I were talking, or were they there when we arrived and I didn’t notice because Ian was standing in the way? I don’t know.

  “Don’t forget, Tess. Check the accounts, OK?” Ian calls as he eases the car onto the lane.

  I give a meek nod and he’s gone.

  Who would leave me flowers? A bouquet of tulips for my birthday, just like the ones you gave me every year.

  I’d ask if they’re from you, but of course they’re not.

  CHAPTER 5

  Hot water fills the bath with a gushing roar, causing the pipes beneath my feet to groan under the pressure. The mirror on the wall is now misty from the steam dancing in the air and running in lines down the window.

  There are no bubbles in my bath. This is not a luxury, this is a necessity. I have to rid myself of the cold.

  When the water is deep I turn off the tap, throwing the bathroom into silence. I’m just about to peel off my clothes when I hear it—a knock, knock, knock, in bursts of three, too persistent to be the pipes.

  It’s coming from the front door. Knock, knock, knock, pause, knock, knock, knock, pause.

  I glance at the bath for a long second and consider ignoring the visitor. It will only be the vicar come to check on me like he said he would at the funeral. Or your brother again with some other tidbit of knowledge about you that I don’t know. There’s no one else it can be. In the four months we’ve lived here, I haven’t made any friends.

  Knock, knock, knock, pause, knock, knock, knock.

  Whoever it is, they are not going away, and by the time I make it to the bottom of the main stairs the letter box is sticking up and a woman’s voice is calling through the house. “Teresa? Mrs. Clarke? Are you there? Can you open the door, please?”

  My heart hitches in my chest. Is it the police? Could something have happened to Jamie at school? I cross the hall in four strides and yank open the door.

  “Yes?” The one word is shaky and breathless from the panic racing inside, but it’s not the police. It’s a woman with straight bleach-blond hair, cut above her shoulders, and bangs that sit above dark eyebrows.

  She’s smiling at me and I realize she’s the first person to smile at me since you died. A real smile, one that isn’t leaking with pity. It’s the kind of smile that compels the recipient to smile back, but I can’t. My face has forgotten how.

  She’s pretty. A girl-next-door type with a pale, smooth complexion. She’s not much younger than me. Midthirties, I guess, but staring at the sparkle in her green eyes, and her perfect white teeth, I feel frumpy, worn-out. I am both of these things.

  “Teresa?”

  “It’s Tess.” I nod as a gust of wind rushes past me, blowing the front door out of my hands. The heavy wood slams against the inside wall hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster. I grab at the door, pulling it back and wedging my foot behind it, but the woman must think I’m inviting her in, because she steps into the hall.

  “I’m Shelley Lange,” she says, pulling off her coat to reveal a black V-necked jumper over a pair of skinny jeans. A gold oval-shaped locket sits below her collarbone on a delicate chain. The way she says her name, the way she’s looking at me—smiling, but expectant too—it’s as though her name should mean something to me. It doesn’t.

  I try to think but my mind is a white wall of nothing. The woman is slipping out of her suede ankle boots, and I still don’t have the first clue who she is.

  Her gaze scans the wall behind me, looking for a coat hook, I presume, because next she folds her coat in half and places it over her boots.

  “We have an appointment,” she says.

  “Do we?”

  She l
aughs, a proper laugh, right from the throat. Like how I used to laugh with the mums in Chelmsford, regaling each other with stories of nappy explosions and tantrums in the aisles of Tesco. I drop my eyes and pick at the skin flaking around my fingernails.

  The mums on the estate sent me an orchid in a pink china pot when they heard you’d died. It’s withering on the windowsill by the kitchen sink. If we’d still been living in the old house they would’ve been around all the time, bringing cakes and dinners by the trayload for Jamie and me.

  They came to the funeral—Casey and Jo, Lisa and Julie. Even Debbie took the day off work. I’m sure they have a WhatsApp group about me. Messages pinging back and forth. Worried-face emojis. Whose turn is it to text Tess? Has anyone heard back? I will reply at some point. They want to know we’re coping OK and I don’t know what to tell them.

  The woman in our hall opens up her handbag and pulls out a phone. Her bag is a black leather satchel with a thin strap she has looped over one shoulder. The bag is small and I find myself wondering how my bulging purse, filled with useless receipts and out-of-date membership cards, would ever squeeze into such a bag. I could fit two of her bags in the holdall I use when I go out.

  She taps the screen of her mobile before reeling off my name, address, and today’s date.

  I shrug. “That’s me, but I haven’t made any appointments. Who are you again?”

  “I’m Shelley. I’m a grief counselor. I volunteer with Grief UK in the Ipswich branch, as well as running a private practice. I was told you’d be expecting me.”

  “I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake. I didn’t call anyone.”

  “I might be way off base here, but you have the look of someone who’s grieving. Am I wrong?”

  “No, you’re not, but I still didn’t call you.” My words are clipped and ring with an annoyance I don’t mean to convey. All of a sudden I think of Jamie and how I snapped at him about his lost school shoes this morning.

  My legs are weak and I long to sit down, but I don’t want to lead this woman into the kitchen or the living room. I don’t want to endure the hand-patting it’ll-be-all-right speech, the time-will-heal-you bullshit. The same white noise I’ve heard so many times already. From my brother and his boyfriend at the funeral; from the many phone calls with my mum; from a woman who collared me on the way back from the school drop-off. Even the postman knocked on the door to impart some wisdom on the matter.