BooksBarbecue
Back One Year Later
Chapters (49)
  1. PROLOGUE
  2. PART I
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. PART II
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. PART III
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. PART IV
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. EPILOGUEAMY
  48. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  49. BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

‘Best not to say anything to Amy,’ he says. ‘They don’t get on. She’d think I should send a text and be done with it. But you know what women are like. Need chapter and verse.’ He gives a dry laugh.

I have a queasy feeling, as if I’m betraying my sister by listening to her husband’s bullshit. At least Matt’s guilt has stopped him chucking me out of this house this morning, for bringing Dad here. I look up. Amy is stretched out on a sun-lounger next to our father, an untouched croissant on a plate at her elbow. She has her eyes shut, but she’s frowning, the lines between her eyebrows deepening. It’s unbearable witnessing her pain, especially when she doesn’t even realize we’re watching her. Matt follows the direction of my gaze and shakes his head.

‘Do you think there really is something wrong with David?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘At the end of the day, does it matter? I mean, he’s our dad, Matt. Ruby-May’s grandfather. A diagnosis isn’t going to bring her back.’

‘If he’d only say he was fucking sorry.’

I pat him on the shoulder. ‘I know, mate. But for what it’s worth, he’s never apologized to me once, in his entire life. It doesn’t mean he isn’t heartbroken.’

‘He has a hell of a lot to apologize for,’ Bethany says, handing me a coffee.

12

NICK

We head to the beach after breakfast. It’s only a few minutes’ walk from the villa, although it takes for ever to get there, marshalling Lotte, Theo and Chloe, carrying reams of stuff like we’re bearers for Tutankhamun. Lotte’s swimsuit, her armbands and her bucket and spade are all varying shades of purple. Purple was Ruby-May’s favourite colour. I try not to think about the unicorn that’s still in my sitting room.

The beach is a perfect scoop of plain sand, with a Portaloo and a wooden shack where you can rent loungers or buy espressos, ice cream and beer. On either side there are flat, dark rocks pockmarked with barnacles, and cliffs rising sharply up to the olive groves and Maregiglio, which I can’t see from this angle. It feels surreal, being here, the sun hot on my back at ten in the morning, a bruising light slicing from the surface of the sea, when only yesterday Dad and I were driving through damp fog to reach the airport. I can feel the tension in my shoulders start to ease.