‘Honestly? I’ve no idea, Lucy.’ She patted the teenager’s arm. ‘But whatever it is, I’m sure they’ll work it out soon. One way or another.’

Chapter 39

39

Sean and I spent a wordless morning, circling each other like wounded animals, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still raw.

It wasn’t long before Lucy picked up on it. I was in our en suite, trying to conceal the bags under my eyes, when I heard our daughter’s voice from behind the half-closed door. I stopped what I was doing and stood quietly, just listening.

‘Dad?’

‘Hey, Lucy.’

‘So what’s going on?’

‘Today? Just a chill-out day by the pool, I think.’

‘No,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I mean what’s going on with you two.’

‘How’d you mean?’

‘I know you think I’m totally oblivious and self-absorbed, but—’

‘I don’t think that, sweetheart.’

‘I’ve heard you say it.’

‘When?’

‘You said all teenagers are wrapped up in themselves and their own business.’

‘That wasn’t about you! I was remembering how I was at your age.’

‘Whatever. Anyway, I still notice things, sometimes.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you and Mum not talking.’

A pause.

‘Since when, love?’

‘Since we’ve been here. What’s going on between you two?’

‘Nothing. Nothing’s going on.’

‘Are you pissed off at her, or what?’

‘No, Lucy.’

‘Is she cross? About something you’ve done?’

‘Nope.’

Another pause.

‘You know what, Dad?’

‘What’s that, sweetheart?’

‘You’re a crap liar.’

‘Lucy—’

But she was gone, her footsteps receding as she walked away down the corridor. I came out from my hiding place and looked at Sean, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. The silence between us stretched out, broken by Izzy shouting up the stairs that lunch was ready.

Outside on the balcony, the long table was laid with enough to feed a small army, every inch of the checked tablecloth covered with food and drink. A wooden board filled with a dozen cheeses took pride of place in the centre of the table, next to bowls of tomatoes and olives, apples and grapes, and the cutting board was piled high with sliced baguette and fresh pastries. There was honey and dark jam from the village market, a slab of golden butter, thick cuts of pink ham and roasted chicken breast. Jugs of apple juice, stubby green bottles of beer and two bottles of white wine were out, too.

‘Twelve of us,’ said Alistair, standing at the head of the table looking pleased with himself. ‘We’ve got the wine and the bread: all we need is a bag with thirty pieces of silver.’

‘And a Judas,’ Russ added, uncorking a bottle of St Chinian with a soft pop.

‘How’s that?’ Jennifer said.

‘You know,’ Alistair said, spreading his hands expansively, ‘Da Vinci’s Last Supper.’

Daniel took a slice of baguette.

‘What’s the Last Supper, Dad?’