The days seem endless, the heat turns sultry, pressing in on him so that Nick finds himself longing for an autumnal breeze. He gradually grows accustomed to sitting in a silent vortex while the others enjoy themselves around him. It’s a bizarre kind of kaleidoscope with him in the centre feeling both acutely self-conscious and invisible. Sometimes he touches his skin, presses his fingers into the muscles in his thigh or arm, so the pain will remind him that he’s there, not trapped in a claustrophobic dream.

He could shrug it off – Angus is great to talk to, really interesting and sound, but he’s often in his study working; Nick thinks he’s probably avoiding his father – but it’s getting him down. When people deliberately shut you out, when they walk past you as though you aren’t there, when they talk through you and over you, it starts to make you doubt your own worth. It’s so fucking stupid. All because Taisie can’t bear the fact that he might not fancy her. Of course he does, but it’s not a particularly comfortable feeling. It feels wrong, bordering on incest. But the worst thing is the way she behaves around his dad. He’s known her since she was a toddler. He’s seen her naked in the paddling pool, for Christ’s sake. The whole thing makes him sick. Tim humours her up to a point, but fortunately he has the sense not to respond, at least most of the time. When she gets all flirty with him, his dad starts mucking around with the younger kids, and has them in stitches.

That morning, watching his father charge round the garden with Alex on his back, chased by Rory and Izzy, Nick had never felt so lonely. He had watched the girls covertly as they lounged on a rug, painting their toenails, about twenty feet from him, and their laughter grated so much he had to go inside. In the cool of the library, he felt as though he was hiding from himself as much as from them.

GRACE

Monday, 16 April 2018

THE SUPPER TABLE IS SET FOR THREE. LOTTIE IS DOING her homework while I shake risotto rice on to the scales. Two ounces each; six ounces. A chopped onion sizzles gently on the hob and the kettle has been set to boil for the chicken stock. In the oven, three pieces of chicken breast are roasting. I’ve chopped a cabbage finely, the way Nick likes it, and dropped it into the steamer. Lottie has already grated a generous pile of Parmesan for me. I have some wine to hand, the remains of last night’s bottle, to add to the stock.