She'd remonstrated, sitting close, her arm round him.
`He's so proud of you. You know he doesn't mean it.'
He'd looked up at her, angry through the tears. `Oh yes he does. It's always Philip this and Philip that. All the time I was growing up Dad called him Pip. He'd tousle his hair and say he had `њgreat expectations`ќ. It was years before I knew what he was getting at `“ and all that time I thought it meant that he had higher hopes of Philip than he did of me. I don't think he had the first bloody idea the impact something like that can have.'
Her heart had broken, then, for the sad little boy he had been and the furiously ambitious man he'd turned that into. And she'd felt, as she never had with Michael before, that she was the strong one `“ she was the one with something to give, the one to protect, not be protected. It was the first time she'd ever felt that. And it would be the last.
Somer stops by her desk to collect the bag of shopping she left there at lunchtime. Some of the fruit has rolled out under her chair, and she has to get down on her hands and knees to retrieve it. When she finally straightens up she's surprised to find Quinn standing there. She's flustered a moment, conscious that she's red in the face and her hair has come loose.
`Can I help you?'
He looks diffident. A word she's never associated with him before.
`I just wanted to check you were OK.'
She stares at him, not sure she heard him right. `Why wouldn't I be?'
He shrugs. `It was just, well, what you were saying back there. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere `“ you know `“ personal.'
She hesitates, not sure she wants to open up on this. At least to him. But there's something in his face.
`My sister had it `“ has it,' she says eventually. `Post-natal depression, I mean. It's been tough. On all of us.'
He nods.
`And there's such a terrible stigma attached to it, even now. Far too many women don't come forward and get help because they're worried about what people will say. They're frightened they'll be labelled as bad mothers or `њhysterical`ќ or one of those other words men only use about women and never about other men.' She stops, aware she's even redder in the face now.
`I know,' he says quietly. `About PND. My mother had it.'
Now that really does floor her. She opens her mouth, then closes it again.
`You never mentioned it. When we `“'
He shrugs. `Like you said. There's still a lot of prejudice. And ignorance.'
And it must have been even worse a generation ago.
`They ended up sectioning her,' he says, reading her thoughts. `My dad had to cope for six months with a newborn baby and an eight-year-old. He didn't know what'd hit him.'
He looks up, meeting her eyes properly for the first time.
`You were only eight?'
He smiles weakly. `Dad kept telling me I had to be a big boy. That he had enough to worry about without me acting up. No one in the family ever spoke about it. It was as if she'd done something shameful. Or criminal. It was years before I found out what had really happened.'
She nods, struggling to find the right thing to say. But it explains a lot about Quinn. His strident self-sufficiency, his intolerance of weakness, his inability to admit any vulnerability.
`Anyway,' he says, straightening his shoulders a little. `I just wanted to check.'
He starts to go, but she calls him back. `Quinn?'
He turns. `Yeah?'
`Thank you. For telling me. That can't have been easy.'
He shrugs. `No worries.'
And then he's gone.
11 July 2017, 10.23 a.m.
177 days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
`Hi,' says Philip, when she opens the door. `I got back to Poole a bit earlier than I expected.'
She's only seen him once or twice since the wedding, where he'd been, rather to her surprise given Michael's loud and frequent reservations, an exemplary best man.
He's thinner than when she last saw him, but it suits him. Sun-bleached hair, a deep tan, shirt open just a bit too far. There's a heap of dusty rucksacks and duffel bags at his feet. A black cab is just turning out of the street on to the Banbury Road.
He sees her face and looks sheepish. `Sorry. I know I'm a couple of days early. But if it's a problem I can leave all this crap here and lose myself for an hour or two.'
She smiles. `No, it's fine. You just took me by surprise, that's all.'
`I did try Mike's mobile but he's not answering.'
She makes a face. `He does that. Turns it off to save the battery and then forgets and wonders why no one's calling him.'
Philip grins. `Always was a bit of a throwback. In a nice way, of course,' he adds quickly.
One of the neighbours has stopped on the other side of the street. She's pretending to fiddle with her shoe but Sam can see her clocking Philip and doing the mental maths that puts two and two together and makes extra-marital affair.
She stands back. `Come in,' she says quickly. `Do you need a hand with all that `“?'
`Absolutely not,' he says firmly. `Dad always used to say, only travel with the bags you're prepared to carry yourself.'
By the time Michael gets home they're sitting in the garden with the bottle of Chablis Philip brought with him. Zachary is sitting at their feet, playing with his toy fire engine. Harry must have been too, because the lawn has been mowed and the cuttings stacked in a bag by the wheelie bin. Michael frowns, then goes to the fridge for a beer before heading outside. Whether deliberately or not, Philip has positioned his chair so he can see the house. He gets to his feet at once.
`Mike! Sorry to turn up unannounced like this,' he says, reaching to give his brother a hug.
`No problem,' says Michael, a little stiff in the embrace.
Samantha looks up, alert to the acerbity. But there's a colour in her cheeks Michael hasn't seen for weeks.
`We brought you out a chair,' she says, gesturing. Smiling.
He puts his beer down on the table. `Where's Matty?'
Philip makes a face. `On his Xbox. I did try to tempt him out but he seemed completely engrossed.'
`Yeah, well,' says Michael. `That won't be the first time.' He turns to his wife. `What are we going to do about dinner?'
`All sorted,' says Philip quickly. `Getting a Deliveroo from Brown's. Least I can do.'
Two hours later the sun is going down and the chairs have been shunted to one side so that Philip can play football with Matty.
Michael stands at the sink, rinsing the plates before they go into the dishwasher.
`They haven't had so much fun for ages,' says Sam, coming in with a tray of glasses and a sleepy Zachary wedged on one hip. `Apparently Philip is Ronaldo and Matty is Messi.'
There's a shout from the garden; Philip has just scored a goal and is running round the lawn with his T-shirt over his face.
`Prat,' says Michael. But not out loud.
`He's going to take us punting tomorrow,' says Sam casually.
Michael glances at her. `Really? Are you sure he knows how? Must be years since he did it last.'
She shrugs. `He says he does.' Then, `I thought you'd be pleased. It'll give you some peace and quiet to get some work done.'
And, of course, it will.
`Do you need me to do some shopping?' he says, making more of an effort. `I can get some picnic stuff from MS in the morning `“'
`Don't worry, Phil said he'd do it. Just you focus on the book.'
She touches him lightly on the arm, then goes back outside. The sounds of laughter blossom in the air.