The Marriage - K.L. Slater (story books to read .TXT) 📗

This is your bedroom, Tom. It’ll always be your bedroom even when you’re eventually married and settled down with your own young family.’

‘I’ll be down in good time for tea,’ he said, his expression unreadable. He stepped fully into the room and gently closed the door, leaving me on the landing.

Coming back to the family home and his own bedroom must be fraught with emotion. His reaction wasn’t what I’d expected, but I felt sure it was nothing to worry about. It was completely normal … wasn’t it?

With Robert ensconced in his office as usual and Tom up in his bedroom, I found myself, as on so many other occasions, alone in the kitchen.

I poured myself a glass of water from the fridge cooler and sat at the breakfast bar. I hadn’t expected the dull, heavy sensation in my chest. Of course, I’d known realistically that Tom’s homecoming would probably be different to how I’d imagined it, but this … well, despite me telling myself it was normal, the situation was not what I’d hoped for at all.

I knew now that I’d been overly romantic and optimistic in my imaginings. Coming out of a ten-year prison lockdown would never be easy for Tom, and the biggest shock of all was how much I’d forgotten: the tensions, the moody undertone that had been the everyday backdrop to our family life, the crushing pressure I’d felt to keep the peace between Robert and Tom, to defuse arguments before they even started. I’d run myself ragged trying to absorb the resentment and negativity that had buzzed between them like an electric current, like I’d tried to do as a child with my mother and father.

After we’d lost the business and the house and had to move into a rented one-bed flat when I was ten years old, I’d somehow convinced myself that if I behaved perfectly, Dad would stop drinking, Mum would stop screaming at him and they wouldn’t get divorced. Then everything would be fine again. Things would soon get back to normal.

Now, on the day of Tom’s release, I’d forgotten the price I’d paid all those years in an effort to keep up the charade that we were a close, happy family. I didn’t know whether I had the resolve to start all over again, and yet, on another level, I felt compelled to do so.

At 4.30 sharp, I called Tom downstairs. He appeared five minutes later in the kitchen, his hair still damp from the shower. He’d changed into grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He didn’t look very rested, standing there biting his thumbnail while his eyes darted around the room.

Robert ambled in without saying a word.

‘Sit down, son,’ I said brightly. ‘I made your favourite and there’s my tiramisu for dessert.’

I carried the still-bubbling home-made lasagne to the table, where Tom and Robert now sat waiting in stony silence. Tom’s first day at home was always going to feel strange. I’d prepared the meal yesterday and I’d hoped for a relaxed tea together, perhaps chatting about when Tom might go to view the flat I’d found, or his plans to catch up with his old friends at the boxing club.

I placed the earthenware dish on the heat mat and returned a moment later with the large flat round of rosemary focaccia and a bowl of chopped green salad.

Tom took his phone out of his pocket and placed it screen down on the table next to his plate. I saw Robert’s eyes narrow – he hated phones at the table – and breathed a sigh of relief when he looked away again without comment.

I divided the lasagne into thirds and loaded a portion onto the serving scoop. When I lifted it towards Tom’s plate, he put up a hand. ‘Only half of that for me, Mum.’

I returned the scoop to the dish. ‘But this is one of your favourite meals; you always used to have seconds.’ It sounded ridiculous, but I felt like crying.

He glanced anxiously at me. ‘I know. I’m sorry, but … I’m not hungry.’

‘A sandwich would have done for me,’ Robert announced, opening his newspaper and shaking it out noisily above the table. ‘I’ll be asking for another dose of gout if I eat all that.’

‘You shouldn’t have cooked all this for me, Mum.’ Tom picked at the salad. ‘Looks good, though.’

‘I shall be glad when things get back to normal around here,’ Robert muttered, his eyes glued to the newspaper. ‘Can’t come soon enough, in fact.’

Tom put down his fork and stared at his plate. He’d had enough experience with his father to know that the best policy was to ignore his jibes. But this new Tom had waves of resentment rolling off him. I realised how he’d been like a coiled spring ever since getting into the car. And now he was behaving like he didn’t want to be here with us at all.

‘Robert, please don’t make Tom feel like he’s an inconvenience.’ I dropped the piece of bread and charred rosemary needles showered the table like tiny dead insects. ‘I wanted everything to be perfect for our first family meal together. Please don’t spoil it.’

‘How can everything be perfect?’ Robert’s nose and mouth screwed together in a tight knot. ‘He’s finished a ten-year stretch at Her Majesty’s pleasure for killing his best friend, and you’re trying to pretend we’re the perfect reality TV family.’ He threw the crumpled newspaper on the floor and stood up. ‘Forget tea. I’ve remembered there’s somewhere I’d rather be.’

‘Stay where you are! Just for a minute!’ Tom pushed his chair back and stood up. My cutlery clattered down onto my plate, and even Robert looked taken aback. ‘Mum, Dad, there’s something I need to tell you both. Something really important.’

The air in the room grew dense and still. I held my breath, waiting for what was obviously going to be a critical moment. I instinctively knew I was about to find out what it was my son