Matius, the Indonesian housekeeper, walked ahead of him, insisting on carrying his bags. Before his death, Matius’ father, Agus, had run the household. Matius would have been only twenty-five when Kennedy was bundled off to England. Now married with his own son and daughter in their twenties, he and his wife, Maya, continued to work for the family.
Live-in domestic help had been a way of life in Singapore—in many Asian countries—for many years with the huge disparity in wealth between the rich and poor, and high unemployment forcing people to seek overseas jobs simply to survive. Although many of Matius’ relatives still lived in Bandung—south of Jakarta—for over two generations, his family had resided in the two-bedroom apartment above the kitchen in the outbuilding at the side of the house. Many houses and apartments in the region came with a wet and a dry kitchen. Usually the wet room stood unenclosed by walls, open to the elements, where wok cooking happened, allowing the potent Asian spices to dissipate into the air. Dry kitchens were used primarily to prepare food for cooking and, in the case of the Kennedys, to house a large oven, fridge and other electrical appliances.
“My wife, Maya, cook for you tonight, sir,” said Matius—Matty—turning in to Kennedy’s room and dropping the bags at the foot of the bed. Apart from the squeals of Kennedy’s nephews playing in the swimming pool coming through the half-open bedroom window, Kennedy could already smell the delicious aroma of cooking from somewhere outside. Matty had his trademark cheeky smile on his face as he spoke. “As you know, she is very good cook—only reason why I marry her. She cook your favourites. Satay chicken, chilli crab, tiger prawn, beef rendang, gado-gado. She even has cendol for dessert. Hope your friend will like, too. Or is he like your other guest?”
Kennedy couldn’t help smiling. During the two times Patrick had visited, he’d been singularly unadventurous with food, often requesting a simple omelette or sandwich for dinner. Local food had been a staple of Kennedy’s childhood, and chilled cendol—green rice flour jelly, red beans, coconut milk and palm sugar syrup—had been a true luxury after a sweltering cycle ride home from school.
“I’m sure my friend will be fine, thanks, Matty,” said Kennedy, holding out a hand. Polite as ever, Matty shook his hand and bowed a couple of times. Years ago, Kennedy had given up asking Matty to call him by his given name. Being called ‘sir’ made Kennedy feel like his father, or an employer—when Matty was more like a friend. But Matty had once confided how his father had drilled in him to address male adult guests as ‘‘sir’’ and female adult guests as ‘‘mam’’, and how this had proven much easier than trying to remember names. “By the way, I’m sorry I couldn’t get back for your father’s funeral.”
“That’s okay, sir. I know you are busy man.”
“It’s not really okay. Your father was very special, a kind and caring man. Especially to me. I’m honoured to have known him.”
The sort of man a father ought to be, thought Kennedy.
Agus had been his go-to whenever his own father had ridiculed or scolded him. After dinner, on the night Jeff had casually thrown into the conversation that Kennedy would be going to boarding school in England that autumn term, ten-year-old Kennedy had listened without speaking or reacting—a rule of the house for children at the dinner table—but as soon as they had been excused, he had gone straight to Agus and cried. Kennedy remembered his words well, about being strong and the importance of honouring a father’s wishes, but he’d known Agus was just as upset, could not understand why a father would want to send his only son away. Kennedy missed his simple kindness.
“Thank you, sir. He was very happy here.”
Once Matty had left, Kennedy sat on the edge of the bed and looked around his old room. Nothing remained of his childhood except for the view from the window, showcasing the old mango tree. Many years ago, Agus had hung a swing from a lower bough for him, his sister and Matty—until a few weeks later, Kennedy’s father had demanded he take the eyesore down. Now his room stood unrecognizable, completely redecorated since his last visit, a guest room with the addition of a double bed and stylish antique furniture. But then Kennedy spotted a painting of his on the wall, a watercolour of his old dog Chester, a black Labrador they’d had as children. He’d been eight when he’d painted the picture, something Agus had helped frame and hang on his bedroom wall. His mother must have decided to keep that particular memory.
Showered and changed, he stood outside Kieran’s room at the far end of the corridor, at the back of the house overlooking the pool, and knocked lightly on the door.
“Come on in.”
Kennedy turned the handle and stood just inside the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob.
“Are you decent?”
“Never have been, not going to start now,” quipped Kieran, coming out of the bathroom smiling, wearing a white cotton shirt and khaki chino shorts. As looks went, this one suited Kieran well.
“Best behaviour,” said Kennedy, suppressing a smile.
“Yes, sergeant major. I can’t believe your family house. Not only do I have my own bedroom, but it comes with an en suite bathroom and a huge bed. Hey, I’ve got my swimmers on under my shorts. Do you think your dad’ll let me have a dip a bit later on?”
“After dinner, maybe. By the way, are you okay with Indonesian food?”
“I—uh—I don’t think I’ve ever eaten it before. But if that’s what I can smell cooking, then count me in.”
They found his mother, father and sister sitting at the back of the house, next to the swimming pool, in a horseshoe arrangement of comfortable sofas around a Thai-style coffee table. His nephews played happily in the shallows. Beneath the back porch, Kennedy spotted the large dining table that had already been set up. Kieran wisely stood behind Kennedy, while he got his hugs and hellos out of the way with his sister and already squiffy mother. After that, Kennedy introduced Kieran, who charmed them both the way he had done with his father. Once seated, they shared a few pleasantries about various general subjects—the flight over, Reagan’s boys, life of retirement in Singapore—until the inevitable fun and games began.
“When’s the last time you were home, darling?” asked Claire, pouring them both a long, tall glass of something opaque. When Kennedy held the glass away from him quizzically, Reagan mouthed the word ‘mojito’.
“That would have been the day before yesterday. The day before I flew here.”
“Don’t be smart with your mother,” said Claire, curtly, over the rim of her glass. “You know what I mean.”
“Five years ago,” said Reagan. “The same year misery left him.”
Kennedy flashed her a warning glare. None of his family had warmed to Patrick. Even though his parents had said nothing, Reagan had labelled him precious and standoffish. But he didn’t want the conversation to focus on his ex.
“Where’s Bernie?” he asked.
“Working, of course,” she said, irritation clear in her tone. “In Cape Town right now, covering some rugby tournament or another. So what do you do for a living, Kieran?”
“Right now, nothing. I worked for an estate agent in London, but times got tough and half of us were let go. I’m punting around for work, but I’m also finishing up my master’s.”
“Master’s?” said Reagan, surprise clear on her face, before throwing a glance at Kennedy. “With a focus on which particular area?”
“International business management. I’ve got two modules to go, then I’m going to be following through for my MBA. Another six modules.”
“What would be your ideal job, Kieran?” asked his father. Kennedy was mystified by how quickly he had taken to Kieran. Both times Patrick had come to stay, the two had barely spoken.
“That’s a good question, Jeff. Something I love about the master’s is that you get a chance to dip into all areas of business management. And even though I take to the finance subjects like a duck to water, the area that really floats my boat is marketing, especially e-commerce.”
“S
mart choice,” said Jeff.
“Our group used Kennedy’s company, Grey Havens, among others, for our group assignment in marketing. An example of a well-managed, innovative family business. Quite an inspiration for would-be entrepreneurs. Best of all, we got a high distinction, and a special mention from the tutor.”
“Are you serious?” asked Reagan, grinning at her brother.
“Absolutely,” said Kieran. “Your brother here’s the Richard Branson of commercial security systems.”
Reagan laughed aloud, and even his mother couldn’t help grinning.
“Hardly,” said Kennedy, trying to downplay the compliment.
He felt his face getting warm, something that never happened these days. If Kieran had been sitting closer, he might have tapped his ankle with his foot, but perhaps the awkward silence would do the trick, help change the subject.
“So how did you two meet?” Reagan asked Kieran, mischief lighting her eyes. She appeared to have taken to Kieran, but Kennedy stalled for a moment. They hadn’t discussed how they would handle that particular question. While he was considering how to answer, Kieran had already begun speaking.
“We met in a coffee shop, of all things. I was trying to finish off an assignment on Russian history while Kennedy was knocking back espressos and taking phone calls, as always. We got talking and, well, just instantly connected.”
Brilliant, thought Kennedy. Stick with the truth—or as close as possible—and you can’t go far wrong.
“Is that right?” said Jeff, a little suspiciously. “When was this?”
“A month or so ago,” continued Kieran.
“That’s not very long, is it?”
“The thing is, Jeff, when you know, you know,” said Kieran with a shrug, before turning to Kennedy, winking and flashing him a warm smile. Kennedy found himself smiling back. When he looked across, he noticed Reagan smiling too.
Interrupting them all, Maya came to the head of the group and quietly informed Claire that food was ready to be served. Immediately, Reagan leapt up and started yelling at her brood to get out of the pool and get dressed for dinner.
Kennedy missed eating outdoors, something that rarely happened in England. In his childhood in Singapore, beneath the porch, they would even sit al fresco when torrential rains hit—as long as no strong winds accompanied the downpour—pulling down the blinds to stop errant raindrops hitting them. Kennedy had enjoyed those times, the cooling shower bringing down the temperature, the clatter of raindrops filling the silences at the dinner table.
After the excellent meal provided by Maya—something Kieran enthused about after having seconds of each of the dishes—Kennedy relaxed back on the sofa while Kieran swam and played in the pool with Reagan’s boys. His sister appeared distracted about something, becoming a little distant every now and then—very unlike her—but when pressed, she laughed off his concern. That particular trick she had learned from their mother. Most importantly, though, they liked Kieran, so that was one battle he would not have to fight. By ten o’clock, Reagan had decided to drive the boys home to bed, prompting everyone else to turn in. After wishing his parents and Matty goodnight, Kennedy strolled up to the top floor with Kieran, each of them carrying a large glass bottle of drinking water.
“You did well today,” he said, trying not to sound too condescending. “My family aren’t the easiest people in the world to get along with, but they seem to like you.”
“I like them, too. They’re easy company. Even your dad.”
“You’ve been here half a day. Don’t judge too quickly. Now, if you find yourself awake in the middle of the night, the remote for the television is in your bedside cabinet. Top drawer. Just keep the volume down.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Kieran. “I’m so tired, I’m going to sleep like a demon tonight.”
Chapter Ten
Kieran
3:10 a.m.
Kieran sat up in bed, wide awake, hands clasped behind his neck, listening to the gentle hum of the air conditioner and the distant but constant night-time sizzle of cicadas from outside. Just as he’d predicted, he had plunged into a deep sleep the moment his head hit the pillow, but found himself waking fresh as a snowflake a few hours later. He’d already checked his phone, read and answered his messages and emails, had even tried Kennedy’s suggestion and watched television, but nothing really caught his attention.
Of course, he had texted Cole and Jules about the past twenty-four hours. The flight—he had kept the menu as a souvenir—the amazing house Kennedy’s parents lived in with five bedrooms with its own private swimming pool, and the amazing banquet they’d served up to welcome them. Even though they seemed formal with each other, the family had been friendly and civil to him. So much so that Kennedy’s earlier belittling of his parents felt brutal and unwarranted. But then, what did he know? Maybe they were putting on a show for his sake.
Eventually he got up, went to the window and pulled aside one of the heavy blinds. Below, lights illuminated the pool. Would he disturb anyone if he got up and had a swim? Kennedy’s parents’ bedroom stood at the far end of the house, while Kennedy’s own bedroom was next to them.
What the hell, he thought. Who would even know?
In the bathroom, he squeezed back into his damp swimming shorts and grabbed one of the plump white bath towels. With the addition of a plain white tee and flip-flops, he collected his laptop and headphones on the way out and made his way quietly back to the pool.
For half an hour, he swam freestyle up and down without stopping, enjoying the freedom, the release of energy and the water cooling and caressing his skin. When he finally stopped, panting heavily, he hauled his dripping body out, ready to dry himself and relax alone at the small table where he’d left his things.
Except someone else was sitting there, puffing blue smoke into the night air.
“When I mentioned an early morning swim,” said Jefferson Grey, with good humour, “I was thinking more along the lines of six or seven in the morning. Couldn’t sleep, young man?”
“What can I say?” said Kieran, towelling his hair. “Turns out jet lag is a real thing. So I thought I’d use the time to exercise. What’s kept you awake?”
“Insomnia. Comes with old age, I’m afraid. And I heard someone swimming. Either my son or you, I figured. So here I am.” Jeff blew a cloud of smoke into the air and wiggled his cigar. “Which also gives me the opportunity to smoke one of these babies without being badgered. Do you smoke?”
“I don’t,” said Kieran, taking a seat at the table. “Well, actually I did once—cigarettes—but label myself a non-smoker now. Sometimes I have the occasional puff—if I’m stressed. Not very often. Don’t say anything to Kennedy. He thinks I’ve never smoked.”
“You’ve only just met. I’m sure there’s a lot you don’t know about each other.”
“I know he can be very particular.”
“Just like his mother,” said Jeff, nodding and flicking ash into a plastic saucer. “You know, you’re a lot different from Patrick.”
Kieran sat back then, wanting to take advantage of the opportunity.
“Kennedy doesn’t talk about him. What was he like?”
Jeff sat quietly for a moment. He appeared to be considering Kieran’s question.
“Did Kennedy tell you what I used to do for a living?”
“You worked for the British High Commission.”
“For over forty years. And, let me tell you, in all that time thousands of souls passed through our offices. Not only did we have dignitaries, but also people from all walks of life, and from all nations. Something my wife will tell you about me—one of the nicer things—is my ability to sum up a person’s character. Within a short space of time, I can tell whether someone is open, honest and trustworthy. She calls it intuition, but I think it’s more a skill one builds over the years working as a public servant. Patrick was—he came across as—sullen and distant. Both times he stayed here, he barely left his room. If
we managed to get a ‘good morning’ out of him over breakfast, it became a cause for celebration. Not once did he thank us for our hospitality, the way you did when I met you at the airport yesterday. But they lived together, had known each other for nine years, so we assumed they were content. Their last time here, he and Kennedy argued constantly. Maybe the writing was on the wall. What I’m trying to say is, when they were here I sensed no happiness between them. I’m sure Kennedy told you we weren’t exactly thrilled with our son’s lifestyle choice, but parents still want to see their children end up happy. Five years ago, just after they broke up, Kennedy came here alone. He never told us exactly what happened between them, but I could tell that my son was changed, had put up a wall around himself. I can only assume the break-up did that to him. The whole week he was here, I don’t remember seeing him smile once, let alone laugh.”
“He laughs now. Usually at me. He has a pretty cool sense of humour.” Key West, indeed, thought Kieran, remembering and smirking.
“He’s different with you.”
“Is he?” Why did that observation send a small thrill through Kieran? “How do you mean?”
“Calmer. As though he has less to prove. As though he can trust you, I suppose.”
Kieran deflated. Of course Kennedy would be calmer, Kieran was being paid to be there, a little snippet he would definitely not share with Jefferson.
“And I get the impression you like him, too,” added Jeff.
“I admire him.”
“Admire? For what?”
Kieran sighed, grabbed his laptop and flipped the top open. Within seconds he had opened a browser and brought up a number of windows showcasing Kennedy’s achievements. He’d already saved many to his personal favourites. When Jeff explained that he couldn’t make out the text in the articles without his glasses, Kieran obliged by reading them out loud to him. Twenty minutes later, Jeff sat in quiet contemplation.
“You know, when people ask me about my son, I have no idea what to tell them, because he’s never let me into his life. I know I was a strict father—like my father was with me—but I was equally strict with Reagan, and she never shut me out. Thank you for showing me this. We knew he ran the business capably, but had no idea he’d been this successful. And he did all this without my help, financially or otherwise.”
Companion Required Page 6