The Adults

by Caroline Hulse

  Claire shuffled up the bed, onto her elbows. “Not now. We’re on Scarlett’s holiday.”

  “We will have this conversation, Claire. And we will have it now. I’ve been waiting all night.”

  Claire sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. “Please calm down. We’ve got to go to Santa.”

  “I haven’t slept because of what you said.”

  Claire pushed the duvet aside and stood up.

  “I know you were just trying to hurt me,” Patrick said. “I know it.”

  Claire headed into the en suite. Patrick clenched and unclenched his hands.

  Everything was on her terms, all the time.

  He listened for movement in the en suite. Eventually, the toilet flushed. Then the tap ran.

  Claire re-entered the room; Patrick leaped up.

  “Have you seen the iPad?” Claire scanned the room. “I haven’t seen it for a while.”

  “The iPad? We need to talk, Claire.”

  She held up a hand. “Let’s not talk now. It’s Scarlett’s special weekend.”

  Patrick gestured with his bundle of papers. “You need to read my letter, at least.”

  Claire looked at the bundle. She didn’t reach to take it.

  “And what did Alex mean when she asked you how many people you’d slept with?”

  The question had hooked itself into his consciousness at three-ish that morning. It had dangled there in his mind ever since, turning slowly.

  Claire closed her eyes. “Alex was just stirring.”

  “But stirring what? What exactly was she stirring?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t stir nothing. You need something to stir. A pot. A soup.” Patrick knew his voice sounded uncertain. “A stew.”

  “She was drunk and spouting shit.”

  “Everyone knows what’s going on except me, Claire. I deserve to be treated with respect.”

  Claire scratched the side of her mouth, studying him.

  Eventually, she said, “OK.”

  Patrick nodded in satisfaction. “OK.”

  “Matt must have told Alex how many people I’ve slept with.”

  Patrick thought. He raised his shoulders in a question.

  Claire sighed, like she was having to dumb things down for a child. Patrick tensed his hands again.

  “And I’ve slept with a lot more people than I told you I had. A lot more. I lied because I knew you wouldn’t like it, not because I’m ashamed.”

  Patrick knew he was at a fork in the conversation, with two different roads unfurling in front of him. She’d lied to him then told Matt the truth, the two cozying up together, laughing at stupid old gullible Pat.

  He chose the simplest road because his brain was full. “How many people?”

  Claire closed her eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “Twenty?”

  Claire shrugged.

  Patrick felt himself frown. “Fifty? A hundred?”

  “I told you, I don’t know. I didn’t count.”

  This was incredible. Incredible. Patrick sank down onto the bed. He put his face in his hands.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Claire jumped up. She strode across the room and opened the door.

  Matt stood there, wallet in hand. He nodded at Patrick and turned to Claire. “Did you say we’ve got Santa at ten, mate? We need to be off.”

  “Sorry. I’ll throw some jeans on and be down.”

  “No worries.” He looked past Claire to Patrick. “Morning, Pat.”

  Patrick looked at Claire, in the short Smirnoff T-shirt she slept in, the one that only just covered her knickers. But he couldn’t complain. Matt had seen it all before, he supposed.

  Everyone in the world had seen it all before.

  “Listen”—Matt stepped into the room—“I’m sorry about last night. Alex is mortified, she’ll be avoiding you the rest of the weekend. She’s going to skip Santa this morning to nurse her head and have a good long word with herself.” He looked behind him and back; he lowered his voice. “Sorry you had to be there for our pissed-up drama. But we’re good now.”

  Claire waved his words away.

  “And I promise I’ll get Scarlett’s money back, mate. There is no way I’d let Walshy keep it. Ever, ever, ever. I’d put the money in myself if he didn’t pay it back. But he will. And I’m charging interest for Scarlett, a better rate than the bank would give her. She’s a baby loan shark, she just doesn’t know it.”

  “I’m not going to ruin Scarlett’s weekend,” Claire said. “But we are going to talk about this again. And you are going to fix this, as soon as you get home. I don’t care if you have to remortgage Alex’s house.”

  “I’ll never do it again,” Matt said. “And I bet Alex feels terrible for worrying you.”

  “No, Matt,” Claire said. “This particular one is not about Alex. You should feel terrible about this one.”

  Patrick sat back against the headboard. He couldn’t believe this.

  Alex and Matt were OK? After all that last night? After Alex had made such a fool of herself, spouting bitterness and stirring up trouble? Driving lovely Nicola Garcia away?

  Matt tipped his head and some hair fell into his eyes. Patrick wanted to lean over, grab a clump of that hair, and rip it right out.

  Matt didn’t deserve that hairline. He hadn’t worked for it.

  “You all right, Pat? You look a bit red in the face.”

  “Press-ups.” Patrick noticed he still had the letter in his hand; he jerked his hand behind his back. “I’ve been doing press-ups.”

  “I’ll get Scarlett into her coat and boots.” Matt left the room. “See you downstairs, amigos.”

  Claire shut the door behind Matt with what looked like reluctance.

  That burned afresh. “I’m humiliated, darling.”

  “And I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Claire picked yesterday’s jeans up off the floor and pulled them on over yesterday’s knickers.

  “You’ve humiliated me,” Patrick clarified.

  Claire narrowed her eyes. “How?”

  Patrick faltered. “What do you mean, how?”

  Claire pulled off her T-shirt. She grabbed a bra and fastened it behind her back. “Why, precisely, are you humiliated?”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  Claire sighed with exaggerated patience. “Are you humiliated because I’ve slept with lots of men, or because I lied to you about it when I told Matt the truth?”

  Claire pulled on a fresh T-shirt.

  Patrick coughed nervously.

  There was some kind of test going on. There was a pass and a fail option. Or maybe two fail options—or multiple ways to fail, like one of Scarlett’s mazes with a handful of dead ends and only one right trail.

  Claire ran a brush through her hair, studying Patrick as she waited.

  “I can’t believe you’d do that to me. That you’d tell him. You and him just laughing at me, about how gullible old Patrick is.”

  “Alex has got a lot more to be embarrassed about than you have this morning.”

  Patrick waved a hand.

  “And Matt’s not exactly my favorite person”—Claire fastened her hair in a band—“what with the money thing, and the fact he shared our private conversation with Alex. So let’s just write it all off as a bad night.”

  “I’m a laughing stock.”

  Claire pulled a ball of socks from the suitcase.

  It was like any compassion she’d ever had was gone, and there was now just this stranger standing in front of him, pulling her socks on in jerky movements. Patrick hadn’t known that you could put socks on dismissively. But you could.

  Patrick cleared his throat. “What else have you told Matt? What else do the
y know that you laugh about? My foreplay rituals? The pouch of fat in my tail area? What my sex-face looks like?”

  “You come out of last night smelling of roses, Pat. You’re the only one who does.”

  “It’s Pat-rick!” Patrick sprang up from the bed. “It’s fucking Pat-rick! You know that!”

  Claire grabbed her handbag. “I don’t have time for this. We have to get to Santa.”

  “I can’t face them.”

  “Then don’t come.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Fine, I didn’t want to go and see Santa anyway. Not with you.” Patrick took a step toward Claire. “Do you know who I want to go and see Santa with? With my own kids. But I can’t. Because I’m here with you.”

  Claire opened the door. “I don’t think they’d want to go to see Santa. What with them being teenagers.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Claire!”

  “I’m going to see Santa. You sort yourself out. Go for a run. Then, when you’ve remembered how to behave like a grown-up, you can join us at archery.”

  “Stop saying ‘run’ like that.”

  Claire hitched her handbag onto her shoulder.

  “I can’t face them downstairs. With them knowing this about you. Laughing at me.”

  “They’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  Patrick shrugged.

  “You’ll ruin Scarlett’s Christmas. Is that what you want?”

  “How is this all my fault? How is everyone else in the wrong and this is all my fault?”

  Claire opened the door. “It’s not all your fault, of course not.”

  But, still, she went.

  50

  In the queue for Santa’s grotto, Mum handed the twenty-pound note to the elf. She turned to Scarlett. “How cool is this?”

  The elf put Mum’s money in a pocket he carried on the front of him, where a kangaroo carries its joey. He rustled in the pocket and gave Mum a pound coin back.

  Mum looked at the coin. She didn’t take it. “That it?”

  The elf nodded. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas to you too,” Mum said, sounding like she meant something else. She turned to Dad. “Rinsed again. They see us coming.”

  Dad smiled at Scarlett. “Do you want us to come in to see Santa with you? Or do you want to go in alone?”

  “Alone,” Scarlett said. “I hardly ever do things alone.”

  Dad beamed at her.

  Scarlett knew she should be enjoying this morning. She was here with Mum and Dad, just the three of them, just like it used to be. And Mum and Dad weren’t talking about whose turn it was to wash up, or who parked the car so badly that it got scraped on the street, or why Mum had “had it up to here,” or why Dad was “sick of this crap,” so it was much better than the old days Scarlett remembered.

  But Posey had gone missing. And that made Scarlett scared. And upset. And relieved. And angry.

  Had Posey taken himself away to protect Scarlett in case he hurt her, like in the vampire books Charlie the babysitter was always talking about?

  Because Scarlett knew Posey was scared too. It was bad enough for her to watch the film, but he was a rabbit. And some of what those rabbits did…

  Scarlett couldn’t bear to think about it.

  But Posey had never done anything like that, not that Scarlett could remember. Scarlett didn’t think he was that kind of rabbit. The worst Posey had ever done was to be childish and refuse to go somewhere, to sit down on the floor with a bump and say “no,” because he was scared. And if Posey refused, sometimes that meant Scarlett didn’t have to go to the place either. So Scarlett didn’t even mind Posey’s moods a lot of the time.

  Still, in another way, it was quite nice not having Posey around.

  On the walk here, Mum and Dad had taken one hand each. They tried to swing Scarlett between them, like when she was a little kid.

  “No chance,” Mum said, puffing like she was out of breath, trying to lift Scarlett’s feet off the floor.

  Scarlett gripped higher up Mum and Dad’s arms, near their elbows.

  “Ow!” Mum said. “You’re too big!”

  “This is a proper workout. You’re getting big and heavy, Scarlett,” Dad said. “Who ate all the pies?”

  Mum narrowed her eyes at Dad. “You think that’s helpful?” She went on to say some other stuff about “self-esteem” and “irresponsible” that Scarlett couldn’t follow because sometimes Mum used long words and talked quickly when she was angry.

  But it was nice to hold both their hands, even though Scarlett was a little old for it. And it was good that she didn’t have to stop to check Posey didn’t mind being left out.

  Scarlett wondered if she should get used to spending more time with other people and less with Posey. She hadn’t always felt brave on her own, and she felt braver when she looked after Posey. But, today—today she wasn’t sure what she felt.

  She didn’t want Posey to go. Not like this. Not because of Watership Down. Because Scarlett was certain now, while standing in this queue, that Posey wasn’t a Watership Down kind of rabbit. Posey had his faults, but they weren’t hurting others, or using his teeth to kill other rabbits in fields and hedgerows.

  The elf with the kangaroo pocket bent a fat finger toward Scarlett. “Next up!”

  Mum gave Scarlett a little push toward the elf.

  The elf led Scarlett by the hand into Santa’s grotto—to the fake Santa, who Scarlett pretended was the real Santa, for her parents.

  Posey would really have liked seeing fake Santa. Scarlett wouldn’t have even told him the Santa was fake.

  Fake Santa beamed at Scarlett. “Hello, little girl!”

  Scarlett smiled her best excited smile back as she walked to take her seat.

  51

  Patrick ran and ran, past the lake, past the ice cream hut, past the crazy golf course. He ran into the woods and past the exit sign.

  You are now leaving the Happy Forest holiday park. Thanks for coming—we’d love to see you again soon!

  He had to get away from this place.

  The world was conspiring against him. Take just now, when he’d gone for a run to get away from them all, running without a plan in a random direction through the forest and yet had accidentally passed the three of them going into Santa’s grotto. That was the kind of luck he was having. He’d had to see Claire, Matt, and Scarlett, all laughing together, like they were a family unit. Like they were all having a great old time. Like Patrick had never existed.

  Patrick ran even faster after that. He couldn’t stop to talk and he couldn’t look at Matt’s smug face. He just had to…not be here. He needed to run and run and run, until he forgot. Until he ran it all better.

  He saw Nicola and her family walking together through the park, her kids playing on their phones as they walked. She looked up in his direction, but Patrick didn’t even falter.

  Now he needed to run.

  Patrick sprinted down the single-track road he and Alex had taken toward the supermarket, barely even looking out for traffic, just focusing straight ahead, pumping his legs hard, running like there was something sharp-clawed chasing him.

  He had lost her.

  He’d seen the signs. The contempt in Claire’s eyes. The unwillingness to talk about anything. She didn’t need to talk because she’d already decided. She hadn’t even read the letter: she’d treated it like an irritant, not like a carefully worded expression of love.

  It was Matt: it must be. Matt had ruined everything. He wanted Claire and, inexplicably, Claire wanted him too. He’d won her back, after all, with his skateboarding and his teenage hair and his stupid singing.

  And it had to be about Matt: there was nothing else. Claire couldn’t just not want to be with him, not after last
time. It couldn’t be like Lindsay all over again. That would be too cruel.

  Matt had manipulated this whole holiday situation to this end. It had never been about having a holiday with Scarlett: it had been about winning Claire back. Alex was just a distraction.

  Alex had been right to be worried, all along. And Patrick hadn’t been: that was the irony. Because he trusted Claire.

  After all he’d done for her.

  All that time he’d spent with Scarlett, reading all her bedtime stories, doing his best farmyard impressions for Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy.

  He’d put the time in. He deserved to be happy. He deserved to be respected. He’d earned the right to stay in this family.

  Claire couldn’t do this to him. She couldn’t.

  Patrick tripped on a loose branch; he went sprawling. “Shit!”

  He rolled onto his back and sat up, panting. He blinked liquid out of his left eye and wiped his eyebrow with the back of his hand.

  Patrick blinked again but the liquid kept coming. A mix of blood and sweat, roughened with specks of gravel.

  Patrick held his hand over his eyebrow, pressing the skin to stop the blood flow. He sat there, holding his eye, panting. His body temperature was dropping by the second, the cold biting his legs.

  Patrick shivered.

  The rain started up, a trickle at first, the drops increasing to big splatters.

  He pressed his eyebrow harder now. But however much he put pressure there, the tears still pricked his eyes.

  The rain came down in a deluge now.

  Sitting in the middle of the lane, Patrick put his bleeding head in his hands and started to cry.

  Post-shooting interview. Matt Cutler, 38.

  Witness.

  Face-to-face. Happy Forest lodge.

  Hi.

  I sighed because it’s been a long day. I’ve come back to pack our stuff, then I’m going back to the hospital. You’re here about the shooting, I’m guessing?

  Yeah, sorry about that. Had my phone on silent.