Julian came downstairs with the sock in his hand.
“Yours?”
“Hers.”
“It's on its way to becoming a trip hazard.”
“It was a navigation marker.”
“For what?”
“I don't know. She never let me finish the expedition.”
Julian put it on the bottom stair, folded once, and asked whether Daniel had eaten.
The toast still lay on the workshop bench.
“Recently?” Julian added.
“There was bread.”
“Evidence of bread.”
Daniel looked at the butter dish. He didn't want Julian to see the thumbprint, though he couldn't have said why.
“I can make something,” Julian said.
“You don't have to.”
“I'd like to.”
The kitchen was upstairs, overlooking the backs of the shops and, through a gap, the sea. Julian opened the fridge only after Daniel nodded. He stood in front of it with one hand on the door, a posture so like anyone deciding supper that Daniel had to look away.
“Potatoes. Eggs. Some sort of dying green thing.”
“Parsley.”
“My condolences.”
“It was happier yesterday.”
“Weren't we all.”
They laughed. Then both stopped.
“I've got a bag at home,” Julian said. “If you want me here tonight. Just the sofa. I don't mean—”
“Tonight's fine.”
“I can get some shopping too.”
Julian went out alone. Daniel watched his car turn at the end of the street and felt a stupid flicker of abandonment. He carried the butter upstairs and put it in the fridge with the toast beside it, as if cold could prevent another loss.
In the bedroom he lifted Ada's nightshirt from the floor. It smelled of her skin and the detergent they'd bought because it was cheap, despite the picture of a lavender field. He folded it, unfolded it, then put it on her pillow.
One night in winter she'd pushed her cold hands inside his open collar while he was trying to read. He'd complained that they were like little dead fish, and she had laughed so hard he couldn't keep pretending to mind. He'd taken one hand and warmed the fingers between his own, one at a time, then kissed the inside of her wrist.
“Again,” she'd said, glancing at her phone propped against the blue mug. “I didn't get it.”
He'd felt ridiculous repeating it for a camera. Then she'd looked at him, delighted, and he had wanted to be ridiculous for her. Afterwards she had climbed onto his lap and made him put the book down. The nightshirt's sleeve lay across his hand now, light and empty. He held it a little longer.
The antique mirror stood on the chest of drawers, leaning against the wall. It caught him holding the nightshirt.
Ada had given him the mirror when they'd said their vows. “Your wedding present. From a person with terrible taste.” Its carved black frame was too ornate for their room, a forest of tiny leaves and openings. She'd insisted that was why she loved it. The lower joint had always been loose. Daniel kept meaning to mend it properly, but fixing it meant lifting the whole heavy thing clear and removing the backing, and there had been other jobs.
He ran his thumb over the joint. A leaf moved under the pressure.
Beside the bedroom door hung an old brass key on a nail. The room had been storage before he'd moved the workshop downstairs. Calla had once said an outside bedroom lock made the house feel like a guesthouse run by someone vindictive. He'd promised to replace it. Then she had gone, and the promise had outlived its audience.
He put the nightshirt in the laundry basket. The pillow looked worse without it.
Julian returned with a canvas overnight bag and two carrier bags. He left the canvas bag beside the sofa in the living room and carried the food through.
“What do I owe you?” Daniel asked.
“Nothing.”
“I don't like nothing.”
“Then cut these.”
Daniel took the potatoes. He was relieved to have a knife in his hand for an ordinary purpose.
Julian peeled an onion, turning it slowly to take off the least possible skin. Daniel watched his long fingers. The bruise had darkened since morning. Without his coat he looked less like a claimant and more like a man who'd forgotten to leave.
They cooked a potato omelette in Daniel's largest pan. Julian added smoked paprika from the cupboard and a splash of vinegar to the wilted parsley. Daniel said he hadn't known that was an option.
“For the parsley?”
“For anything.”
Julian glanced up. “Vinegar has an undeserved reputation.”
Daniel had eaten supper with Ada on Sunday nights and friends on rare Fridays. Calla had preferred food on a tray in front of a programme she chose; towards the end he'd stopped bringing his tray in. Now someone stood at his stove making an ordinary meal as though the day hadn't ruined the usefulness of meals.
He laid two places at the little table. Then moved the second plate because it was Ada's place.
Julian noticed. “Where do you want me?”
“Anywhere.”
He sat where Daniel had moved the plate. They divided the omelette badly, giving Julian one perfect wedge and Daniel something that resembled a building site.
“That was deliberate,” Daniel said.
“I assumed you could repair it.”
His laughter came out louder than he meant. The food was hot, sharp with vinegar, soft in the middle. He finished everything before remembering he had no appetite.
Julian pushed the pan away from the edge when Daniel's elbow nearly caught it.
“You always do that when you talk,” he said.
“What?”
“Forget where your arm ends.”
Daniel looked at him.
“Ada used to mention it.”
“Did she?”
“Fondly.”
He wanted to ask what else she had mentioned. Instead he took their plates to the sink.
On the sill stood the paper flower she had made on the day of their vows. She'd printed blue shapes on scrap paper and folded them into something like a carnation. Two petals were almost blank; on another, the ink had spread into a fat thumb-shaped cloud. When Daniel said he liked it she'd told him not to be noble, it was objectively terrible. Then she had kept it, which had made his liking it seem useful after all.
Julian touched one edge.
“She made that?”
“Yes.”
“It isn't her usual standard.”
Daniel dried his hands.
“That's why it's here.”
Julian withdrew his finger. “I didn't mean to insult it.”
“I know.”
The phone remained silent. They had both been watching it without saying so.
Julian helped with the washing-up. He passed Daniel a plate, then a glass, then the pan. Their hands met at the handle. Neither of them hurried to let go.