7

7

Ripley sat at one end of the large mahogany dining table with his mother sitting at the other end, an ocean of polished wood between them. He had a feeling she was driving home the conversation they'd had earlier. The house was too big for her. The contents were no longer suitable. She wanted to move. Ripley was shocked she'd wanted to stay here this long, so really—it was about time. More than time. What he didn't understand was why she hadn't told him this before instead of trying to sell some of the house contents. He knew she didn't need the money.

Petra was due back in an hour, and had left lasagne for them. All Ripley had needed to do was take it out of the Aga. He couldn't drink because he was driving, and he'd have really liked a drink. His mother had that effect on him.

"Really, it's too bad, Ripley. Why shouldn't I sell my things? They're mine. Do you want them? Of course, you don't. You don't live in a mausoleum."

"They weren't all your things. They…" He changed tack. "So…you want to go and live somewhere else." Definitely? Not going to change your mind after I've sorted everything? Her usual MO.

"It's time," his mother said. "This place is too big, too old and too tired. I want a little flat."

How little? He doubted she'd put up with something he'd consider to be little. "Where are you thinking of?"

"Eastbourne."

He raised his eyebrows. "Have you ever been to Eastbourne?"

"No, but it's by the sea. Lots of people retire there. Petra will come with me."

"It's quite a way from London."

"Well, you don't visit very often."

He couldn't argue with that.

"And it isn't as if you've given me any grandchildren. Nor are you likely to."

He couldn't argue with that either. Maybe his mother would have been a different person if his father had lived. Maybe I would have been too. But their pasts were blighted by what had happened and there was nothing he could do to change that. She had never forgiven him or his father. There was no logic in it and Ripley had long since given up trying to understand her mentality.

"I want to sell everything in the house that's no longer wanted. Including most of the furniture. Decide if there is anything you'd like, and this time when I send things to auction, I do not want them to come back again. Is that clear, Ripley?"

"Perfectly." He bit his lip before he added sell the fucking lot. I don't give a shit. There was nothing in the house he wanted and that included his mother. Except…maybe there were a few things. His father's desk, his chair… Though, did he really want them?

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. He couldn't remember ever having had a happy moment with his mother. She'd never told him she was proud of him, or that she loved him. She always found something to criticise. His hair, his clothes, his manner, the fact that he liked men… That was somewhere close to the top of the list. She was diamond-hard, encrusted in ice and she'd made him the same way.

They finished eating and she went off to have her afternoon nap on the chaise longue in the drawing room, leaving Ripley alone.

If she was serious, and she sounded it, he'd need the contents valued by at least two companies. And estate agents to look at the house. The property and contents had been left jointly to him and his mother, and Ripley had thought—once upon a time—when she'd moved out or died, he'd gut the place and make it a home he could live in, be happy in. The house deserved that. He'd even thought about having a family. Except it was once upon a time that would never come.

Ripley managed to look around two rooms and take pictures before he'd had enough. Forget the desk and chair. Nothing here fit in with his tastes. Everything held difficult memories. It seemed hard to believe there had ever been a time when he'd enjoyed living here, but he had when his father was alive. Now when he came back, all he felt was pain.

Even so, he was torn about the house belonging to someone else, purely because he could still picture his father playing hide and seek with him over all three floors, ordinary hide and seek and then again in the dark with torches when Ripley had squealed when he'd been caught. His father had patiently taught him to catch a ball, helped him make a den in the garden, played ping pong on the dining table, worked with him on some project or another in the breakfast room. A kind parent who'd been considerate and endlessly cheerful, and Ripley wanted to be like him and not like his mother. Except that involved changing so much of him, and he wasn't sure he could.

Then Alejandro had damaged him too.

His mother was still sleeping when Petra returned. Ripley went to the kitchen to talk to her.

"Hi, Petra. Thanks for lunch," Ripley said.

"You're welcome. I'm so sorry about your things. I thought the medal would be safe in your box. I'm horrified at what happened. I put the key to the box in your room."

"It's fine. Please don't concern yourself. I got the medal back and the other bits and pieces. Everything that mattered." Did that include the empty frames where photos of him and Alejandro had once sat, or the vase Alejandro had bought him?

She sat down at the kitchen table and flapped her hand in front of her face. "Thank goodness you rescued it."

Petra was about ten years younger than his mother and always smiling. Though not right at that moment. Ripley was shocked anyone could stay cheerful around his mother. He only felt better once he'd walked out of the door.

"My mother says she wants to move to Eastbourne and you're going with her."

"Ah."

"Has she not said anything about that to you?"

"She mentioned Bournemouth."

Bloody hell. "Would you go with her?"

"Of course."

"You're a saint, Petra."

She smiled. "We get on well. I know you and she…" The smile fell away and she pressed her lips together.

"She wants to sell almost everything so I'll get valuers in. There may be items she or you want to keep. Please make a list and take pictures so we don't have any slip-ups. I'll speak to a couple of local estate agents. Maybe you could have a look online together and see what sort of place she's thinking of. Her idea of a small flat and mine are likely very different. I was supposed to look around the house and see if there is anything I want, but I don't have the heart for it so… Another day."

"Okay."

"I'll let you know the names of the people who'll be coming and the times. I'm going to try to be here too if I can."

She nodded.

Ripley's spirits lifted as he drove away from the house in Ham. When he'd been through the bags of things Fen had given him, he'd been surprised when he'd seen the repaired box. He assumed that was Fen's work and he was impressed. He wondered if Fen had managed to open the bottom section.When he shook the box, he couldn't hear anything rattling so it was probably empty, but he'd still like to see inside it.

Whether Fen turned up at the Tate or not, maybe Winn Brothers would like to value the contents of the house with a view to buying them. It might be better than sending everything to auction.

Fen sat on the chair in the hospital waiting room. What a dismal way to spend a Monday morning. He'd brought a book to read, but he couldn't concentrate. This was a regular check-up. No worrying symptoms to report, no existing ones had worsened, and yet he was still nervous. He'd had a CT scan and an echocardiogram and was now waiting to see what the doctor said.

As a carrier of the BMD gene, his mum also had to have regular checks on her heart. She'd been to the same hospital a month ago and had told Fen she was fine, though he wondered if she'd tell him if she wasn't fine because there was no way he'd tell her if he got bad news today. She used to come with him to check-ups but Fen had vetoed that a few years ago. She worried about him enough without adding to her anxiety.

Today, I'm fine. I don't need to worry. A bit of his mum's positive reinforcement should help.But Fen still worried. Not only about the BMD but about Ripley, who he might see tonight.

Fen figured there were two possible scenarios. Firstly, Ripley wouldn't be there because telling him about the BMD really had freaked him out, and the ticket for the Tate was a…kind gesture. Ripley had pulled away from him in the car, which sort of said everything. Forget the kiss. Ripley had made up his mind. There had been nothing said about seeing him again. No phone call. So that was the end of that. Fen wasn't going to let it get him down because there was nothing he could do to change it.

Second scenario, Ripley was just buttoned up so tight, he'd not realised his behaviour had been upsetting. Maybe he hadn't even considered it odd to have exited the car without saying anything. Ripley would be at the Tate, smile when he saw him and it would be a proper date.

Oh look, I won the lottery. And there were the flying pigs, and a rampaging bull causing no damage, right on cue. Fen sighed.

"Fen Wood."

Fen jumped at the voice, then pushed to his feet and slotted his arm into the crutch. The doctor stood by the door of his room and Fen headed over.

Ten minutes later, Fen was on his way to work with the doctor's words on repeat in his head. Well, some of them. Until this morning, Fen had thought his heart was fine. Apparently, that was no longer true. He had some right ventricular dysfunction and needed to avoid strenuous muscle exercise so he didn't stress his body and harm some…dystrophin-deficient cells. He wasn't sure he understood that completely but he did understand his heart had finally stopped playing nicely.

Which was fucking stressing enough to make his heart beat fast which he guessed was not a good thing.Fen didn't do anything strenuous.He avoided activities that left him out of breath. He was sort of pissed off about that now. Maybe he should have taken risks, done more. But then, maybe this day would have come sooner. He'd never know whether he'd chosen the right path or not.

The only positive thing was that there was a new drug being trialled, and his name was now on the list of possible candidates to take it. Maybe he'd be lucky and get picked, though even if he was, he might be in the control group. A computer would make the selection.

In the meantime, he'd been prescribed a different corticosteroid. Something else to get used to. He hated taking steroids because they increased his appetite and if he ate more and couldn't exercise, he'd put weight on. He'd trained himself to eat less but sometimes he felt if there had been a box of chocolates next to him, he could have worked his way through the lot.

Fen tried to cling to a few of the doctor's words—still very mild, don't worry. And to the man's smile. Though Fen had found it difficult to be reassured.

But what could he do, other than what he was already doing, which was leading the best life he could? Not eating too much dairy produce, not drinking too much alcohol, keeping mobile without overdoing it, not devouring boxes of chocolates… He wasn't going to live until he was seventy-nine like the average man in the UK. But then he wasn't average in any way. Maybe he had to take chances now his heart had started to… He sucked in a shaky breath. He could go backpacking around Europe, download Grindr, go to Japan, be different. As if I'm going to do any of that. Especially on my own.

By the time he walked into the workroom, he was almost back to his cheerful self. Pragmatism had won the day. If he had a problem with his heart, then he had a problem. There was no point getting upset about it. He had the exhibition at the Tate to look forward to tonight, and whether Ripley was there or not, Fen was going to enjoy himself.

But he was going to think about the future, no matter how painful it was because there had to be more to life than this.