38. Casey, London

‘So, you're just going to run away again?' Mum says, plonking a mug of tea in front of me.

‘I'm not fucking running away.'

Dad swats my arm with a tea towel. ‘Don't swear at your mother.'

I glare between them. ‘I'm not running away. I'm getting on with my life, there's a difference.'

Chandice saunters into the kitchen, a towel wrapped around her head. ‘You're moving to Berlin so you don't have to look at the pub every time you arrive and leave work. Sounds like running away to me.'

‘Fuck off,' I say.

‘Oooh, I've a touched a nerve.' Chandice pulls the towel off her head and hangs it over the back of the dining chair.

‘Leave it out, Chandice,' Dad says.

‘Excuse me for being triggered every time I go to work over something that was quite traumatic!' I say.

‘Traumatic?' Mum says, her eyes bulging. ‘You had two birds on the go. They're the ones who'll be traumatised.'

‘I didn't have two birds on the go!' I protest.

Dad pats my hand. ‘You kind of did, love.'

I shoot him a look. ‘Well I didn't fucking mean it, did I?'

He shakes his head and takes his empty mug to the sink.

‘Like you won't be triggered in Berlin,' Chandice says. ‘You spent more time with Holly there than here.'

‘Yeah, but here is where it all went wrong, innit? At least there I have some nice memories. And it's an opportunity to head a gallery on my own. I'd be stupid not to take it.'

‘In normal circumstances, yes,' Mum says. ‘But you love your job and life here and?—'

‘No – I loved my life here. Past tense. Anyway, I'll get to spend time with Aunty Linda and Uncle Dave. It's not like I won't have family around me.'

Mum jabs a finger at me. ‘They don't want you moping about.'

‘I'm not going to be moping about.' I stand and Mum pushes me back down.

‘Don't think you can run away from us, either. You're hurting and we're going to talk about this.'

‘I'm all right, Mum. I've had bad break-ups before. I just want to get on with it.'

Chandice sits across from me with a mug of tea. ‘For God's sake, Casey, just call Holly.'

Mum gestures to Chandice as though a master of sage relationship advice has just spoken. ‘Listen to your sister.'

‘What's the point of calling her when she won't even respond to a message?' I say. ‘Keep up.'

‘A message is different,' Chandice says. ‘Have you actually dialled her number, left a voicemail, sent an email so you can get more words in, and not given up because she didn't reply?'

I glance out the window, my jaw tight. It's a typical grey, miserable mid-October day. ‘I called her a couple days after the funeral. She didn't answer. My last message was weeks ago, and she didn't answer that either.' I face Chandice. ‘She's getting on with her life and I'm getting on with mine.'

‘Jesus, Casey,' Chandice says. ‘Maybe she's had other things on her mind since the funeral, like grieving. It's not all about you, you know.'

‘I didn't say it was, but I thought she was open to talking again. Next thing, I'm getting a message not to contact her. And before you have a go about me giving up, I responded to that.'

‘She's lost her mum, love,' Dad says. ‘Her head will be all over the place.'

‘Yeah, and if I was important to her, she would've let me be there for her,' I shoot back. But my cheeks burn with shame over my lack of compassion, and underneath my hurt, my heart breaks for Holly's loss and what she must be going through.

‘That aside, it's not the time to be racing off and getting up to God-knows-what in another country,' Mum says. ‘I think you need to stop here and get through this.'

I drop my head into my hands and let out a frustrated groan. ‘You lot are doing my fucking head in.'

‘Ours and all,' Chandice says.

I jump up and head for the front door.

‘Where are you going?' Mum shouts after me.

I grab my coat off the hook in the hallway and slam the door behind me.

An hour later, at the Tate Britain, I head straight for the 1800s room. My strides are long and heavy, carrying my anger at Mum and Chandice for having a go, and at Dad for agreeing with them. It's a busy Saturday morning in the gallery, but as I walk into the room I want, a couple of people exit and I'm alone. I sit on the bench and gaze at Sappho and Erinna in a Garden at Mytilene. The tension in my body eases as I become lost in their story. Sappho clinging to Erinna, painful longing on her face, their lips a breath apart. Erinna leaning against her, the dress slipping off her shoulder, soft eyes gazing straight ahead, daring the viewer to ask questions.

The first time I saw this painting I was in my third year at university. After being surrounded by classic art, I finally found a historical painting I connected with. I related to Sappho's longing for Erinna, her darker skin and more androgynous features, but mostly it made me feel close to the memory of Holly and me. Every time I looked at it, I'd work through another layer of emotions, and the ache would shift.

And now, as I lose myself in the connection between the two women, my longing for Holly surfaces. I dig into my pocket for the photo she gave me the morning I left Berlin and a sadness rolls through me. I run my fingertip over the image, remembering Holly showing it to me the night she took it. How confronting it was to see that intensity between us reflected back at me at a time when I was struggling to understand what it all meant.

I lean forward, elbows on knees, head in my hands, trying to work through the confusing thoughts in my head. Am I running away? Would Sappho and Erinna run from each other? Or would they run towards each other? Holly leaving Australia and heading straight for Berlin wasn't running away; it was facing her emotions head on, reclaiming that city for herself. Maybe that's what I need to do. Run towards Holly, run towards dealing with it. What's stopping me going to Australia? She'd have to talk to me if I were on her doorstep.

There's movement beside me as someone sits, followed by a familiar scent of leathery aftershave. I lift my head and sigh. ‘For fuck's sake, Dad. What you doing here?'

‘Oh, that's nice, innit? Don't let your gran hear you talking like that.'

‘Sorry. Didn't mean to swear at you, but you're supposed to be at work.'

He's changed out of his work gear and into jeans and a jumper. ‘Give myself the day off sometimes. Especially when my little girl is heartbroken,' he says, scooting across the bench.

I hang my head. ‘Just hurts, you know?'

He wraps his arm around me and draws me tight against him, kissing my temple. ‘I know it does, love.'

I lie my head on his shoulder. ‘How could I mess this up so badly?'

He rubs my upper arm. ‘You're being too hard on yourself.'

‘That's not what you said this morning.'

‘You didn't give me a chance to say anything else before you stormed off.'

‘All of you were right, though. I didn't listen and it went wrong, and I hurt people.'

‘I don't think we said that. We're just trying to say that Holly might need more time, yeah? Some space to work things out. And losing her Mum can't be easy.'

I nod against his chest, a tear escaping. ‘I know. But I care about her. Pretty sure I love her, and I should've been with her through that.'

He gives me a supportive squeeze.

I sit up and wipe my cheek. ‘How'd you know I was here anyway?'

‘I called Jazzy and she said you'd likely be moping about a gallery somewhere.' He points to the canvas. ‘You've sulked over that plenty of times, so call it a lucky guess.'

‘You're wasted in butchering, you. You want to move into detective work.'

He grins.

‘Where's Mum and Chandice then?' I ask.

‘Outside.'

‘They're doing my head in.'

‘Mine and all,' he says.

I laugh through my sniffles.

‘I gave them a talking-to on the tube after they ran after me.' He gives my shoulder a nudge with his. ‘Since I've got the day off, how about the four of us go for lunch at that nice Caribbean place across the river you've taken me to before? The one that does the rum cocktails.'

I stare at the painting. ‘I s'pose.'

‘I can wander around if you need more time with Sappho and Erinna.'

‘I'm good. I can always come back.'

He pulls me close again and gives me another kiss on the temple. ‘It'll work out, don't you worry.' Such a dad thing to say, but he'll want to fix me, so I stay quiet and let him be my dad. ‘Come on,' he says, helping me up and slipping his arm around me.

Outside, Mum and Chandice are leaning against the concrete pillar at the bottom of the steps.

As soon as Mum spots me, she holds her arms open for me. ‘I'm sorry, darlin'.'

‘You're all right, Ma,' I say, hugging her.

Chandice gives me a sheepish smile and a hug. ‘Sorry.'

I kiss her cheek. ‘Forget it.'

We head along Millbank, then cross Vauxhall Bridge. I can't remember the last time we had a family outing like this. The mood is jovial and Mum stops in the middle of the bridge to snap a selfie of the four of us. Then she and Chandice have a spat over almost dropping Chandice's phone into the Thames, which just makes Dad and me laugh.

Twenty minutes later, we're seated outside at the restaurant. After we place an order for a massive feast of jerk wings, saltfish fritters, mutton curry, buns and rum cocktails, I force myself out my own head and focus on my family.

‘So,' I say to Chandice. ‘What's happening with this fella of yours, then?'

Chandice smiles coyly. ‘Going out tonight.'

‘You should see him,' Mum says, picking up a napkin and waving it in front of her face. ‘He is something else.'

I laugh. ‘Jesus Christ, Mum.'

‘Mum,' Chandice whines. ‘Please don't stare at him when he stops by to pick me up tonight.'

‘I have to admit,' Dad says, ‘I was taken aback by his looks.'

‘Give us a gander, then,' I say to Chandice.

She grabs her phone, taps the screen and passes it to me. It's an Instagram post, and I enlarge the photo. A broody-looking man stares back at me. His skin is a smooth, deep brown. Eyes so dark they're almost black. Chiselled jaw. Hair lining his upper lip and chin. Black-framed glasses and closely cropped hair.

‘He's well fit,' I say.

‘I know,' Chandice says, all bashful.

Mum places her hand on Dad's. ‘He's a bit like your dad.'

Chandice scoffs. ‘He so isn't and don't say that, it's weird.'

Mum screws up her face. ‘Your dad's fit, you know. Especially when he was younger. He looked exactly like that.'

‘He so didn't,' Chandice says. ‘Way to turn me off my new boyfriend, Mum.'

I snort with laughter. ‘I knew you had daddy issues.'

Chandice glares at me. ‘Fuck off. You're one to talk, pining after the pretty white blonde. Talk about mummy issues.'

‘Pack it in, you two,' Mum hisses. ‘What have I said about swearing at the dinner table?'

Dad gives a fed-up sigh and shakes his head. ‘Nobody has mummy or daddy issues, okay? Chandice, your lad is very handsome and doesn't look a thing like me now or when I was young. And Casey, Holly is beautiful and looks nothing like?—'

Mum turns to him, brows shooting up towards her hairline.

‘I didn't mean you're not beautiful, love. I'll start again. Casey, Holly looks nothing like your mum. They're both beautiful in their own way.'

Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Where are those cocktails? I need a drink.'

Dad's eyes dart between the three of us. ‘Can we just have a nice lunch now, please?'

‘S'pose so,' Chandice says.

‘Right,' I say, taking her phone. ‘Let me look at his grid, then.'

Chandice rests her chin on my shoulder as I scroll, sighing at every photo.

Our cocktails arrive, soon followed by the food, and for the next hour I numb my heartache and appreciate my family.