Page 94 of Bare
‘Humans.’
‘Besides humans.’
‘Not really. They’re apex predators.’
‘What’s an apex predator?’
‘Top of the food chain. Nothing eats them.’
‘Like Dad with biscuits.’
‘Exactly like your dad with biscuits.’
Gemma opened the door. Owen behind her, beer in hand. Roast chicken and a home where people were expected and wanted.
‘Come in,’ Gemma said. ‘Before he loses his nerve.’ Glancing at Neil.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re sweating.’
‘It’s March.’
‘It’s twelve degrees. You’re sweating because you’re bringing your partner to your ex-wife’s house for Sunday lunch. Sweat is the appropriate response.’
Rory laughed. Gemma skipped the hand this time and pulled him straight into a hug, brief, firm. Decision made.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘The chicken needs forty minutes. Owen’s opening wine. Neil’s going to sit down and stop looking like he’s about to give evidence at an inquest. And Freddie’s going to show you his room here.’
Inside. Neil paused on the step. His son’s voice and his partner’s voice and his ex-wife’s voice all coming from the same room. He walked in.
The lunch was good. Gemma’s chicken, perfect, because Gemma approached cooking with the same controlled excellence she brought to everything. Roast potatoes that crisped. Gravy from scratch. The table set for five, plus a high chair for Freddie’s stuffed dragon, which Freddie insisted was dining with them and which required its own plate.
Owen and Rory found each other within ten minutes. A shared interest in woodworking, Owen had built the kitchen shelves, Rory built his own canvas stretchers, that led to a conversation about dovetail joints so detailed that Gemma caught Neil’s eye across the table and mouthed: _Kill me._
But it was good. Owen talking with his hands, Rory leaning forward with elbows on the table, not performing, not the art teacher or the painter, just a man talking about tools over a Sunday roast.
Freddie sat between Rory and Neil. He’d stopped using Mr Cavanaugh entirely. The transition had been seamless, one morning it was the surname, the next it was Rory, like the child had updated his files and moved on.
‘Rory, do you know what a dovetail is?’
‘Yeah, mate. It’s a joint. Two pieces of wood that fit together like a puzzle.’
‘Why’s it called dovetail?’
‘Because the shape looks like a dove’s tail. The feathers fanning out.’
‘Have you seen a real dove’s tail?’
‘Not up close.’
‘I have. In the garden. It’s grey. With white bits.’ Freddie chewed a potato. ‘Woodwork and birdwatching. You and Owen should start a club.’
‘A dovetail and birdwatching club.’
‘I’d join.’
‘You’re six.’
