Me Before You: A Novel

He says our heating bills are larger than the GDP of a small African country.
    ‘That you, love?’
    ‘Yup.’ I hung my jacket on the peg, where it fought for space amongst the others.
    ‘Which you? Lou? Treena?’
    ‘Lou.’
    I peered round the living-room door. Dad was face down on the sofa, his arm thrust deep between the cushions, as if they had swallowed his limb whole. Thomas, my five-year-old nephew, was on his haunches, watching him intently.
    ‘Lego.’ Dad turned his face towards me, puce from exertion. ‘Why they have to make the damned pieces so small I don’t know. Have you seen Obi-Wan Kenobi’s left arm?’
    ‘It was on top of the DVD player. I think he swapped Obi’s arms with Indiana Jones’s.’
    ‘Well, apparently now Obi can’t possibly have beige arms. We have to have the black arms.’
    ‘I wouldn’t worry. Doesn’t Darth Vader chop his arm off in episode two?’ I pointed at my cheek so that Thomas would kiss it. ‘Where’s Mum?’
    ‘Upstairs. How about that? A two-pound piece!’
    I looked up, just able to hear the familiar creak of the ironing board. Josie Clark, my mother, never sat down. It was a point of honour. She had been known to stand onan outside ladder painting the windows, occasionally pausing to wave, while the rest of us ate a roast dinner.
    ‘Will you have a go at finding this bloody arm for me? He’s had me looking for half an hour and I’ve got to get ready for work.’
    ‘Are you on nights?’
    ‘Yeah. It’s half five.’
    I glanced at the clock. ‘Actually, it’s half four.’
    He extracted his arm from the cushions and squinted at his watch. ‘Then what are you doing home so early?’
    I shook my head vaguely, as if I might have misunderstood the question, and walked into the kitchen.
    Granddad was sitting in his chair by the kitchen window, studying a sudoku. The health visitor had told us it would be good for his concentration, help his focus after the strokes. I suspected I was the only one to notice he simply filled out all the boxes with whatever number came to mind.
    ‘Hey, Granddad.’
    He looked up and smiled.
    ‘You want a cup of tea?’
    He shook his head, and partially opened his mouth.
    ‘Cold drink?’
    He nodded.
    I opened the fridge door. ‘There’s no apple juice.’ Apple juice, I remembered now, was too expensive. ‘Ribena?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘Water?’
    He nodded, murmured something that could have been a thank you as I handed him the glass.
    My mother walked into the room, bearing a huge basketof neatly folded laundry. ‘Are these yours?’ She brandished a pair of socks.
    ‘Treena’s, I think.’
    ‘I thought so. Odd colour. I think they must have got in with Daddy’s plum pyjamas. You’re back early. Are you going somewhere?’
    ‘No.’ I filled a glass with tap water and drank it.
    ‘Is Patrick coming round later? He rang here earlier. Did you have your mobile off?’
    ‘Mm.’
    ‘He said he’s after booking your holiday. Your father says he saw something on the television about it. Where is it you liked? Ipsos? Kalypsos?’
    ‘Skiathos.’
    ‘That’s the one. You want to check your hotel very carefully. Do it on the internet. He and Daddy watched something on the news at lunchtime. Apparently they’re building sites, half of those budget deals, and you wouldn’t know until you got there. Daddy, would you like a cup of tea? Did Lou not offer you one?’ She put the kettle on then glanced up at me. It’s possible she had finally noticed I wasn’t saying anything. ‘Are you all right, love? You look awfully pale.’
    She reached out a hand and felt my forehead, as if I were much younger than twenty-six.
    ‘I don’t think we’re going on holiday.’
    My mother’s hand stilled. Her gaze had that X-ray thing that it had held since I was a kid. ‘Are you and Pat having some problems?’
    ‘Mum, I –’
    ‘I’m not trying to interfere. It’s just, you’ve beentogether an awful long time. It’s only natural if things get a bit sticky every now and then. I mean, me and your father we –’
    ‘I lost my job.’
    My voice cut into the silence. The words hung there, searing themselves on the little room long after the sound had died away.
    ‘You what?’
    ‘Frank’s shutting down the cafe. From tomorrow.’ I held out a hand with the slightly damp envelope I had gripped in shock the entire journey home. All 180 steps from the bus stop. ‘He’s given me my three months’