Theo had been living in the little flat in Bristol for six weeks. He kept it bare, wary of making it feel like home as that would have given it a permanence that he feared. There were no pictures on the walls, no crockery or cutlery in the cupboards and no landline. He preferred to treat it as he had the hotel not too far from the flat, nothing more than a base. Just until...

It had been strange to wake up in his childhood home in Barnes that morning, and not for the first time in recent weeks he’d come to with a start, wondering where he was. He fastened the towel around his waist and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

The call from his mother the previous day had shocked him and the sense of disbelief hadn’t lessened. It was a strange time, a day he’d always known would come, but one he’d assumed would be far into the future, giving him a chance to mentally prepare. He could only imagine how Anna had coped, having had to deal with something similar when she’d been nothing more than a little girl. His heart flexed for her.

He was yet to feel the sadness that he’d anticipated; right now he was simply exhausted by the weight of the news. He guessed this was shock. He felt floored, angry even, as his brain struggled to accept the finality. His nerves twitched and his limbs jumped, as though surprised. He felt cheated; he’d figured he’d have more time. At the back of his mind a fantasy had hovered for longer than he cared to admit. It was one where he and his father sat in front of a roaring fire, pints in hand, as they gave each other the floor and spoke openly about their clashes and their differences before hopefully arriving at a place that resembled calmer waters, if not understanding. He knew it was ridiculous – he was a grown man, and how many people reached his age without considering the inevitable loss of those they loved? But Theo had, as ever, felt in some way immune.

There was so much he had yet to say to his dad, so many conversations started but not finished. Worst of all were the apologies that had danced around them over the years. Both men had failed to reach up and grasp the words, unable, for reasons deeper than he could fathom, to make peace. The wounds of their recent battle, where harsh and hurtful truths had been exchanged in the boardroom, had healed a little, but the skin that wrapped them was thin, new and still tender.

And now it was too late. It was all too late.

He stared at his reflection, wiping the steam from the mirror with his hand, and wondered what else was slipping beyond his reach faster than he realised.

Two memories were proving especially hard to shift: his dad leering at Freddie from the bedroom window of La Grande Belle, and his dad trying to hide his anger when Theo had thrown up in his Aston Martin. Both events so long ago now and yet still stuck on replay in his head. Spud’s good words of advice came to him once more: ‘Let it go, let a lot of those memories go, the ones that trouble you.’

If only it were that simple. He wished he could replace them with something more agreeable, like the Christmas morning from his childhood when he’d watched as his Dad tore open yet another pair of socks before throwing the packaging at his mum, who ducked and giggled, trying not to spill her breakfast Bellini. Or the time he’d spied the two of them through the crack of the kitchen door, dancing with each other, both in their pyjamas and neither with any clue that he was looking. But it was the negative memories that persisted. His father’s face livid: ‘The idiot!... What the fuck is wrong with him?’

‘It’s a good question. What is wrong with you?’ he asked the face that stared back. He jutted his chin and ran the back of his fingers over his neck and face, taking in the deepening furrows on his brow.

He shaved, dressed slowly and made his way downstairs. The sound of Stella’s sniffing filled the air. He was ashamed at how much the noise grated his bones. It was more than he wanted to deal with. He resisted the urge to put the radio on and dilute the atmosphere with something, anything, unsure of the correct etiquette in this situation. He watched her make cups of tea as a distraction and wipe the sink and countertops with a bleached dishcloth, going over and over the same pristine surfaces, until, spent, she sat slumped. Her usual upright posture was bowed under the weight of her grief. She drew random shapes with her finger on the tabletop. She looked... She looked old.

‘Are you going to say something at the service?’ she eventually managed, looking up. She blew her nose into a paper tissue and balled it into her handbag.

‘I hadn’t really thought about it. Would you like me to?’

‘Of course I’d like you to! It’s very important. And you have six days to think about exactly what.’ Her voice cracked, the sandpaper vowels rasping in a throat raw with distress. She resumed her invisible doodling.

‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘If you think that’s a good idea.’

She rolled her eyes, as if the answer should be evident. ‘And I think we should go and see him. Together.’ She stared at him, her eyes brimming.

He felt the rise of nausea. ‘Do you... Do you think that’s wise, Mum?’

Her reply was instant, her voice shrill. ‘It’s not about what’s wise, it’s about what’s right! I have to say goodbye to him. My husband, my darling husband...’

‘But you said goodbye to him at the hospital,’ he reminded her, keeping his tone neutral, ‘and he won’t know if you go and see his... his body or not.’ Saying the word ‘body’ felt both disrespectful and uncomfortable, reducing his father to a thing. A thing that was now gone. This thought hit him with force in the centre of his breastbone. ‘I just don’t want you to be upset by seeing him after he’s passed, that’s not how he would want you to remember him, and I don’t think it’s healthy that your last image of him might not be a pleasant one.’

‘I don’t get to choose, Theodore! I can’t help what I find, but I will do the right thing by him.’

‘But that’s just it, Mum, who says it’s the right thing? There is no right thing. There is only what’s right for you. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I just think—’

‘I don’t need to know what you think!’ Stella raised her voice. ‘Don’t be like him! Don’t tell me what to think or what I can or can’t do!’

Theo took a deep breath. ‘I’m only trying to look out for you, Mum. Even though this is the worst possible thing that could have happened, try not to forget that we are both going through it and I am trying to make it the best it can be for you. Because I love you.’

‘Well, good.’ She reached into her handbag for her packet of cigarettes. ‘Because the right thing for me is going to see your father before he is laid to rest, and the right thing for you, as his only son, is to come with me. Okay?’

She jammed the cigarette into her mouth, once pretty and full, now pulled thin and puckered with creases which fanned out from her top lip. She held the lighter to the end of the cigarette. It had the usual effect of making him want to smoke, which annoyed him as much as it tested his reserves.

He threw open the kitchen window.

‘It’s already quite cold in here,’ his mother snapped, gathering her fur stole around her narrow shoulders with her cigarette-free hand.

‘Yep, but I don’t particularly want to breathe your cigarette smoke, so what are we going to do?’

He folded his arms across his chest, holding his position. He watched her draw on her cigarette and wondered how many mothers, when told by their child at a time like this that they loved them, would have answered that they loved them too... He left the room, rubbing his temples to try and alleviate the first signs of a headache.

* * *

The funeral felt flat, predictable, and after Theo had given his rather rushed eulogy, his mind wandered. In the lead-up to the day, he had suspected, in fact hoped, that the service at St Mary’s might be the point at which he’d experience the full force of his grief. He wanted to succumb to the tsunami of emotions that he figured must be bubbling inside him somewhere – but no. Instead, he remained almost dazed by the proceedings, unable to relate to the outpouring of grief from his mother, which made him feel more than a little uncomfortable. He had assumed she’d be more contained, a quality she had always admired in her peers, but, as so often, it seemed that such rules only applied to other people.

The speeches were numerous and heartfelt, given by glum-looking old men who stared out over the congregation from the lectern. He suspected they were considering their own fates as much as they were mourning their friend. Several Old Vaizey Boys spoke of a man who was smart, successful and benevolent. But as for the principled family man whose door was always open, Theo hardly recognised that description.

He remembered something Spud had said long ago, when as students they’d strolled round Highgate Cemetery, drunkenly searching for the grave of Karl Marx. ‘I wonder where they bury all the shitty people? I’ve only ever seen gravestones for the good, the beloved and the wise. Do you think there are any that say “My husband was an absolute arsehole”?’ They’d giggled at the thought. He wished the memory hadn’t popped into his head right now. Spud had sent a simple card of condolence with a simple message: Ever onwards and upwards, my friend. Theo coughed and returned his attention to the service.

Back at his parents’ house for the wake, Theo grabbed a drink and, turning, saw Anna walking in. My Anna. A smile crept over his face; his default setting whenever he saw her was happiness. She looked beautiful: make-up-free and neat in her black dress with a white crocheted collar. He saw her bite her lip and knew she was feeling nervous. He walked towards her.

‘Hey, you.’

‘Hi, Theo.’ She reached out and squeezed his arm, and he fought the temptation to sweep her into a hug and hold her tight.

‘How’s Shania doing?’ He searched for common ground and was rewarded with the beginnings of a smile.

‘Good. Getting close to due date – she’s going to be such a great mum. Did you get my card?’ She spoke quietly.

‘I did, and thank you. And thank you for bringing Mum food and checking on her, she did mention it.’ He had studied her words of condolence, scouring them for any hidden note of forgiveness, any hint of a possible reconciliation, but finding none.

‘Not a problem. Of course.’ She looked down. ‘I was genuinely sorry to hear about your dad. I don’t think any of us were expecting it. I mean, of course you never are, but you know what I mean.’

‘I do, and thank you.’ He hated the formality with which he had offered thanks three times in as many minutes.

‘How are you doing?’ She placed her hand on his chest, a gesture that brought a lump to his throat.

‘I’m...’ He lifted the tumbler in her direction, as if that might be explanation enough.

‘I thought it was a nice service.’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘And let’s face it, Theo, it could have been so much worse.’ She pulled a face.

‘In what way?’

She leant towards him and he inhaled her particular, intoxicating scent, somewhere between clean laundry and summer. ‘Your mum might still have been going through her Jesus phase, which would have meant that Pastor Jules, he of the legendary bootlace tie and magnificent tash, might have been conducting affairs from a shed in Putney.’

Theo laughed, feeling instantly self-conscious that he should find anything funny today but at the same time so glad they could chat like this. ‘God, I’d almost forgotten about him! But at least she’d have been able to chat to Dad and find out where he left the key for the shed.’ He laughed, recalling some of the pastor’s excesses. ‘That was some night.’

‘Yep.’ She gave a faltering smile, as if the mention of a good night inevitably led to thoughts about the bad one, when he had walked out and she had let him. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you have to mingle.’ She stepped backwards and it took all of his strength not to reach for her and pull her close.

Saskia, his mother’s friend, closed in. ‘Come on, Theodore, eat up.’ She held up a foil platter of bite-sized morsels, all pink and sitting on something crunchy, the sight of which made his stomach lurch.

‘I’m okay, thank you.’

Saskia winked, then continued on her mission. ‘We have no space in the freezer – I need to make sure everyone in the house consumes at least one of these. Or it will be doggy bags – really, not the done thing!’

The kitchen felt like the safest place to hide, among the lavender- and mothball-scented crowd of well-wishers. From somewhere in the middle of the throng, his mother let out a loud cry. He looked over to see Nancy, another friend of old, supplying her with tissues and a steady forearm on which to lean. He pushed his way through to where Nancy seemed to have hemmed her in. His mother glanced up at him with an expression of relief.

‘Theodore, you remember Nancy?’

‘Yes, of course. Hello, Nancy.’ He smiled at the woman, whose orange lipstick and green eye shadow reminded him of the crude makeover Miyu had given him with her face paints. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it. Peregrine was a dear. Besides, we go way back, your parents and I. I think the last time I saw you, Theo, was on the Riviera – you were no more than a tiddler.’ She wagged her finger at him, as if he still merited no more than tiddler status. ‘I remember Leopold thought you were a fine young man, not at all giddy-headed like some of a similar age, my own included.’ She sighed.

He was embarrassed that this woman and her husband had been present at La Grande Belle. The whole gang must have been aware of his father’s drunken infidelity. He felt his face colour. They probably knew a lot more besides. He pictured Xander Beaufort, whom he had half expected to attend today. Poor Alexander, just another aspect of his father’s past to be smudged into the background until no one could see it clearly.

His mother seemed indifferent to what her peers did and didn’t know. He wondered if it was the fog of old age that coated anything unpleasant with a veneer of acceptability or whether it was simply a deterioration of the memory that meant events were not so sharp, so damaging. Or, of course, it might have been that she now didn’t give a shit. His smile faded to a watery imitation.

Nancy raised her voice, as if this might make her point more valid, or perhaps it was that she was used to addressing her friends whose hearing was on the wane. ‘I was just saying to your mother that I think it would be a good idea if she went to speak to someone.’

‘And I have told Nancy that I have no intention of doing anything of the sort.’ Stella spoke determinedly.

‘Well...’ Nancy gripped her elaborate, bead-encrusted handbag to her chest. ‘That’s what you say now, but when Leopold died I went to speak to a therapist. It helped me enormously. I needed to make sense of it all, and talking things through made a difference.’

‘Darling, I really don’t think that kind of thing is for me.’ His mother gave a sharp nod, signalling an end to the topic.

Nancy, however, had other ideas. ‘And I didn’t think it was for me either, and I have to admit, I was okay for a while, but when the fuss of the funeral had died down and Douglas and the grandchildren had gone back to Zurich, I was at a loss. I needed to talk to someone who wasn’t family and who was going to listen and help me stay on track. And she did. She was wonderful. I really owe her so much – it’s hard to explain. Her name is Miss Garcia and she is based in Bloomsbury.’

‘Oh, I can just see me popping off to Bloomsbury each week! It’s hardly convenient!’ his mother scoffed. ‘Thank you, Nancy, but no.’

‘Well, I shall leave her card on the side here. She is very expensive but worth every penny. She’s clever, and all I know is that when I was at my lowest point, she helped me find happiness.’

Nancy’s words had a profound effect on Theo. He wondered if it was possible, that there really could be someone, a clever someone, who could help him sort his muddled thoughts, help him find the equilibrium he so craved. He pictured it in that second, his happiness as a rainbow-striped thing hiding under a bed or lurking in the back of a cupboard behind long-forgotten boxes...

‘Theo?’

He turned at the sound of Anna’s voice and raised his eyebrows in reply.

‘I’m off.’

‘Right.’ He wished they were alone; there was so much more he wanted to say. But as he was ordering his thoughts and summoning the courage to voice them, she called to his mother.

‘I shall speak to you soon, Stella.’ And just like that, she was gone.

* * *

It felt strange walking into Villiers House again, knowing he was now the last Montgomery in the place. And for possibly the first time, he considered what his parents meant by birthright – would all this be Sophie’s? How would that work – a letter like the one Anna had received from her unknown father, Michael Harper, sent after his death? The thought was as depressing as it was cowardly.

He walked past the desk once occupied by Marta, suppressing the unease he felt at the memory of his last sighting of her, and smiled at the young man sitting there.

‘We were all very sorry to hear about your father.’

‘Thank you.’ He stared at the man, trying to recall his name from when they’d been introduced, a while ago now.

‘Stephen.’

‘Yes, sorry. Thank you, Stephen. My memory...’ He tapped his head, as if that was all the explanation required. ‘My mind’s all over the place at the moment.’

‘I can only imagine. Marcus said you’ll be taking over your dad’s office when you’re ready and so I just wanted to say that if there’s anything you need or anything we can do...’

‘Thank you.’

Theo opened the door to the big room. It smelt of his dad, of woody cologne and nicotine, with a hint of peppermint and whisky, the former used ineffectively to mask the latter. He opened the window and welcomed the cold breeze that whipped around the furniture. The uncomfortable coolness seemed to help clear his thoughts. Settling back into his father’s chair felt illicit. He ran his palms over the cracked leather of the arms where the old man’s hands had rested over the years, and still his reaction was subdued.

Pulling open the top drawer, he touched his fingers to the black and white picture of his father in his cricket whites. He was kneeling on one knee, one of a team of eleven: two rows of smiling, bright young things, wearing striped cricket caps that proudly displayed their house colours and with the Gothic architecture of Vaizey College providing the impressive backdrop. Anyone could see that those fortunate young men would go places. Theo felt a stirring of sadness, but it was Mr Porter he pictured, bending low and painting the cricket crease with a stubby paintbrush.

‘Can I get you a hot drink or anything?’

Theo hadn’t heard Stephen come into the room. He popped the photograph back into the drawer and stood, adjusting his jacket. His finger lingered on the feathered talisman that always brought him comfort.

‘No, thanks, Stephen. I’m only popping in. I’ll come back soon. I need to...’ He ran his hand through the air in an arc, hoping this might hint at all the things he needed to do but was currently unable to voice.

‘Where shall I put this?’ Stephen bent low with a bundle of mail in his hand.

‘Oh, just here on the desk is fine.’

‘I’ve given all the corporate stuff to Marcus. These are more personal.’

‘That’s fine.’ Theo smiled and watched Stephen walk slowly out of the room.

He blew out through bloated cheeks and flicked through flyers for executive car services and an offer from the golf club his father and the rest of the board played at. Lastly, he picked up the magazines from the bottom of the pile. A building magazine, several devoted to classic cars or classic boats, past editions of which cluttered up the windowsill in his parents’ downstairs bathroom, and there at the very bottom a copy of the Old Vaizian with the outline of the most beautiful school buildings plastered all over the front. Theo had never subscribed, being far from interested in anything anyone old or new at the school had to say. For some reason, call it nostalgia, call it sixth sense, he pulled it from the plastic covering and flicked through the glossy pages.

His heart fluttered as his fingers splayed to hold two pages open.

There was a picture of the crooked cottage, pretty much as he remembered it bar a new roof and a fresh lick of paint on the front door and windows. It surprised him, the wave of emotion that broke over him. He lifted the page to his face and read: Mr Cyrus Porter, former groundsman of Vaizey College, passed away...

He rolled the magazine, placed it in his pocket and grabbed his car keys.