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“Her?”

“This old house? Definitely.” His hand splayed on the wall in a soft caress.

“You like her?”

“Yes. I do…” His voice trailed off and I knew he’d said all he wanted to say. I remembered that I had to ask him about money, but how should I bring that up?

“Thanks for buying all this… stuff. And doing all this.”

“Don’t mention it, Emily. Think of it as a birthday present, if that’s not too painful.” He tilted his head to one side to inspect the south wall and started filling in one of the small chips with filler.

I ignored the comment about my birthday and went back to sugar-soaping the window frames. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Anything.” He turned to face me.

“Well.” I faltered, glancing down at my grubby hands. “It’s about money.”

I peeked up at him, and Dylan nodded in what seemed to be understanding.

“Emily, don’t worry about money. That’s one problem we don’t have.”

This was news, and it threw me. I was also conscious that he said we and I liked it.

“Because of your work?” I asked, curious.

He shook his head and scoffed. “I’m an ST2 doctor or senior house officer under the old system. Believe me, the pay is okay but not substantial.” He gave me a wry smile and I stopped cleaning, a little bewildered by what he’d said.

Why doesn’t he have to worry about money?

He sighed. “I inherited money from my aunt, on my mother’s side. My biological mother.” He frowned before continuing. “This house. Some property in France. Some stocks and shares. My aunt was married to a wealthy banker. He died over a decade ago and she died childless four years ago. Covid.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know her. But she kept track of me after I lost my own mother.” His mouth turned down.

“I didn’t know you had relatives from that side of the family.”

“Neither did I, until the notary tracked me down three years ago. My stepfather kept all of that from me.” His mouth pressed into a hard line; it always did when he spoke of his stepfather. “It’s taken a while to sort out all the legalities.”

So, Dylan had lost his mother at an early age and his stepmother too. Like me. The pain in my chest resurfaced.

Dylan shifted uncomfortably when he noticed my expression and continued quickly, “Besides, you’ll have the proceeds from the sale of your parents’ house, should you wish to sell it, and the life insurance policies they took out. You’re not penniless.”

“Oh.” I’d rather have my parents.

“So please, don’t worry.” His mouth tilted up in a kind but anxious smile as he gauged my reaction. I didn’t want him to see me upset, so I nodded, grateful I was still wearing goggles, and went back to sugar-soaping the window frames.

“This wall isn’t too bad,” he said, changing the subject. He stood back to admire his handiwork. “On to the next.” As he turned, I caught a glimpse of the tattoos on the underside of his wrists. They always caught me unaware. Doctor Dyl with tats—a moment of youthful indiscretion, or so he said, but captured for all time on his skin. Define written on his left wrist. Yourself on his right. Each word penned in a neat, black, italic script. Since I’d known him, I’d wondered why he’d been compelled to mark himself with these words.

“While we’re talking like this,” he added as he filled in another notch in the wall and diverted me from my tattoo reverie, “we need to sort out your schooling. I’ve registered you at a school in Hammersmith, which is just down the road. Somewhere to do your A-levels.” His voice was tentative, and I knew he was once more monitoring my reaction.

“Okay.”

A new school? What to say? I have no idea!

I hadn’t thought beyond the next five minutes. I couldn’t think beyond the next five minutes. How could I think about September? About school?

“You need to make choices for your subjects. Think about it.” Dylan started examining the east wall for lumps and bumps.