If Murphy’s good looks were owed to the maternal line, he’d got his height and hair from his father, a burly Irishman with a deep voice, who also expressed delight at meeting Robin, and said Murphy had been keeping her hidden far too long. Murphy seemed slightly on edge, which Robin attributed to the unexpectedness of his parents’ arrival, and the necessity of cooking for them. He was stuck in the kitchen, so Robin and the two older Murphys sat down together and chatted easily enough, about their relocation to Galway after long years in London, about Murphy’s older sister’s third pregnancy and about Robin’s recent acquisition of two more nephews. Robin noticed that neither of them asked about her job at all, which was odd, because it was how she and Murphy had met. She wondered whether he’d told his parents not to bring up the agency.
Lunch was pleasant enough, although the food could have been tastier; Murphy’s steaks were rubbery and the potatoes slightly underdone. There was wine on the table, of which Murphy’s father partook liberally, cracking jokes, some of them funny.
Robin couldn’t help being reminded of her former in-laws. Matthew’s father, too, had been garrulous, whereas his late mother had been quieter, more polished and watchful, and Robin had always felt that the latter didn’t much like her. Murphy’s mother was far friendlier than her Cunliffe counterpart, yet Robin still detected signs that she was being covertly assessed.
‘We were sorry to hear the house fell through,’ she told Robin.
‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘It was a shame.’
The longer lunch went on, the more certain Robin became that Murphy’s parents had no idea about his recent alcoholic relapse. Mrs Murphy’s searching look suggested she’d sensed there might be more to the story than that they’d been gazumped for a second time. Perhaps (a dart of unease shot through Robin) Murphy’s parents knew about the ectopic pregnancy. Robin had made her boyfriend promise not to tell
Over lunch, she learned for the first time why the London-born Murphy supported Liverpool: his father had spent most of his teens in the city and remained a passionate supporter; he couldn’t have tolerated his son supporting anyone else, he told Robin, who laughed politely. Liverpool was playing Arsenal that afternoon, kick-off at five thirty, which was why Mr Murphy senior hadn’t wanted to go out to lunch – you never knew how long these fancy London restaurants would string out a meal. Robin was told repeatedly by both parents how proud they were of Murphy, and the latter looked strained as they said it. Robin found herself longing for match kick-off, because ‘we won’t be allowed to talk once it starts’, said Murphy’s mother, with a humorous eye roll. ‘I’ve brought my knitting.’
‘Her business partner supports Arsenal,’ said Murphy, nodding towards Robin, who felt a very faint sting of animosity in this remark, and it led to a certain amount of good-humoured chaff from his father about how the office was bound to be an uncomfortable place on Monday, then, because Arsenal was about to be thoroughly trounced.
At five o’clock, the three Murphys removed to the sofa and armchair in plenty of time for the start of the game, Mr Murphy sprawling so much that there was very little room for Robin, so she remained at the table where they’d eaten.
Once the match was underway, Robin surreptitiously took out her phone. She’d have preferred her laptop, but she could hardly have brought that with her. Murphy and his father, who were apparently allowed to talk all they wanted, criticised and eulogised various plays and players, while Mrs Murphy concentrated mostly on knitting what looked like a baby’s sweater in pink angora.
Robin first checked to see whether Tish Benton (currently at a five-star hotel in Paris, judging by her most recent Instagram photo) had responded to the request for a chat Robin had sent via the Clairmont chain, but there was no response.
‘GET IN!’ bellowed Murphy and his father in unison, and Robin jumped. Both men were fist-pumping; Firmino had scored for Liverpool. Robin hastily made celebratory noises and affected a broad smile until the Murphys’ attention had returned to the TV.
She’d just closed Instagram when a text arrived from her brother Martin.
Could I come stay for a couple of days?
Robin stared at this message, wondering whether Martin had sent it to the wrong person. Not only had her second brother never come to visit her in London, he was, by some distance, the family member to whom she was least close. She loved him, of course, but as she’d told Strike on Sark, they had very little in common. He’d been insecure in their youth about his siblings’ better academic records, and meted out a low but sustained level of persecution to Robin, purely on the basis that she was the only girl. Their friends, habits and life choices could hardly have been more divergent.