civil. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
His mother surveyed the dirty kitchen and unwashed crockery balancing on the side. ‘I think not.’ She removed a pair of fishnet tights from the armchair, but still didn’t sit down.
His dad was studying a painting on the wall, his hands clasped behind his back as if the sight of a fishing boat caught in a storm was an interesting medical conundrum.
The sound of Nate chucking up floated down the stairs.
Feeling a little nauseous himself, Barney went over to the sink and poured a glass of water.
A creak on the stairs alerted them to the arrival of Paul. He was as pale as paper, his bloodshot eyes half-closed, his fitted blue sweater and black jeans as conservative as his mood. ‘Good morning, Mr and Mrs Hubble. An unexpected pleasure.’ He shook hands with Barney’s dad. ‘You’re looking well, Henry.’
Unsure how to respond to such polite familiarity, Henry Hubble nodded. ‘Er … likewise. Paul, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ Paul joined Alexa by the fireplace and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re looking dazzling as always, Mrs Hubble.’
Barney’s mother’s gaze travelled to the discarded female attire lying on the sofa. ‘Thank you, young man.’ She tutted when she spotted a spill of beer on the coffee table.
Paul picked up the pile of clothes and headed back upstairs. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Nice seeing you both.’ As he passed Barney in the kitchen, he leant closer so he could whisper in his ear, ‘Hang in there. My parents don’t approve of my lifestyle either.’
Barney nodded, grateful for his friend’s show of solidarity.
His mother waited until Paul was out of sight. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk? Your father and I have something we need to discuss with you.’
No prizes for guessing what that might be.
Barney thought he could do with some fresh air, especially as Nate was still throwing up. ‘We’ll go out. Give me five minutes to get dressed. They serve a decent brunch at Smugglers Inn, if you’re hungry.’
‘We’ll wait outside.’ His mother was clearly eager to leave The Mousehole, with its filthy inhabitants, messy interior, and sounds of amplified retching.
Ten minutes later, having taken two paracetamol and drunk another pint of water, he joined them on the cobbled walkway. ‘This way,’ he said, leading them past the white-stone cottages down towards the quayside. ‘There’s an impressive view across the bay.’ He knew it wouldn’t be enough to persuade them that staying in Cornwall was a good idea, but he hoped it might soften their resistance a little.
His parents thrived on hard work, long hours and the buzz of a stressful environment. Packed commuter trains, crowded streets and constant noise combined to form a drug, fuelling their determination to achieve in their high-flying careers. Noise pollution did nothing for Barney. It didn’t inspire him, it depressed him. Life in Penmullion was much kinder on the soul.
Over the last few weeks, he’d been busy rehearsing for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he’d taken on extra shifts at the surf kiosk, and added more gigs to his schedule, eager to prove he wasn’t a layabout or afraid of hard work. But no matter how much he crammed into his new life in Cornwall, he knew it would never be enough for his parents.
‘See where the cliffs meet the sea?’ He pointed to the horizon. ‘You can just make out HMS Isolde, a three-hundred-year-old battleship anchored near the disused naval port.’ The morning mist was lifting, the breeze dragging the damp air away from the bay. ‘It’s worth a visit, if you’re planning on staying for a while.’ God, he hoped they weren’t staying.
‘We’re only here for the day.’ His mother made no attempt to search out the ship.
No one could say he didn’t try.
As well as increasing his workload, he’d been partying hard too. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him he was drowning his brain in alcohol to avoid thinking about his future. He loved life in Penmullion, it was everything he’d ever wanted, but it still lacked something. Whether he admitted it or not, there was a gaping career-shaped hole in his life. And he had no idea how to fill it.
Smugglers Inn wasn’t busy. One of the regular bar staff laughed when he walked in, confirming his suspicions that he’d made a fool of himself last night. He went over to the bar and ordered three coffees, not wanting to tempt fate by putting food in his stomach. They opted to sit outside. Fresh air and a pleasant view might ease the trauma of the lecture he felt was coming his way.
He selected a table near the grassy bank. The bushes and trees rose upwards to where the posh hotels overlooked the sea, giving a nice contrast to the crashing waves ahead of them. The tide ebbed and flowed, inviting him to come in and play. It was tempting, but even he wasn’t up for a surf today.
They’d barely sat down when his mother said, ‘Your father and I would like to know when you will be returning to your studies?’ There was never any preamble with Alexa Hubble, she always cut to the chase.
He couldn’t blame her. The first either of them had known of his quitting medicine was after he’d purchased a one-way ticket to Cornwall. It was cowardly and unfair of him, and they had every right to be angry. After all they’d done for him, all the sacrifices they’d made, paying his living expenses, providing a monthly allowance, ensuring his time spent studying was as easy as possible, he’d left without a proper explanation. He’d hurt them, confused them, and left them severely out of pocket. He was a rotten son.
He took a long breath, hoping the cool June air might ease his headache. For nearly a year, he’d avoided answering questions about his return. He’d given excuses, employed all kinds of delaying tactics, hoping time would enable him to reach an answer, but he was no nearer resolving the issue of what to do about his career than when he’d left London.
It was time to stop fudging and answer honestly. ‘I’m not sure I want to return.’
His mother stilled. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He sighed. ‘I know it’s not what you want to hear. I’d hoped time out would clarify things for me, but it hasn’t. I’m more confused than ever.’
His mother looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language.
His dad frowned. ‘What’s there to be confused about? You’ve successfully completed your medical degree and the two-year foundation programme. The hard part is done. All you need to do is select a specialism.’ He made it sound so simple.
‘But that’s just it, I don’t want to specialise.’
‘Nonsense.’ His mother dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. ‘Of course you want to specialise. If you can’t decide which direction to take, then we’ll help you. We have openings on the postgraduate medical diploma at Hammersmith, but you’ll need to commit soon if you want to secure a place this coming autumn.’
‘I can get you onto the cardiology or orthopaedic programmes at St. George’s,’ his dad added, looking hopeful. ‘Just give me the nod and it’s done.’
Barney felt the weight of expectation crushing him. His parents had supported him, encouraged him, used
