a seat, son. It’s lovely to see you, and it’ll give me an excuse to escape from the wife’s scolding for ten minutes,’ Derek says with a smile.
Nick presents him with Patrick’s bottle of Barbadian rum: ‘A small gift from our honeymoon to add to the collection. From me and my wife!’
He wonders what he’ll give Patrick instead, but he still feels miffed at his brother’s inability to be even slightly flexible. Patrick lives on his own with his carefully stored gadgets and gizmos; it isn’t even as though he ventures to the pub on a Friday night.
Derek examines the bottle. He’s a youthful-looking man, smallish, trim and fit with a moustache and a full head of grey hair, which he still styles into a neat fifties quiff. Not at all like Nick’s dad with his white thinning hair, poor eyesight and constant hobbling. Though both their accents still have a Salford twang, it’s hard to believe the two men were born the same year.
‘Oh, and thank you very much for the wedding gift and the cheque. It’s incredibly generous,’ Nick adds. He’s glad he’s remembered. He and Lisa actually bought Derek a golf cap and accessories from Sandy Lane resort as a thank you, but he hadn’t anticipated visiting tonight.
‘Not a problem, son. Glad to share the few bob I have sitting bored in the bank. If it wasn’t for your dad—’
‘Yeah, I know. But still it’s very kind.’
Derek moves behind a leather and teak bar in the corner and offers Nick a tipple of his choice from the array of bottles on display. Nick has no doubt that nothing has changed since the Dillons had this mismatch of stone and brick built on the pricey Hale plot in the sixties. He stares at the bar, still feeling that prickle of excitement he had as a boy; kneeling on a stool behind the counter, playing barman. Though his mum would shake her head, Derek waved her worries away. ‘Let the lad have some fun. No harm pouring himself half a lemonade.’ But when Dora wasn’t looking, Derek allowed him to pour measures of Martini, Cinzano or Campari for the adults, adding soda from a crystal glass syphon. ‘Go on. Try it, son. Just a small sip.’
Nick would always cough or grimace; the cocktails were too dry.
‘They’re women’s drinks. Take a snifter of this,’ Derek would laugh, pouring him a wee drop of cherry brandy or amaretto, sweet and warming in his chest.
Gazing at the electric fire in the stone-cladding wall, the adult Nick sips his beer. The fake flames remind him of the opening credits of a James Bond film. Was it all the films or just one? Patrick would know. He loves the Bond movies. He could name each film’s third production assistant or set designer if you asked him. Nick wonders if his brother ever visits Derek and Iris. It’s not something he mentions, but they’re his godparents, not Patrick’s.
He shakes his attention back to Derek. He’s still ruminating about Barbados, how he and Iris once visited Bridgetown as a port on a luxury cruise. Keen on cruising, they’re trying to persuade Dora and Harry to go on the next one. But of course there’s the problem of Harry’s hip. There’s a lot of walking on the excursions, on the ship too. Perhaps they could hire a wheelchair.
Nick tries not to show his exasperation, but the words emerge harsher than he intends. ‘The doctor says the hip replacement was a complete success. The limping is just a matter of habit.’ He tries again with a jocular tone. ‘He’s just being a grumpy bugger, Derek. Don’t encourage him!’
Derek looks at his feet. Nick finds his loyalty to his father touching, if at times maddening; he’s never had anything but praise and admiration for Harry Quinn. ‘If it hadn’t been for your dad’s sound financial advice, and that first loan, I wouldn’t have made my few bob,’ he always says. They’ve been tight friends since school, nearly seventy years. It’s an astonishing feat, one Nick hopes to replicate with Will and Dan. The honorary boy, too.
He thinks of Will’s text: ‘Sorry, man. You can’t begin to know how sorry I am. I’ll explain when I see you. Have a great honeymoon.’
For the first few days in Barbados, it felt as though he and Lisa talked about nothing other than the blip. He didn’t really want to dwell on it, but Lisa was intrigued. How bloody awful was it to see Penny teetering on the ledge? Why did she do it? What had gone on with her and Will? It just went to show that no one knows what goes on in people’s heads. Behind closed doors too. But her interest eventually ran out of steam, thank God. Since then she’s been more vocal about his current concern. ‘Come on, Nick, I know it’s been eating you since the wedding, you just need to ask. It’s probably nothing.’ But as he gazes at Derek’s ruddy face, he knows he can’t do it; his parents and his godparents are of a different generation. If something hasn’t been mentioned, it’s deliberate.
He knocks back his half-pint. ‘I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening. Tell Auntie Iris that the two of you must pop in any time. We’re not far away. Tea and biscuits always available! And thank you again for your generosity. You really didn’t have to.’
Derek doesn’t move for a moment. He strokes his moustache, then nods, heading towards the open door which separates the lounge from the bedrooms, which he closes. ‘You’ve come to ask about Susan,’ he states. ‘It was a slip. Iris shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not our place to say.’ He sits on a leather- cushioned window seat and motions Nick to sit too. ‘Your mum and dad … lost her, long ago. I know young people like to talk these days, but some things are better left in the past. Do you see what I’m saying?’
Nick’s heart thrashes. ‘I had a sister called Susan?’
Derek nods slowly. ‘Your Patrick’s twin.’
Penny
The therapist is sitting patiently, the clipboard on her knee.
‘Let’s talk about you and Will,’ she says.
Like insects on her skin, the alarm is immediate. ‘Why?’
‘Well, he’s your partner, of course. It’s usual to ask at the outset, but last time we got sidetracked.’ The woman cocks her head. ‘Is that OK?’
Penny looks at her hands. ‘Of course. What do you want to know?’
‘How is your marriage? Any issues or problems?’
She thinks of Will’s curious change of mood. So tense and silent since the wedding, but much chirpier this week, talkative, bright, back to the usual quips. But that’s good, really good.
Isn’t it?
Trying to hide the breathless shudder, she uses her best mask-smile. ‘No, none at all. Well, apart from this, of course. We’re very close.’
The woman gazes for a moment too long. ‘Any children?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘And your other family?’
This feels more comfortable, she can talk about them. ‘Mum and Dad and a brother.’
‘OK.’ The woman looks at her notes. ‘You described the incident at the wedding as a panic attack,’
