Page 23 of You Can't Hurt Me

“Of course,” I lie. “You’ll never get to the end, you never do.”

He opens his mouth, pretends to look offended.

Secretly I’ve always envied Tony’s dilettantism, the way he just skims through life only ever dipping a toe. First chapters, first episodes of Netflix dramas, opening scenes of plays and films. Dabbling, tasting, always moving on, the least effort to appear the most erudite. Friendships, relationships, all manner of passions and pleasures, he’s never in it for the long haul. There have been flirtations with transcendental meditation, bookbinding, even taxidermy. Who cares about endings when there are so many new beginnings to enjoy?

Somehow Tony makes me feel that it’s cowardice, not tenacity, that makes us stick out our life choices long after the novelty fades.

He bags a table next to the fireplace over which hangs a framed Victorian map of Oxfordshire, while I order a bottle of house red, watch him from the bar as he pointedly glances at the couple next to him. Both wear quilted gilets, his in navy, hers pale pink, while their Labradoodle laps from a water bowl close to Tony’s feet.

Tony, in stark contrast, is dressed almost entirely in black. His leather jacket is undone, just low enough to reveal the insignia of an XR T-shirt(There is no Planet B). He looks like the bassist from a ’90s Brit-pop band that recently reformed.

“This place! What happened to real pubs?” He shakes his head as I sit down, glancing at me for affirmation.

“Don’t start,” I say, and he leans back in his chair. Tony is easy most of the time, but he gets like this occasionally where everything is fodder for a sneer or ridicule. It grows worse around this time each year, near our mom’s anniversary, and it’s down to me to make him feel better.

“Why do they have to bray? Can’t people just talk normally?” Tony stares at two young men at the table opposite, speaking loudly with plummy exclamations and guffaws. He tops up his glass again and doesn’t fill mine, then reaches for a menu. With a flourish, he takes out and puts on a pair of oversized designer glasses, which lend him a rakish, academic air.

“I never knew you were long-sighted. They suit you.” I reach over and tap the frames.

“They’re not real,” he confesses. “Clear glass.”

“You old fake,” I say, pushing them a little farther up his nose. “So how long are you back for?”

“Just a few weeks, staying with an old friend who owes me, then I’m off to Tangier and Marrakech.”

“Tough life.” I smile.

“I’m doing a picture story while I’m out there,” he adds, a little defensively.

“That’s great, Tony. Who’s it for?”

“Some crappy corporate magazine, but still.” He looks down and I try to appear encouraging. I’m always worried his photographic work will dry up and he’ll flit to the next pursuit. Before this there was travel writing; next it will be film, judging from the TV script that he’s been working on. I make a point to take an interest as he tells me about it, wide-eyed, nodding, knowing it’s another project that most likely will never see the light of day.

“Hey, why don’t you put in a good word with your company and we could finally work together? It must be pretty easy,” he says, his hand brushing mine. “It’s not like your magazine is even a national title,” he mocks. I pick up my drink to avoid his touch, force a brittle smile.

He leans across the table to reach for my arm, a conciliatory gesture but one that provokes me all the same. “Only teasing,” he says. I look at his unlined face, piqued by his youthful looks, the absence of a furrowed brow or purple shadows beneath his eyes. How does he manage to look younger than me when he’s six years older? Perhaps his levels of self-absorption have a protective effect, never worrying about anyone or anything beyond himself. Narcissism does have one distinct advantage, I think, observing his flawless complexion. If only they could bottle it.

“Come on then, what’s been happening? Where have you been hiding?”

“I’m sorry. I kept meaning to get back to you. I’ve been up to my neck in work—interviews, deadlines...” I trail off, hoping to avoid more unnecessary questions. Tony’s chin tilts up so he looks down at me through heavy eyelashes.

“Stop being so evasive. You got it, didn’t you?”

“Got what?”

“I bumped into Amira last week at an old mate’s party.”

“Really? She didn’t say anything.”

“Maybe she forgot.”

“Maybe,” I say, finding this unlikely.

“We had a long chat. She told me all about you and the memoir. So, Dr. Nate Reid and my little sister writing the big book together.”

“Well, I wouldn’t get too excited,” I say, refilling our glasses, my tone clipped. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell people anything about this project just yet. “I was asked to apply along with lots of other people. His publisher got in contact with me.”

“I’m not too excited, don’t worry,” he says, frowning a little. “Just interested. Quite a big-shot job for you.”

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