Page 59 of Something Borrowed

I tut, and he snorts, his face filled with lazy laughter.

I look around the table and then groan. “Okay,” I give in.

Wolfie makes a sound of jubilation. “Yes. How about you, Daddy?”

Alex, ever ready to exert himself physically, gets to his feet. “Yeah, come on.”

“I don’t want anyone to feel guilty about this,” I say, and six blank faces look back at me. I roll my eyes. “It’s like having Sunday dinner with psychopaths,” I inform them, hearing their laughter as we leave the room.

Stan

A comfortable silence falls in the room as Raff and Alex’s footsteps fade. Pretty soon, there’s a screech of joy from the direction of the garden.

I cock my head to one side. “Was that Wolfie or Raff?”

“Hard to tell the difference,” my dad offers.

“I’m going for a lie-down,” my brother announces, and I listen to his footsteps patter away.

“Well, I suppose I should wash up,” my dad says with a heavy-sounding sigh.

“Yes, that should definitely happen,” Lottie says.

“I’ll help,” I offer.

“Don’t you dare,” my mum says, and I feel her pat my shoulder. “It was his turn at least fourteen Sunday dinners ago. Artistic temperament only goes so far.”

“When did I have that?” my dad asks and I hear him push out his chair. “I must have missed it. Can we have a redo?”

I smile as I listen to his humming and the sound of plates and crockery clattering.

“Want another glass of wine, Stan?” my mum asks. “We might as well finish the bottle if your dad’s busy.”

This is one of two places where I feel safe enough to drink. The other is my and Raff’s flat. “Well, someone has to do it.”

“I’ll help too,” Lottie says in a brave voice.

“The three of you are just full of humanitarian goodness,” my dad says.

“And rosé,” my mum offers.

I reach out and touch my glass before raising it to my lips. “Are they enjoying themselves out there?”

“Of course they are. Raff’s more child than man,” Lottie says. “Although he might struggle to walk home afterwards. Wolfie just fouled him. I might go out and heckle them.”

I listen to her footsteps move away and then a hand touches mine and my mum says, “You okay? Did you speak to the doctor about your headaches?”

“Everything is fine.” My response sounds defensive, so I try a smile to soften it. “He said it was just stress so there’s no need to worry. They’ll stop eventually.”

I’d mentioned my headaches at my check-up but when the doctor had enquired about what was stressing me, I’d changed the subject. My appointment with him was for half an hour. Not a year.

“Okay, darling.”

Her concern comes from a place of love, but it both riles me and makes me feel guilty. I fumble for her hand and kiss the back of it, inhaling the faint smell of handwash and sugar from the crumble. “I love you, Mum.”

A kiss lands on my head, and I smell her perfume, sweet and soft on the air. “Love you too, Stan.” Silence drops for a few beats, and her voice is wistful when she speaks next. “God, the sound of children shouting in the garden takes me back to when you all were kids.”

I smile. “Good times.”

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