Page 31 of Something Borrowed

She shuts her menu and hands it back without ordering food, and I sigh quietly, resigned to going to McDonald's afterwards as usual.

“Darling, no real drink?”

“No, Mother.”

She makes a moue of displeasure.

“Saoirse,” I correct myself. “I’ve got appointments this afternoon. It won’t look good if I turn up half-cut.”

Like you at my parents’ evenings, I add silently, remembering the occasions she lurched in late and loud but still forgiven by my teacher as she laid on her formidable charm.

She pouts. “Well, if you’re going to be boring, Rafferty.” She shakes her head. “So much like your father.”

I look at her slender, ice-cold beauty and wonder for the billionth time what brought her and my father together. My dad is brawny with dark hair and a stocky figure. He’s incredibly blunt, incapable of even the most basic diplomacy, and makes no attempt to follow fashion trends. His world was as far away from my mother’s as humanly possible and he never attempted to fit in with her fashionable friends.

It was probably his money and charm. My father is loaded, owning a very successful haulage firm and a lot of property, and he has a very charismatic air. If he’s in the room, you pay attention. Whatever it is, it’s drawn them together and forced them apart many times. I’m remaining braced for the next time.

“How is Rollo?” she asks as if sensing my thoughts.

“Dad’s fine, or at least he was the last time we met.”

We’d met for dinner, during which he lectured me on rugby, in which I have zero interest, and I talked about weddings, in which, despite having entered into marriage four times, he has even less interest. Then we regarded each other warily and agreed silently not to meet for another six months.

“How’s Stan?”

“He’s great.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Stan is such a strange boy.”

I bristle. “Why?”

“He’s a stunning man but pays no attention to how he looks.”

“You are aware that he’s blind, aren’t you? His looks aren’t an obsession to him.”

Unlike yours, I add silently.

She looks as thoughtful as the Botox allows. “Oh yes. I always forget.”

“Ofcourseyou do.” I roll my eyes. “And how is Carlos?”

She smiles her thanks as the waiter delivers her Chablis and immediately takes a long drink. Her face is beautiful but the lack of wrinkles has more to do with plastic surgery than healthy living.

I think of Stan’s mother with her long dark hair touched with grey and her makeup-free face. The image warms me. Thank fuck for his parents. I’d have probably been feral if it weren’t for them.

“He’s fine,” she says finally.

“Has the childcare centre got him for the day?”

She glares at me. “There’s no need for that, Rafferty. He’s notthatmuch younger than me.”

“Oh, only three decades, but who’s counting?” I smile at her. “Come on. It’s a little bit funny. He still thinks CBeebies is grown-up TV.”

“At least he wears his trousers correctly. The pinstripes on yours are far too wide, and they’re a little tight, darling.”

“It brings all the boys to my yard. So where is the child bride?”

“He’s at the gym.”

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