Page 55 of Something Borrowed

“It was a bit difficult seeing as they’d taken up residence staring at us like we were on the stage. Are there more fuckwits around than usual, or is that just my imagination?”

He laughs, but as he gets to his feet, he wobbles and sways into me. I adjust my weight, tightening one hand on his arm and grabbing his hip with the other one, steadying him. His body is warm, and his shampoo has a fresh, clear scent. There’s a streak of mud over one eyebrow that he missed when showering, but all I can see is him, because, really, he’s all I ever really see.

The love is like a blow to my chest—it fills my throat, and I want to shout it out loud, so everyone knows. For a second, I think I might’ve actually shouted, but then Stan takes a sideways step and says something I can’t understand over the ringing in my ears.

I must give him an appropriate reply, because he doesn’t show any alarm at being near a madman. I let out a long breath, and my hand, when I run it down my jeans, is damp and shaky.

“So,if you had a superpower, what would it be?”

I consider Stan’s question. “Probably the ability to erase people’s memories. That would put a stop to Jed’s rather caustic staff meetings.”

He laughs, and I turn my face to the sun. We’re walking along the street leading to Stan’s childhood home and where his parents still live. The neighbourhood is the same as ever, as if time froze when we moved out. A mix of semi-detached and detached houses line the long avenue, with cars parked everywhere. Lime trees cast shade across us as we pass under them, and the air is full of the sound of distant traffic from the high street. Nearby, a window opens, letting out the sound of music, and an ice cream van tinkles on the next street.

We pass my old house, and I look at it curiously. My mum moved into a flat in Kensington last year, and I don’t have any nostalgia for the place that was my childhood home. It was just a house where I slept. My real home was with Stan’s family next door.

We turn onto the short drive leading up to his parents’ house. It’s a Victorian detached house set back from the road and hidden behind huge old horse chestnut trees that the council complain about every year for shedding conkers on the street.

Hump’s harness jingles as he pads along beside us, and I huff crossly at the memory of the nasty couple in the park.

“What the hell wasthatnoise?” Stan asks. “Did someone let your air out?”

“I’m thinking about what else I should have said to that couple.”

“Let it go,” he advises me.

I press the doorbell. The sound of barking and children comes from the back garden. “It’s hard when the world is full of so many judgemental arseholes,” I say just as the door opens.

“What adeliciousSunday afternoon sentiment,” Stan’s mum, Rowena, says.

I grin at her. She looks the same as ever—thin with long dark hair and very blue eyes. The only sign of the encroaching years is the grey dusting her long braid. Being near her soothes me, and it’s been that way since I first met her.

“Looking as beautiful as ever,” I say, accepting a kiss from her as Stan removes Hump’s harness. The dog shakes himself and runs off to join the family’s two dogs. “You haven’t changed since that time when you broke into my parents’ house and kidnapped me.”

“You old smoothie, Raff,” she says, hugging Stan and stepping back so we can move into the hallway, which is dominated by a six-foot-tall black-and-white picture of Stan and his brother and sister. The sound of a violin playing drifts on the air from his dad’s study.

“Are we ignoring the elephant in the room, which is your short-lived career as a child napper?” I ask.

“She’d have been terrible at that,” Stan offers. “Far too noisy.”

“She certainly was,” I say, squeezing Rowena’s arm in memory of that night. “I didn’t know an adult’s voice could go that high. She was a revelation.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t remember you as being particularly cowed by the situation. In fact, you were very charming for a five-year-old.”

Stan snorts. “He appears to have lost that charm today.”

“Why?”

I wave my hand. “Nasty-minded old couple in the park.”

“When aren’t there?”

“Well, they learnt their lesson. Raff activated his aggravating setting,” Stan observes.

His mum bursts into laughter. “You’re like Ivanhoe but without the armour and the blond hair.”

“Hey, Idohave blond hair. Doesn’t the strawberry bit count?”

“No,” Stan interjects.

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