Page 137 of Falling for You
‘So,’ he says, bouncing the ball against his racket. ‘How’s all that family stuff going then?’
I snort. ‘Still pretty shit!’ I say.
He gives me a questioning look but doesn’t say any more. Usually at this point I’d change the subject, but there is something about Remy that feels so far removed from my ordinary life that it feels all right to talk to him.
‘My mom isn’t well,’ I say, dropping onto the bench as Remy starts tapping the ball to himself against the floor (much lighter than he was hammering it to me).
‘Oh?’
I bend down and lean my elbows on my knees. ‘Early onset dementia.’
God, I hate saying that. Every time I say those words they fly out of my mouth like they don’t belong there. I want to wrestle that horrible phrase down and launch it out the window.
Remy catches the ball and turns to me. ‘I’m sorry, lad. That’s fucking horrible.’
I shrug. ‘My brother lives over here but he hardly ever comes home, and she has a sister who lives in London.’
‘Oh yeah? Whereabouts?’
‘Epping,’ I say, and Remy nods. ‘Mom has started talking about her, and I tried calling and writing to my aunt to see if she’d come home for a while and see Mom, but she ignored me.’
‘Right.’ Remy starts tapping the ball up and down on the floor.
‘So I thought I’d come here to persuade her myself.’
It’s the first time I’ve said my plan out loud, and as I say it, I suddenly feel like an overly optimistic Dickens character, arriving in London with only the clothes on my back and a heart full of dreams.
Remy turns to me. ‘That’s very optimistic.’
I shrug. ‘I am American.’
‘Well, that can’t be all you do here,’ he says. ‘What are your other plans?’
‘I’m not sure yet. Work, explore London. See the sights and all that.’
He bounces the ball in my direction. ‘I host a speed-dating night once a month, you could come along to that.’
‘Speed dating?’ I say, dodging out of the way as the ball rockets towards the wall behind my face. ‘You old dog, Remy.’
He gives a sheepish smile. ‘No, no, I just help run it. It helps raise money for the pub. I’ll sign you up.’
‘Like you signed me up for squash?’ I say, getting to my feet and picking up my racket.
Remy chuckles. ‘Well, with any luck you’ll be better at dating than you are at sport.’
I’m about to say something cutting back, when Remy hits the ball against the wall and it immediately flies past my poised racket.
Remy raises his eyebrows at me, grinning. ‘Even if that’s quite a low bar.’
‘Hello?’
I step out of the shower and tuck a towel around my hips as Stevie’s voice booms through the flat.
After a few more games of squash with Remy (if you can call it that), we went to a pub round the corner for a beer and a sandwich before parting ways.
I decided to stroll back through Primrose Hill park, as the crisp autumn air was refreshing against my warm, post-exercise face. But then the clouds gathered and it started to rain, and of course I had no umbrella or coat with me. My legs would not have complied if I’d tried to break into a run after the hour or so of forced fun Remy had tricked me into. So I strolled through the rain, letting the beads of water hit my face and drip down my neck. There is something quite freeing about turning your face to the sky and letting the rain come down on you, ignoring the natural instinct to race under the nearest shelter or duck your head under your arms. By thetime I got back to our flat, my skin was pale and prunish and my hair was dripping wet. Two small puddles surrounded my shoes when I took them off by the front door.
‘Hi, buddy,’ I say, pushing the bathroom door open, which nearly takes Stevie out as he tries to slip into the kitchen whilst walking down our impressively narrow hallway.
