Page 70 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
I lean across the table and lower my voice. “I don’t mind if you want to have a real drink.”
He grins at me. “Nah. I drink too much beer anyway. Not good for the gut.” He pats his rock-hard stomach, and I suddenly wonder what my Richard from childhood now looks like with his shirt off.
“I’m still in shock that you came into my studio today,” he tells me. “You know I wasn’t even supposed to be working today.”
“I know. The woman who works there told me the artist I’d booked in with was sick and that I’d be getting you instead. She called you Rocco, and obviously that meant nothing to me. If she’d said ‘Richard’, the thought would have at least occurred to me that it might be you, though I would never have thought itwould be really. It’s not as though there aren’t plenty of Richards in London.” I shrug. “Maybe it was fate. The other artist got sick because the world conspired to throw us together.”
He studies my face. “You believe in all of that?”
I give a small laugh. “Probably not, but it would be nice if that kind of thing did happen. It would take all the work out of everything, wouldn’t it? We wouldn’t need to question and overanalyse everything that happens because we can just put it all in the hands of fate.”
“Well, maybe fate did bring us back together again,” he says. “And I’m really happy it did. I’ve thought of you all these years, wondering what happened to you and how you were getting on. I even checked social media, hoping your name might come up somewhere, but it never did.”
I shake my head. “No, I’ve never liked any of that stuff. I guess I’ve just kept my head down.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “For ten years?”
“Yeah.”
Social media isn’t something I’ve ever enjoyed. What sorts of things would I have ever been able to post about, except my illness? While others around me were landing their perfect jobs, or their dream men, and were buying houses and having babies, I was going to and from the hospital. It’s less painful to pretend my life isn’t a shadow of everyone else’s.
Margarite arrives back with our sparkling water and two glasses filled with clinking ice cubes and slivers of lemon.
“Starters won’t be long,” she tells us.
We wait until she’s left again, and then Rocco leans back across the table. I match his motions, so we both lean in toward each other, reducing the space. We aren’t holding hands, but our forearms are close enough to pick up on each other’s body heat.
“We had the most perfect childhood, though, didn’t we?” he says. “I mean, not with how my dad was, but with the two of us.When I look back, all I remember is summers on the beach, rock pooling, swimming, and surfing.”
I grin at the memories. “And do you remember Mr Norton’s orchard, where we used to go scrumping? He used to get so mad when he caught us, but it would just make things seem more dangerous for us, daring each other to run in and steal apples and get out again before he saw us.”
Rocco laughs. “Those apples were so sour as well. I can’t believe we used to eat them.”
I put my hand to my mouth, hiding my smile. “I think they were probably cooking apples. It’s a wonder we didn’t make ourselves sick.”
The mention of me being sick is like a damp towel across the flames of my joy. I know I’m going to have to tell him, but I really don’t want to. I’m enjoying him treating me like this, how I’m just a normal girl out on a date with a sexy, fun man.
Our starters arrived—a lobster terrain with watercress.
“This looks incredible,” I say as the woman places the dishes in front of us. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, thank my husband,” Margarite tells us. “I’m a terrible cook. But he’ll be out at the end to meet you all.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
The main course is duck confit with steamed green vegetables and dauphinoise potatoes. I normally regulate what I’m eating, always careful not to include too much salt, but I push my worries to the back of my mind and focus on enjoying the delicious food.
I remember something, pausing with my fork heading towards my mouth. “Hey, I felt bad the other day for not asking how your dad is doing.”
Rocco shrugs. “He’s much the same. Still drinking, and I doubt that will ever stop. I’ve given up thinking he will ever change. When he was done for drunk driving, I thought thatmight have given him the shove he needed, but he just carried on as though nothing had happened.”
I wince. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
His dad had always been like the elephant in the room. Even when we’d been younger, and hadn’t realised what was going on, we’d known he hadn’t been quite right. He’d either be happy and fun, dancing with us and throwing Rocco over his shoulder and spinning him around, or he’d be angry and slurring, forced to use the wall to lean against to stay standing upright. We’d learned to avoid him when he was like that, and we’d go over to my house instead where my parents were a typical middle-class family, with a father who worked too much and was often away, and a mother who was always lovely, but who allowed herself to be walked over by her husband. My mum would smile and say she didn’t mind when I asked her if there wasn’t more she wanted from life than staying home every day. Now both my parents are retired, and it seems to me that my mother’s life is exactly the same as it had been when I had been a young child. Of course, a lot of my mother’s time has ended up revolving around my illness. After we’d moved, I’d got sick almost within the first few days. My parents put it down to the stress of the move, and I was lovesick from leaving Rocco behind, but when I didn’t get better, they’d taken me to see a doctor. I was sleeping all the time, and when I wasn’t sleeping I found myself short of breath and dizzy. Then my legs and ankles had swollen up, and I remember how embarrassed and ashamed I’d been, looking like the elephant man when I was a self-conscious seventeen-year-old girl.
I hadn’t wanted anyone to see me, and that had included Rocco, and I had been grateful at that point that he was hundreds of miles away.
