Hope flares bright in Delta’s green eyes. ‘And they turned out all right, didn’t they?’
‘He was struck off a few years later though, so don’t put much stock by his advice.’
‘Ah, shite.’
I pat Delta’s leg beneath the table as Mum knocks back half of her drink and puts the glass down. ‘Dutch courage,’ she shudders. ‘Darling, I’ve got some news.’
I go clammy in case it’s something terrible, and Delta’s hand slips into mine.
‘I’ve got a boyfriend.’
Of all the things I thought she might say, that wouldn’t have even made the list. I’m so surprised I don’t know what to say. Baby Raff covers for me with an impromptu fart, making Delta jump up and take him from me, laughing as she leaves us to it.
‘Anthony,’ Mum says, uncharacteristically flustered as she supplies info I haven’t asked her for. ‘Online, would you believe?’
‘Honestly, Mum, no, I wouldn’t,’ I say, blindsided. She doesn’t have a computer and barely uses her phone. ‘I mean … how?’
‘Tom set his old computer up in my spare room so I could talk to you properly, the screen on my phone is so small. I wanted your head to be life-size.’
I half laugh because this whole conversation is weird.
‘Anyway, I had this message ping in from Anthony James, a boy I went to school with. Had a terrible crush on him, truth be told, everyone did. He wanted to plan a school reunion, so I offered to help.’
I nod and down my drink. Barney glances at me from behind the bar, always ready to refill an empty glass. I’m grateful. This is going to take more than one gin. It isn’t that I mind, I don’t. It’s just that she’s been happy on her own for ever. She’s Mum. She’s Gran. It’s easy to forget that she’s Helen too.
‘And how’s it going?’ I ask, fumbling my way forward in the conversation. ‘Has the reunion happened?’
‘For two, as it turned out,’ she says. ‘He’s widowed too. Ten years ago.’
‘Right,’ I say, swallowing, smiling gratefully at Barney when he arrives with two French 75s.
‘The others already know,’ Mum says. ‘I asked them not to tell you, I wanted to do it myself.’
Nervousness clouds her gentle eyes and I hear the yearn for approval in her voice.
‘Mum, I don’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ I say. ‘It just surprised me, that’s all.’
‘It surprised me too,’ she says with a relieved laugh that verges on a girlish giggle.
I raise my glass, a toast. Some things feel as if they’re set in stone, don’t they? The tide will always come in, Kylie Minogue will look eighteen for ever and Mum will always be single. It jolts me to acknowledge that even things written in stone can change.
‘Do you want to talk about him?’
Mum’s question comes out of the blue as we sit on the steps of Otter Lodge before turning in. We haven’t mentioned Mack all day, it’s been a whirl of meeting, greeting and settling in. We’re stuffed with her home-made spag bol, cooked at home and brought over in Tupperware stashed in her bag. It wasn’t the only thing either; my belated birthday coffee cake is on the counter with a couple of slices now missing. I don’t have a clue how it made it safely from Mum’s kitchen to Otter Lodge but it doesn’t especially surprise me. Her question, on the other hand, does. I’ve never talked about Mack to her as anything more than the inconvenient American.
‘There’s not much to say, Mum. He was here for a while, and now he isn’t.’
She puts her arm around me and tucks the blanket in. ‘What’s he like?’
Oh. ‘He’s …’
God, he’s so many things.
‘He’s a brilliant photographer and an even more brilliant father. He’s a little bit broken and he smells like the morning sea breeze.’ I lean my head on her shoulder. ‘He loves the Red Sox and Springsteen. He has this strip of pale skin across the back of his neck where his camera strap lies.’ I touch my fingers to the back of my neck in the same place. ‘He carries a piece of chalk I gave him in his pocket and a sliver of my heart in his chest.’ I hold up my thumb and finger to demonstrate the small amount of space I inhabit three thousand miles away. ‘He takes his coffee bitter and he can’t stand on one leg for anywhere near as long as I can. His eyes are two different colours and cheesecake would be his death-row dessert.’ I close my eyes, remembering all of our late-night lists. ‘And for a little while, he made me feel as if I’d swallowed stars.’