David watched Rory dash out of the house a little sadly.
Which was silly, really, as it wasn’t like he hadn’t spent plenty of evenings in on his own back in London. What with Brian being a dancer, their flat-share had been more like a time-share, with one coming in from work as the other went out. It wasn’t even like he had nothing to do—from the amount of homework he’d been given, he was beginning to seriously suspect Mark had missed his vocation as a teacher.
Oh well. He loaded the plates into the minuscule dishwasher and washed up the pans, then flumped back down on the sofa and rang his mother. She answered almost immediately, and David could picture her sitting in her favourite armchair with her book, her phone having rested on the arm in readiness for a call. “Hello, darling. I was just thinking of you.”
“Liar. I bet your mind was firmly focused on the latest Booker Prize contender. But I forgive you. How are you, Henny-Penny?”
“Oh, good, good. And you? How’s the new place?”
“Remember that doll’s house I had when I was a wee thing? The one that used to be Great Bron’s, but she never played with it so it was as if it was brand new, and all the little dollies still had their own hair and everything?”
“Of course. I think it’s in the attic somewhere. You know I haven’t lost hope you’ll make me a granny one day.”
“That day, alas, is not this day. What were we talking about that for? Oh, yes. Rory’s house is about that size.”
Hen laughed. “Oh dear. I hope you’re getting on all right with this Rory.”
“He’s a total sweetie. Straight, but one can’t have everything. Divorced, with two children, Lucy and Leo. And his wife left him for a Lewis, presumably because Rory wasn’t fitting in with the family L motif.”
“Oh, what’s her name?”
“Evie. The hypocrite.”
“And how old are the children?”
“School age. But still winsome. He has a photo of them on the mantelpiece. And the kitchen windowsill. And on the wall on the upstairs landing.”
“Poor man. Not in the downstairs loo?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Then we’ll have to hope that neither of you is ill. Have you met the children yet?”
“No—they’re only here every other weekend. And oh! That was what I was calling about. Can you come and visit? Tomorrow?”
“I would love to, but I’m afraid it’s far too short notice. I’m seeing Auntie Bron tomorrow. I hear she has a new girlfriend.”
“Ooh, do tell.”
“Her name is Sarah, she’s seventy-eight, and she moved into the care home a few weeks ago. That’s all I know. Oh, except that she still has all her own teeth—”
“That’s not necessarily an advantage.”
“Don’t interrupt, darling. I’m sure I taught you better than that. And apparently she used to have a piercing in her . . .”
David waited a moment or two, but no more was forthcoming. “Well, go on, where?”
“Auntie Bron wouldn’t say on the phone. She left it as a dramatic pause.”
“Bless her. Give her my love, won’t you? And if you can’t come this weekend, how about in a fortnight?”
“Let me see—I just need to check my calendar.”
David drummed his fingers on the coffee table while he waited. Then he got bored and drummed his toes. They turned out to be significantly less drummy so he went back to fingers, then whole hands. He was so caught up in the rhythm that he almost missed Hen coming back on the line.
“Darling?”
“I’m here. And queer.”
“And dear.”
David smiled at the fondness in her voice, then panicked mildly as he realised it was his turn. “And . . . austere?”
“More like insincere. Now, don’t make me be severe.”
“Why do you always win at word games?”
“Because, as you know, I’m without peer.” Hen laughed. “But you’re off your game tonight. Something troubling you?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Really?”
“Oh, Rory was talking about . . . things.”
“Things?”
“About his ex-wife. And his ex-girlfriend. Hen, do relationships ever work out? And stay worked out, I mean?”
“Of course they do. But you have to be prepared to work for it. Make compromises. Adjust your expectations, perhaps.” Hen put a certain amount of emphasis on the last phrase.
“You mean marry the coachman instead of Prince Charming. And learn to grin and bear the tendency to gnaw on the furniture and the addiction to cheese.”
“Ah, but if you loved the coachman, you’d find all that charming in itself. Just because he’s only a coachman doesn’t mean he can’t sweep you off your feet. And if you think about it, a pampered prince and a poor girl who’s been abused and treated as a slave all her life are bound to bring rather different expectations to their marriage. Maybe Cinderella would have been happier, in the long run, with a coachman.”
“You’re forgetting the very real attraction of tiaras and palaces.”
“All that glitters, darling . . . Anyway, the answer to your question is yes.”
“What question was that?”
“Do try to keep up. Yes, I can come up to Hertfordshire in a fortnight. As long as it’s all right with your . . . Rory.”
“He isn’t my Rory.”
“I hardly know what to call him. Landlord, I suppose, as he’s renting you a room. Does he own the property, or is he renting himself?”
“Renting, I think.”
“Housemate, then.” Hen said it firmly.
David wasn’t so sure. His name wasn’t on the lease. Any lease. Rory had simply named a price which seemed eminently reasonable—for which, read: insanely cheap—and asked for cash at the end of the month. The arrangement was wholly informal, and David had a sneaking suspicion it might not even be all that legal.
It was undoubtedly best to say as little as possible about it and hope no one would notice.
“Anyway, he can’t wait to meet you,” he went on swiftly, if not entirely truthfully. But if Rory knew how wonderful Hen was, he would be dying to meet her, so it was true in all essentials. Just not literally.
“And I him. Now, is there anything you want me to bring up from home?”
“Well, an extra room or two would be nice. Say the front room from downstairs—you hardly ever use that.”
Hen laughed again. “I’ll see you in a fortnight. Now, do try and behave yourself in the meantime.”
“And you. Love you.”
“Love you too, darling.”
David hung up.
David had been through as much of Mark’s Recommended Reading List as he could stand and was sitting cross-legged on the sofa in his T-shirt and yoga pants playing a game on the PlayStation when Rory finally rolled in through the front door. David glanced at the clock to find it rather later than he would have expected, given the whole early-morning-start thing.
Rory more or less wafted into the living room on a cloud of beery fumes. “Hey! David! You’re still up.” He beamed, and sat down heavily on the sofa. “Oops.”
“I see the meeting took its toll,” David said drily, leaving his little avatar to bob helplessly on the screen and turning to Rory.
“Nah, Barry needed to talk so me and him had a pint after.”
A pint of what? Whiskey? “What was the emergency?”
Rory frowned. “Uh . . . Not sure. Something about the wife maybe?” He yawned. “Not sure we actually got round to it, whatever it was, but he seemed to have cheered up anyhow by the time they called last orders. You had a good evening?”
“Mm. I spoke to Hen. She can’t make it this weekend, but she’s coming over in two weeks—is that okay?”
“Yeah, no problem.” Rory yawned again, this time so widely his jaw clicked loudly.
David tutted. “You should be careful doing that. I had a friend who dislocated his jaw once and he said it was awful. Hideously uncomfortable, and everyone just laughed at him. Of course, in his case it wasn’t yawning that caused it . . . Shouldn’t you go to bed? Don’t you have to be up for work in an hour or so?” He shuddered.
“Yeah. ’N a minute.” Rory shut his eyes and almost immediately began snoring softly.
David closed down the PlayStation, switched off the television, and sighed. Should he wake Rory up and get him to bed? Or would it be easier to bring the bed to Rory?
And how on earth had the man managed when he’d been living on his own? Then again, that alarm clock of his probably woke people living several streets away.
David had an idea. He lifted Rory’s feet up onto the sofa so he was lying flat, then pillowed his head on one of the squashy, oversized cushions.
Satisfied Rory was still dead to the world, he nipped upstairs to fetch the instrument of early-morning torture, brought it back down, and shoved it under Rory’s makeshift pillow.
David gazed at Rory with a fond smile. There. Humanitarian duty done. Hmm. Should he bring down the duvet?
No, it was a warm night, the chills of autumn having not yet fully taken hold. David settled for taking the throw that was over the back of the sofa and tucking it loosely around Rory’s boozy form. After a moment’s thought, he brought a pint glass of water from the kitchen and, while he was at it, the washing-up bowl, and placed them strategically where they could do the most good.
Now he could go to bed.