Chapter 50

 

Dylan was checking his emails in his study and looked up as his son came in and hovered in the doorway, looking his usual broody self. His skin was much better since he’d been to see the private specialist. Cost a bloody fortune though and the miserable little sod wasn’t one bit grateful. A word of thanks would have been nice, but as usual, verbal communication between him and Henry didn’t happen that often. If the truth be known, he didn’t really like him. It didn’t sit comfortably with him, but that was the way he felt.

He took a deep breath in, determined to make an effort. “You alright?” he asked.

“Yep.”

Henry would want something; he wouldn’t be stood there otherwise. Why did he have an irritating way of making him ask questions all the time? Why couldn’t he interact like a normal kid? And what the hell was in the huge black folder he was clutching? It looked like an art folder. If they were the paintings he’d done, he certainly didn’t have time to look at them now.

“Come and sit down. What’s up?”

Henry shrugged his shoulders.

It’d be money no doubt. Even though he gave him a generous allowance, he always needed topping up.

Henry sauntered in and perched his backside on the armrest of the sofa adjacent to the desk. Typical of him, making a point that he wasn’t actually going to sit properly and talk to his father. It sort of smacked of, I’ll half sit with you and then I’m going. He should have more respect, the spoilt little git.

He ought to remember who puts a roof over his head and food in his belly.

“There’s no more money, Henry if that’s what you’re after,” he said firmly, “I told you last month, you need to learn how to manage your allowance.”

“I don’t want any money.”

“What is it then?”

“I want to do a course at college.”

Dylan frowned. “What sort of course?”

“An Art course.”

“I’ve told you before, Art won’t pay the bills. You do realise that, don’t you?”

Another shrug.

“What’s brought college on? I’ve been trying to get you to get back to studying for a while. You said you wanted to get a job.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“And what’s prompted that?”

“I’ve always wanted to go really. Mum wanted me to.”

Any mention of his ex-wife Alicia, irritated him to death.

“It’s irrelevant what your mother wanted, she’s not here.”

He watched his son’s expression darken.

Maybe that was a bit harsh.

He sighed, “I’ve told you before, I’m not overjoyed about you studying Art. But if you really want to go, you’d better contact the college and see if there’s some sort of combination degree you can do.” He paused trying to think of a suitable option, “Maybe look at business studies so you have something to fall back on when you realise Art won’t pay you enough to live on.”

No response as usual. Clearly, not what his son wanted to hear.

“Anyway, it’s probably far too late to get on the course this year, so you’ll need to find some sort of job to tide you over while you wait for a college place.”

Henry’s face turned smug. “I can get on a degree course at the Chelsea College of Arts starting in September, to do a BA Honours in Fine Art.”

Bloody Hell.

Vic must have encouraged him to find a course.

“But you’ll still have to go through a selection process?”

Henry shook his head, “No. I’ve been to see them and they’ve said I’ve got to take you to vouch for me,” his expression was aggrieved, “because of the drugs. I told them I made a mistake and got in with the wrong crowd, and that I’m clean now. They’ve said they want to see us both before they can offer me a place.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, “Do they, now? These jumped-up college professors get on my nerves. They only want to tick a box to say they’ve met me.”

He thought about Henry having some sort of focus. It was better than nothing. At least by getting on a course, it would mean him getting out of bed each morning with a purpose. And as Vic said, another year or so when he’s come to terms with his mother’s death, he might be different again.

“I suppose we’ll have to play the game,” he frowned, “although I don’t know what the hell they think I can do with you at your age if you decide to go down that road again.”

Henry stared but didn’t answer.

“Okay,” Dylan sighed, “make an appointment and I’ll go with you.”

“I have done. It’s Friday.”

“This coming Friday?”

“Yeah.”

The Portillo was being moved. He needed to be free for that.

“I can’t make it this Friday.”

“It’s at eleven,” Henry declared.

His son seemed oblivious he’d said no.

“I’ve just said I can’t make it,” he said firmly, “ring them up and get another day.”

“It’s booked.”

“Henry, you’re not listening. I can’t make Friday. Fix up another appointment, they won’t mind. Or better still, give me the number of the tutor and I’ll ring. That’s probably all it’ll take. I might not even have to go traipsing down to the bloody college.”

“It’s Friday the 25th at eleven. We are to meet the course leader in his office. I know where it is.”

Henry’s face was becoming redder with agitation as he wasn’t getting his own way. He’d been like that from an early age. His ex-wife had defended him countless times. She reckoned kids on the autistic spectrum didn’t understand anyone else’s point of view, and tended to only see things from their own perspective. However, unlike Henry’s soft mother, he wasn’t about to give into him.

“I’m not going on Friday. I’ve told you, I’m busy.” He tried to look at Henry’s eyes to warn him it wasn’t negotiable, but his eyes were focussed on the carpet.

“Look at me, Henry when I’m talking to you.”

He waited until his son looked directly at him.

“You need to understand the whole universe doesn’t centre around you. I’ve told you I can’t make Friday. Now do as I say, get me the number and I’ll call them.”

Henry stood up and reached for the black folder resting against the chair. “Forget it,” he spat.

“There’s no need to be like that. What is that anyway, is it your artwork?”

Henry ignored him and moved towards the door.

Dylan raised his voice. “This is so typical of you. You don’t get what you want so you throw a strop. Well, I’m telling you now, that might have worked with your mother, but it won’t work with me.”

He followed Henry as he made his way into the hall and towards the staircase.

“Come back here, and stop being so bloody petulant.”

Henry carried on walking up the stairs.

“I do work you know. I can’t just drop everything to suit you.”

“Fuck you!” Henry spat.