Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(48)

One of them pretty handsome, actually, and not too far off my age. A little clean-cut for my hobo tastes but I’m tipsy enough not to care.

‘You never created that fine specimen, surely?’ I snatch Parnell’s phone and hold it close to my face. ‘We could DNA test him, you know, on the QT. It’s not too late to go after the milkman.’

‘Cheeky cow.’ Parnell loads another pound into the quiz machine.

‘Seriously, can you get me a date? I’d make a great daughter-in-law.’ I give him a quick poke. ‘Just think, you could see me all the time then.’

‘I don’t think you’re Dan’s type. No offence.’

‘Plenty taken though. Why? What’s wrong with me?’

‘You’re female, for a start.’

The Pinot’s dulled my brain and it takes me a second to catch on. Parnell rolls his eyes as the penny drops.

‘Boss!’ I say, punching him on the shoulder. ‘I didn’t know you had a gay son. Well done you,’ I add, inexplicably.

He spits his pint. ‘I wasn’t aware it was a personal achievement, but thanks.’ A sideways glance. ‘You know, a pint of water between drinks wouldn’t do you any harm.’

‘Oh bore off, Dad.’

The ‘D’ word pulls me up and I get a surge of affection for Parnell, simply on account of him being just about as far away from my dad as a man could be.

Slightly old-fashioned. Overweight. Decent.

‘Seriously though. Why’ve you never mentioned Dan’s gay?’

‘I’ve never mentioned Adam’s a coeliac either.’

It’s a fair point. I don’t know why I’m getting so giddy about it. In my defence, I’m feeling off-kilter tonight. Twitchier than usual. The thought of a pregnant, teenage Maryanne Doyle is sucking the air out of my lungs and I’ll do anything to block it out, whether that means soaking it with wine or bantering it away with Parnell.

‘I’ve never mentioned the twins are left-handed either.’

I gesture for another round of drinks. ‘Yeah, yeah, point taken.’

I could add it’s about the only thing he’s never mentioned. Parnell talks about six-year-old James and Joe – aka his forty-seventh year birthday presents – a lot, although it’s never quite consistent. They’re either his later-life miracle or his punishment from God, depending on how early they woke him up that morning.

‘So anyway, changing the subject,’ he says, looking curious. ‘Why are you drinking with an old duffer like me on a Thursday night? Are there no nice young men you’re currently interested in? Straight ones,’ he adds.

I laugh. ‘Plenty I’m interested in.’

He steps back, sizes me up like a prize bull. ‘You must do all right?’

‘God you’re a real charmer, Parnell, do you know that?’ He grins. ‘I suppose I do do all right. It’s not much to shout about though, is it? “All right”. I bet Emily does better than “all right”.’

‘I bet Emily’s at home right now wishing she made the team laugh as much as you do. Wishing she had your brains.’

I give Parnell a flat-eyed stare. ‘Christ, you can tell you haven’t raised women. Trust me, she won’t be thinking anything like that. She’ll be thinking, “Oh aren’t I lucky to be so princess-perfect and isn’t Kinsella lucky that she got a good personality to make up for that unfortunate nose.”’

It’s self-pitying and I don’t really believe it but it makes Parnell laugh and that always feels nice.

He pinches my nose between his thumb and his forefinger. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your nose.’

‘You don’t have to be kind, you know. I accept it.’ I put my hands together in prayer. ‘I am at peace with my conk, Parnell. Well, unless I’m around my brother and he starts his “Kinsella by name, Kinsella by nose”routine.’

‘Your brother sounds like a prick.’

‘He is. The prickiest of the pricks. I used to wish he’d die in an accident.’ Parnell looks horrified so I add a quick laugh. ‘OK, maybe not die. Just get mangled up a bit, fed through a tube .?.?.’

‘You’re bloody dark, Kinsella. I wouldn’t go telling your shrink that, she’ll have a field—’

‘How do you know about that?’

My voice burns with accusation but of course he knows. Of course Steele would have told him. You can’t sell a car without the logbook and you can’t give someone responsibility for me without mentioning the faulty wiring.

I can’t meet his eyes.

‘Look, anything to do with kids is tough. Stop beating yourself up.’

It’s a genuine plea from someone who knows, not a half-meant platitude or a counselling cliché, but I really, really don’t want to go here with Parnell. I rather liked how I thought he saw me – a bit dark, a bit clever and with a perfectly OK nose. It makes me all kinds of miserable that he knows I can’t keep my shit together.

He turns my cheek, forces me to look at him. ‘Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong, Cat.’

Cat. Not ‘kiddo’. Not even ‘Kinsella’.

‘So everyone keeps telling me but I didn’t do anything right either.’ He waits for me to go on. ‘I froze, Boss. I threw up. I cried – hysterically. All in front of a little girl who’d just spent the best part of two days doing jigsaws next to her mum’s corpse.’