Unplugged (Blue Phoenix, #3)(6)
Dad has a beer too, but he isn’t drinking at my pace. He sits in the chair he’s had for years, and refuses to upgrade. Would I have become my dad? I look like him, although his red hair is shorter and receding these days. Now he’s the manager of the car garage he works at, he doesn’t come home covered in oil, but I’m annoyed he still chooses to work when he now has the means to retire early. They could travel; have fun after years of bringing up me and Louise.
Mum spends the evening fussing at Goldie, the smelly animal sprawled across the sofa next to her. She settled Ella into bed after Cerys left, like a surrogate grandmother. It’s clear Mum likes having Ella around although the last day or two I’ve seen Dad rub his temples and mutter during one of Ella’s tantrums. Cerys implied Ella isn’t a melt-down girl, which worries me. This four year old is enough for me; I can’t imagine having kids who are worse than she is.
Imagine having kids. I snort at myself. Sure, Honey will pop one out and drag it on tour with us. Unlikely. Besides, she’s still pursuing her big acting career. Small parts in sitcoms, with guys who like playing tonsil tennis with her, are all she’s managed so far.
Honey. Hadn’t I decided to forget about her over Christmas?
A combination of defensive hurt and retreating to the past pushes her to the edge of my mind. Can me and Honey sort this out? Do I want to?
Conversation with my parents has dried after two days at home. What is there to share? The Honey subject is skirted around, the other Blue Phoenix guys discussed. Local gossip is imparted by Mum and the rundown of every extended family member’s health is done. Yep, definitely feel like a teen again, nothing in common with Mum and Dad.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go out with your sister,” says Mum, looking from the TV to me.
“I will one night; I got the feeling this wasn’t something I was invited to.” And would’ve been dragged screaming too, if they’d asked.
“Still got the papers following you?” asks Dad, gruffly.
“Not so much recently.”
He nods slowly and sips his beer, the unspoken hovering. Yeah, Dad, no drugs or family embarrassment.
“Are the other boys coming home for Christmas?” asks Mum.
Boys. This makes us all sound eighteen again. Skinny Dylan and Jem, shy Bryn, and awkward me.
“Nah.” I have no idea where, what, or even who they’re doing so that’s the limit of my response.
I flick a look at the ticking cuckoo clock in the corner. 11 p.m. Jesus, time goes slow watching crap TV with these two. Mum gets excited as a reality show comes on, featuring a bright blue Mediterranean Sea and sky, and whitewashed Spanish houses. Some jumped-up TV presenter is taking middle class, middle-aged British couples to visit a variety of Spanish houses, to choose which one to buy and retire to. Mum gives a running commentary on the pros and cons of each house.
“I can buy a house in Spain,” I say.
Mum laughs at me. “But you have one in America by the sea.”
This sounds so quaint coming from her. “Yeah, Mum. Malibu. By the ocean. You’ve been there. I meant a place for you and Dad in Spain, or wherever. Get away from the shitty English winters.”
Mum glances quickly at Dad then looks away again. Dad stares ahead at the TV and I bite back the suggestions I have. Why don’t they let me spend my money on making their life easier? Shit, I don’t want to be big-headed, but I have f*ckloads of money and who else would I want to give some to but my family?
I’ve been here before, had the circular arguments with them so I drop the subject before I ruin the peaceful evening. Dad wants to pretend nothing’s changed, that I’m his son who needs support. Coping with the shift in fortune is tough for him, as if I make him less of a man. I’m glad Mum persuaded him to let me buy this place for them because I know if it had been up to him, they’d still be paying a mortgage on the small terrace in town.
“Beer, Dad?” I stand. He doesn’t look at me and nods.
Mum returns to her criticism of the Spanish townhouses and the people perusing them. Dad watches silently, lost in his own thoughts.
I grab another couple of beers and sit back with them. What choice do I have? There’s a four year old sleeping in my bedroom and the single bed in the spare room is only comfortable if I’m full of alcohol and fall asleep quickly.
Plus, how often do I get to sit watching shit TV with my parents?
****
Mum and Dad go to bed and I continue drinking, flicking the TV channels for something to distract me from thoughts of my surreal, real world. The relaxed buzz of one too many beers accompanies my one-eye-open amusement at repeats of Big Bang Theory.
The front door clicks open and quietly closes, hushed voices and suppressed giggling moves from the hallway into the kitchen. I smile to myself. Drunk chicks, always funny. Louise can get a bit antsy though. I ignore them and continue with my comedy shows and beer. The clink of bottles, shushing, and continued giggling intrigues me. I’ve spent an evening sitting with the olds; I want to see what they’re up to.
Goldie sleeps in his bed in the corner of the kitchen and lifts his head as I walk in. If a dog could look pissed off, that’s what he’d be. The kitchen light is on and the two girls snicker quietly, knocking back tumbler glasses full of clear liquid. A bottle of vodka and another of tonic water are side by side on the table, lids off.