The Road Trip(50)

For a swift moment I’m tempted to say, No, don’t take it, and see how much his loyalty to me will stretch, but I don’t. I’m not that man. And I suspect he may well have already accepted.

‘Of course you should take it. It’s a good opportunity.’

We’ve wandered into Waitrose, drawn by the cool blast of the fridges; Marcus opens the door to the milk and makes a show of trying to climb in, and despite myself, I laugh.

‘Remember when you made me down four pints of milk after a night out at Wahoo?’ he says, rubbing his back against the cool glass like a bear against a tree.

Wahoo was one of the Oxford nightclubs – actually a sports bar that transformed itself for students at night. It always smelled of sweetcorn and inexplicably played the shopping channel on its TV screens while the DJ blasted out something by Flo Rida.

‘I did not make you down four pints of milk,’ I say, glancing at the tills. A young woman in a Waitrose uniform gives us an uncertain look; she is presumably trying to work out which rule Marcus is breaking by attempting to insert himself into the milk fridge.

‘You definitely did,’ Marcus says. ‘Why else would I have done it?’ He flashes me a grin that says he knows what I’m going to tell him.

‘Because you’re a senseless hedonist,’ I say, and his grin widens. ‘Come on, get out of there, the woman behind the till is trying to work out if she needs to section you.’

I flinch at my choice of words, but Marcus doesn’t clock it; he throws the woman at the till a look.

‘Eh, she’s harmless,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t call security even if I pinched a two-pinter. Which I won’t,’ he says, rolling his eyes as my smile drops. ‘Christ, what will it take to convince you I don’t do that sort of thing any more?’

Addie, Rodney and Deb come into the shop and pause as they catch sight of Marcus trying to pull the fridge door closed with him inside. I give him a pointed look as he registers their expressions.

‘Well, if you were hoping for a full personality transplant, you might as well give up on me now,’ he says, and he’s not grinning any longer. ‘But I’m hoping you’ll meet me halfway.’

‘Excuse me,’ says the lady at the till. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Oh, would you?’ Marcus calls back. ‘I just need a foot up and a few milk cartons shifted and I reckon I can wriggle into the second shelf.’

‘I’m not . . . I don’t think you’re meant to be doing that,’ she says, perplexed.

To my surprise, I can hear Deb and Addie laughing. I glance at them and the sight of Addie hiding her giggle behind a hand, her bracelets sliding down her arm, sets off something warm deep in my stomach, like the moment hot water hits tea. That laugh sounds like comfort, easy pleasure, the delight of somebody you love loving you back. I’d forgotten the way her eyes narrow when she laughs.

Marcus is right, I think – I’m pushing him too hard, expecting too much, or perhaps expecting the wrong thing altogether. He’s Marcus. That’s not going to change. And, quite honestly, as I watch him reason with the bemused shop assistant, I realise I don’t want it to.





THEN





Addie

From the moment Dylan gets home, he barely leaves my side. Even on Christmas Day he drops around in the evening, making the drive all the way from his parents’ place in Wiltshire just to hand-deliver our presents and join us for microwaved mulled wine in front of Elf.

Once term restarts in January, he’s actually a really great support about work too, now he’s around to listen. He always seems to get things from the kids’ point of view. He was a delinquent at secondary school, apparently. Almost kicked out of the super-posh private school his parents chose for him. Though he claims that was mostly Marcus’s fault.

I come home from work one night in January and find Dylan sprawled on the sofa, watching Dad’s latest documentary. He’s staying in an Airbnb while he flat-hunts, but he’s here most nights. Already smiling, I kick my shoes off in the hall.

‘You must come and try fly-fishing at ours,’ Dylan is saying as I come into the room. He sips from one of our most chipped mugs – clearly Mum doesn’t see him as a guest any more. ‘My family has fishing rights for a stretch of the Avon, and they go to waste. My brother and I proved disappointingly poor sportsmen. Luke could never be doing with it and I didn’t have the patience,’ he says ruefully, scratching the back of his head.

My dad blinks a few times. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Golly. Thanks.’

I catch my mum’s eye. She’s tidying up around the living room – my mum is always bending down to pick up an errant sock or a used glass – and I watch as her lip twitches in amusement. He’s so posh, she mouths at me. I pull a face.

‘Don’t pretend you don’t love the idea of owning half a river one day,’ she whispers to me as she passes me to the kitchen.

I laugh and follow her. ‘You like him though? Right?’

‘Why do you keep asking me that?’ she says, loading the dishwasher.

I move to help her. She bats me away for putting a cereal bowl in the bottom instead of the top.

‘I just . . . I want you to like him.’

‘Well, I do.’ She looks at me shrewdly. ‘Do you want me to say he can stay here until he finds his own place, instead of hopping around all those short-term rentals?’