Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(10)

“What in God’s name is that?”

“The balls off a badger. Steamed.”

She snorted, screwing her angular face into an expression of disgust. “Sounds about right.” Mrs. Conrad wasn’t the only drama queen in Red’s life. Add his mum and Vik to the mix, and he was practically drowning in them.

He was just about to tell her the actual ingredients of pistou soup when she leaned toward the window, her voice rising to the level of a low-flying airplane. “Oi, Mike! I can see you, you scumbag! Get over here.”

Mike was, essentially, Mum’s good-for-nothing boyfriend. This was how they flirted. Red took himself to the stove and stirred his pistou soup, pointedly ignoring the things Mike shouted back. The guy was in his seventies, drank like a fish, and was round the bookies every afternoon like clockwork. Red did not approve.

It wasn’t as if he could say anything about it, though. Not when Mum had warned him about his last girlfriend, Pippa, and he’d merrily ignored her to the bitter, bloody end. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Relationship Expert. But he wouldn’t think about Pippa, or London, or his countless mistakes, because it only pissed him off, and Red hated feeling pissed off. Chill and cheerful was more his speed.

He was just regaining his equilibrium, clearing the dishes after a decent lunch, when Mum approached his most sensitive subject with all the delicacy of a rampaging rhino.

“Back to selling any paintings yet?”

Ah, his favorite topic. “Not yet,” Red said calmly. A little too calmly, but Mum didn’t seem to notice.

“Gee up, babe. You’ve been messing about for years now.”

Years? “It’s only been eighteen months.”

“Don’t correct your mother.”

He really didn’t get enough credit for his boundless patience. Maybe he should make himself an award. To the Much-Put-Upon Redford Thomas Morgan, in Recognition of Endurance in the Face of Pointless Questions About Art. Something like that.

“You can’t let that nasty little rich girl destroy your career,” Mum went on.

Too late. Red squirted a liberal amount of washing-up liquid into the bowl.

“Don’t give me the silent treatment, Redford. Answer me. What’ve you been up to? You are working, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he sighed, because if he didn’t tell her something she’d nag until his ears bled. “Mainly freelance illustration. Building my portfolio.” Again. “I just finished these pen-and-ink drawings of a brain and a bottle of port.”

Mum looked at him as if his head had fallen off.

“Lifestyle magazine,” he explained. “An article on erectile dysfunction.”

She huffed and turned fully away from the window, spearing him with her still-seeing eye. It glinted suspiciously from behind her amber-tinted glasses. “You’ve been drawing pictures for magazines since you were a boy. What are you waiting for? Sell some bloody paintings again. You have done some, haven’t you?”

Oh, yeah, he’d done some. He’d been painting as obsessively as always, and some of it was even half decent. But it was different. It was different, and he was different, and the things he knew were different, and after all the bad decisions he’d made …

Well. Red had plenty of work to sell. But thus far, he didn’t have the balls to show it to a single soul. Every time he considered it, a familiar, cut-glass accent reminded him of a few things. You try so hard, Red, and it’s pathetic. Accept what you are, sweetie. You were nothing before me, and you’ll be nothing after me.

Chloe Brown’s bladelike enunciation had nothing on Pippa Aimes-Baxter’s.

And why the fuck was he thinking about Chloe again?

“You gonna be a landlord forever?” Mum demanded.

He shook his head sharply, like a dog, brushing off the unwanted memories. “Vik’s the landlord, Mum. I’m his superintendent.”

“You should take a leaf out of Vikram’s book, in my opinion. Who could stop that boy? No one. Nothing.”

True. Vik Anand, aside from being Red’s best mate, was a minor property mogul who’d given Red the superintendent job after … well. After Pippa. Red was only vaguely qualified, but he hadn’t fucked anything up yet, and he was a decent plumber. Decent electrician. Excellent decorator. Damned hardworking.

Shit at the admin, but he did his best.

Aaaand, he was making excuses.

“You’re right,” he said, scrubbing out a saucepan, squinting when his hair fell into his eyes. It was like seeing the world through tall, dead grass at sunset. His fingers were turning red in the almost-boiling, bubbly water, the tattoo of MUM across his knuckles as bold as ever, each letter sitting just above his granddad’s silver rings. That tattoo hadn’t been his brightest teenage decision, but the sentiment remained: he loved the hell out of his mother. So he looked over at her and repeated, “You are absolutely right. Tomorrow morning, I’ll get on it properly. Start planning. Think about a new website.”

She nodded, turned back to her window, and changed the subject. Started gossiping about Mrs. Poplin’s witless nephew who’d gone and knocked up the girl from the corner shop who had a missing front tooth, could you believe?

Red Hmmm’d in all the right places and thought about how to make Kirsty Morgan proud. He ended his visit with a kiss to both of her cheeks and a promise to pop in during the week, when he could. Then he put on his helmet and leathers, got on his bike, and sped home to the apartment building that was his blessing and his excuse.