I shook my head.
‘It was the end of the barrel. And all you get at the end of the barrel is froth. But I kept on trying. “Come on, Robby,” she kept saying. “You’ll get it right next time.” It was so funny.’
‘It sounds it,’ I said, suspecting that he was burbling to avoid returning to our previous, far more interesting discussion. ‘So anyway, how come, Rob?’
‘How come what?’
‘How come you’ve never shagged anyone before? I mean, you’re a good-looking bloke. You’re not religious or anything, are you?’
A cloud crossed his features and I felt bad about having asked the question.
‘It’s…’ he said. He coughed, then cleared his throat. ‘Yeah…’ he said, looking away towards the front door, and for the first time I felt like he wanted me to leave.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Forget it.’
‘Yeah… Thanks,’ he said, turning back. ‘I…’ He shrugged.
‘Mum actually thought you might be gay,’ I said, hoping to lighten things up a bit. ‘But you’re clearly not, are you?’
‘No,’ Rob said, folding a tea-towel with surprising precision. ‘No. Everyone thinks that, yeah… But no. Not gay at all, as it happens.’
* * *
‘What’s that saying, about apples not falling far from trees?’
I’d barely made it in the door and my little brother was being snarky.
‘What’s that, honey?’ Mum called out as I hung my coat on a hook. ‘Oh, hello!’ she said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. ‘You’re home.’
‘Yep,’ I said, flatly. ‘I am.’
‘And what was that, Wayne, honey?’
‘Ignore him,’ I told Mum. ‘He’s just insulting me, as usual.’
Wayne started to climb the stairs, but then paused and turned theatrically to look back. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was rather cleverly insulting both of you.’
‘That boy!’ Mum said, returning to the kitchen. ‘I swear there’s something wrong with his brain.’
‘It’s just that I’ve actually got one!’ Wayne called out from upstairs. ‘You’re not used to that round here.’
I followed Mum into the kitchen, where she was busy greasing a frying pan with margarine. ‘I half expected you to come home with a whole new look,’ she said, shooting me a cheeky smile.
‘What?’
‘They’re supposed to be good at that, aren’t they?’ she said, sounding amused. ‘Fashion and make-up and stuff…’
‘Mum!’ I said. ‘He’s not gay.’
‘Oh, I’ll bet you anything you like that he is,’ she said. ‘Eggs?’
I shook my head. ‘I ate already.’
‘At Rob’s?’ Mum said, visibly struggling not to crack up. ‘Good cook, is he? What'd he make you, a soufflé? Eggs Florentine?’
‘Mum!’ I protested again, by now struggling not to laugh myself. ‘He really, really isn’t.’
‘Oh, OK…’ Mum said, cracking an egg. ‘Sounds like someone’s done her research.’
