“That I'll drink,” I finish for her, sitting next to my father as if he’ll provide protection.
“No,” she says after a beat.
“And by no, you mean yes?” I uncover the plate she’s made for me and fuck, it looks good. Bacon, two fried eggs, toast, roasted tomatoes and some fun-looking potato and feta dish that has spinach, oregano and rosemary in it. Yum.
“Okay, yes, a bit. And what about other things...”
I grab some cutlery while rolling my eyes. “It’s a five-star resort for honeymooners and rich retirees, I doubt it's a hotbed for hallucinogenics and poppers.”
“You’d be surprised,” my Dad says from behind his newspaper.
“James, you're not helping,” my mother says pointedly. “It would be useful if you could tear yourself away from the sports pages to support me a bit here.”
My father's sigh is so dramatic in its force and volume that it gets a smile out of me.
“How do you need my help, my darling?” he says, folding up the newspaper.
“Can you talk to Aiden about what this week is all about? About our wishes?”
“Jesus, Mary, and the twelve disciples.” My father's head droops like it’s suddenly a lot heavier.
“Or explain how we're not keeping an eye on him, rather just wanting to spend some time together,” my mother adds. Her hand reaches for mine across the table. Her touch isn’t exactly unwelcome, but my skin still bristles.
“I know, Mum, but I also think you need to trust me. With the drinking thing, especially.”
She sighs. “Honestly, you're right. I know it's more my problem than yours. I think I feel guilty for bringing you somewhere where alcohol is well, everywhere...”
“Mum, I work in a bar, six nights a week.”
“I know, but your uncle is there, and everyone at work knows... about... about...”
“About me spending the final six months of last year absolutely wasted, shagging my way around the Balearics until I drunk-drove a scooter into a wall and ended up in hospital with a punctured lung?” I finish, and silence falls.
“Yes, that,” Mum says eventually, her lips pursed.
“Itwasa bit irresponsible of you, son,” my dad speaks up and I look at him. His eyes are straining to read the crossword clues on the paper now folded up some distance in front of him. I’m not sure if it’s my exhaustion, grief, or the reminder of what a royal fuck up I’ve been, but his light-heartedness and defiantly upbeat sarcasm quickly morphs into something that infuriates me almost as much as my mother’s interrogations.
“Well, it's not every day your boyfriend and best mate dies of a rare blood cancer,” I say, and I’d almost be proud of getting the words out if I didn’t sound so viciously bitter.
Dad doesn’t say anything, but he does hold my gaze and give me a quick half-nod.
“We know why it happened.” Mum ends the short silence. “Well, some of it. Can't say I would have done it, all the same.”
“Mum, your version of rebelling is skipping a book club meeting.”
She leans forward. “I only did that once and it was because I read the wrong book! You'd be amazed how many books were written about women on trains that year.”
I groan as I swallow a mouthful of egg. “The point is, I know I fucked up in Ibiza and I think I also know why you invited me on this holiday, or rather, why you insisted I came,” I say.
“Because we want you to have a holiday. We see how hard you're working. And it's your birthday in a few days,” she adds, like it's an afterthought, which I suspect it is.
“And you think if I was at home, alone, I'd do something stupid like go and get drunk or high.”
“No, darling, we...”
“Yes, that's exactly what we thought,” Dad cuts in, his hands inching closer to the newspaper.
“James!”
