‘Hi. Want to come in?’ She flashes a smile.
Not really, no. I want to be at home, foolishly thinking that everyone’s doing fine instead of standing here, together but not together because it feels as if we’re falling apart.‘Yes please,’ I say. ‘Our son lives on the top floor.’
‘No problem.’ She unlocks the door and as we follow her inside, Eddie stomps down towards us.
‘Oh, you’re in,’ he says accusingly. As if we should have waited obediently outside.
‘Hello, Eddie.’ I force a hug on him as the girl heads upstairs.
‘Hey, son.’ Frank and Eddie embrace awkwardly.
‘So, d’you want to go straight out?’ I start. ‘Or shall we—’ I cut off as Eddie bounds out into the street. Okay, so we’renotgoing up to the flat. What did he think we’d do up there? Talk to his friends? Dare to accept a cup of tea? It’s only as we head away from his building that I notice his unusually smart attire.
‘You look good, Eddie,’ I venture, scampering to catch up with him. ‘New clothes?’
‘Uh, yeah. Yeah.’ He nods.
‘Wow.’What brought this on?I wonder. Eddie tends to wear clothes until they disintegrate, virtually hanging in tatters off his body. Yet today his mid-blue shirt looks neatly pressed, and in place of his usual jeans he’s wearing smart black trousers. I’d be no more startled to see him wearing jodhpurs. And I’ve never seen his blazer-typejacket before. I’ve never seen Eddie inanyjacket, other than a puffer or various sports-related items, apart from when we attended a Portuguese cousin’s wedding. Then he looked like he’d had a gun put to his head to force him into a suit.
Today, as we round the corner, I also notice that his hair looks unusually clean. He’s shaved too. And do I detect a gust of fragrance?
‘So, where d’you want to go?’ I ask.
‘There’s this place,’ Eddie replies vaguely. His flat’s a tip, I decide, and he doesn’t want us to see it – as if we’d care, with everything that’s happened. That still doesn’t explain why he’s dressed for court.
We cut across the grassy expanse of The Meadows. It’s a grey, chilly day and it seems to be mainly populated by runners and a group of dads and children playing football. ‘Where are we going, Ed?’ his father asks.
‘Just thisplace.’
Frank throws me a curious look.
‘What kind of food is it?’ I ask, as if it matters. It could be cat food for all I care, because we’re not here to enjoy lunch. We’re here to show a united and supportive front.
‘Just normal food,’ Eddie replies distractedly, and soon we’re in the melee of Princes Street, virtually breaking into a trot as Eddie swerves past tourists consulting their phones and taking selfies with the castle as a backdrop.
I glance at my son as he powers along. He normally employs a slow, loping walk, checking his phone constantly and puffing on a roll-up. Perhaps he’s quit? Is this the start of a new, wholesome Eddie, preparing to be a dad? I’d ask, but am afraid of being accused of ‘getting on’ at him.
‘Anywhere will do, love,’ I remark, catching my breath. ‘Shall we just find somewhere—’
‘We’re going to thisplace,’ he announces with more force than seems necessary.
‘All right, Ed.’ His dad frowns, clearly baffled – as I am – by the lengthy march. Since puberty kicked in, our firstborn has avoided unnecessary movement.
‘You haven’t … booked somewhere, have you?’ I ask.
‘Uh, yeah. I mean, no. Not me. But somewhere’s booked.’ I exchange another look with Frank. We’d be no more shocked if he’d booked opera tickets.
It dawns on me now: he’s taking us to Bracken, where he works! This is a major step forward. With its tasting menu it’ll cost an absolute packet but, on the positive side, this would suggest he’s not ashamed of us after all. ‘Eddie,’ I start, ‘are we going toyourrestaurant?’
‘No!’ He looks appalled, and my heart seems to drop as we find ourselves in the New Town. The Georgian terraces look so elegant in sunshine, but today seem rather bleak under a buff-coloured sky.
Eddie swerves into a cobbled side street. It’s one of those streets where you don’t really know what happens inside the buildings. There are brass plaques and discreet signs saying things like J Pritmarsh Associates and The Onyx Society. I imagine middle-aged men in suits, Chesterfield sofas and whisky in cut-glass tumblers.
Eddie stops abruptly, mouth set in a grim line. ‘We’re here.’
‘What d’you mean, we’re here?’ Confused, I glance around. There’s no café or restaurant as far as I can see.
‘I mean, this is it.’ He indicates the nearest doorway.The outer door is open, and beyond the glass inner door I glimpse dark wooden panelling, a deep red patterned carpet and a huge, glittering chandelier.
