‘You think she loved me?’ I say, my palms hitting the table. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe she did love me, but not enough. I wasn’t her priority. Her drive. Her reason to live.’
Agnes stands, taking my face in her hands. ‘She did love you, and you’ve just proved my point with your own words. You are not your mother, and Sorcha will never live your life, but you must live it, son. Live it for you. You know, you didn’t get to be a child when you were wee, and you were barely twenty-five when you became a dad. You’ve grown so much. Learned so much. But you’ve denied yourself, too. Whatever the papers say, we’ll hold our heads high. We know what’s true, so bugger everyone else. But if you want that lovely girl to be a part of your life, you’d best move quick. Those kinds of women aren’t on the market too long. Just ask Alf,’ she says, her eyes glistening with tears.
‘I don’t know. I mean, can I?’ I collapse into the chair, my thoughts scattered but my heart hopeful. ‘You think I should give her a call?’
‘No!’ she says, frowning and slapping both of my cheeks.Twice at the same time. ‘I think you should get off your bahoochie and go see the girl!’
In the kitchen, I grab my wallet and keys from the worktop as the door into the house from the garage bangs shut.
‘Agnes,’ I say, turning to her. ‘I expect journalists will start to call.’
‘Ocht, they already have. I told the first one who called to go take a running shag at a rolling donut.’ I’d laugh if she wasn’t so blasé in her delivery. That has got to be the best—or worst, depending on the perspective—thing I’ve ever heard Agnes say. ‘Since then, I’ve had the house phone switched on silent. And I instructed the school to only contact us on our mobiles and explained why.’
‘What did the journalists have to say?
Agnes sniffs, her expression full of scorn. ‘I did’nae care to listen to them past their introduction. I just told them you weren’t available to speak.’
‘Good. Good idea.’
‘I sometimes have them,’ she answers wryly.
‘Listen, Keir.’ Without his usual and universal greeting ofG’day, Flynn strides into the kitchen. ‘I had a thought on the way home. I reckon you’re worried about kids teasing Sorcha at school—you know—what with the shiii...’ His gaze slides to Agnes, and he moderates his language accordingly as he grabs an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘What with the shizz printed in the newspaper. But listening to what Sorch said in the car? The scandal in your life is nothing, mate. Do you know her little friend’s dad has both her mum and her nanny up the duff?’
‘Would you stop shortening her name,’ Agnes chastises, taking the apple out of his hand.
‘Where is Sorcha anyway?’ I ask.
‘She’s gone to pet the furball.’ My expression must be confused as he adds, ‘Mate, you’re person-non-what’s-it compared to the new kitten.’
‘Persona non grata,’ I correct.
‘Whatevs, man. We’re all second-class citizens next to the thing with four legs.’
Shit, I forgot about the cat.‘This MBA I’m paying you to study... ’
Flynn’s head turns slowly, his expression suspicious. ‘What about it? It’s tax deductable, isn’t it?’ he answers defensively.
‘I feel the need to protect my investment, and I think you need a few days at home. For study purposes.’
‘What’s your game?’
‘And for cat sitting.’
‘No way. No way, man.’
‘I’mat home,’ Agnes says. By her tone, she might as well have said,I wouldn’t leave him to look after the kippers I have stored in the freezer,especially with the look she’s giving him. But he’s not so bad, really. Just a bit overly familiar with the old girl sometimes.
‘Agnes. I need you to pack Sorcha a few things. And while you’re on, pack a few things for yourself.’ It’s a perfect plan. We’ll be away when whatever Jayne has to say goes to print. Plus, there’s something else I’d like to do. Like get Paisley naked. See her tan without lines. Live with her—have her live with us. Enjoy her in our alone time. Give her so many orgasms she can’t help but promise to move in permanently.
It’s mad and it’s out of character, sure, but I think it’s a fucking fantastic plan.
‘What? What are you talking about?’ Agnes demands.
‘We’re going on holiday,’ I announce, suddenly feeling incredibly light. Or maybe insane. ‘You’d better dig out your passport.’
‘Where are we going?’ She sounds aggrieved, but she can’t hide the accompanying smile.
‘Wherever he books for us,’ I say, pointing at Flynn as I walk backwards out of the room.’
