‘You absolute rebel.’
‘I have my moments.’
They talked. The house was quiet behind him, radiator clicking in the hall, the garden dark through the window.
‘What did Beth get?’
‘A microscope. An actual microscope. She’s been examining the turkey since three o’clock. She told Patrick the gravy had an unacceptable particle density.’
‘She said particle density?’
‘She said particle density and then she drank it anyway, which Patrick took as a compliment.’
Neil stood at the window in his socks. His father’s hedge was a black line against the sky, perfect even in December.
‘What about you?’ Neil said. ‘What did you get?’
‘Socks. Good ones, thick, from Tess. A bottle of something Patrick made in his shed that could strip paint. And Kieran got me a sketch pad.’ A pause. ‘He’d gone to the art shop. Picked the right weight. 200gsm, acid-free, the one I use for charcoal studies. I didn’t know he’d noticed.’
‘Of course he noticed.’
‘He’s eighteen. Eighteen-year-olds notice football boots and girls and very little else.’
‘He noticed because you matter to him. People pay attention to the things that matter.’
The line went quiet. Music on Rory’s end, slow and low, strings maybe, what Rory played when he was painting and had forgotten to switch it off.
‘You still there?’ Neil said.
‘I’m here. Just thinking about what you said. About paying attention.’
‘Don’t read into it.’
‘I’m a painter. I read into everything.’ A breath. Almost a laugh. ‘Are you in the hallway?’
‘Standing by the window. In my socks. The carpet is awful, since you ask.’
‘What colour?’
‘Beige. The colour of beige. It aspires to nothing. It’s the carpet equivalent of dry beef.’
‘Your parents’ house sounds like a show home that hates joy.’
‘It’s a show home that hates joy and overseasons the parsnips and moves the cinnamon and yet somehow I keep coming back every year, so perhaps I’m the problem.’
‘You’re not the problem.’
He said it simply. No teasing register, no irony. Two words, dropped flat, and Neil gripped the phone tighter.
‘Tess made enough food for twelve people,’ Rory said. ‘There were five of us. Patrick's been sending us home with containers, Kieran alone went home with five of them. My fridge looks like a doomsday bunker.’ A pause. ‘Patrick asked when I was going to get a proper job. Over the turkey. Tess hit him with a serving spoon but he'd already said it.’
‘It's fine. He didn't mean it badly. He worries. He thinks art is a hobby and I'm a grown man with a teenager and no pension.’ Another pause. Shorter. ‘He's not wrong about the pension.’
‘Does Tess always cook for twelve?’
‘Tess always cooks for whoever might turn up. She leaves room. It's her thing. The table's always got an extra place. Even when she knows how many are coming.’ A beat. ‘I think it's because she grew up without enough. The cooking is the opposite. The cooking is there will always be enough here.’
‘That's the opposite of my mother's table. My mother cooks exactly the right amount. Down to the gram. Nobody gets seconds because there are no seconds. The portions are calculated. The leftovers are zero.’
