Neil opened it.
Rory stood on the step. Clean shirt, dark blue, the good one, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Jeans without paint. Hair tied back. The lip ring catching afternoon light. Carrying a flat package wrapped in brown paper.
He looked good.
‘Mr Cavanaugh.’ Neil's voice. The surname.
‘Mr Ashworth.’ Rory's mouth twitched. The private joke, reactivated. He held up the package. ‘Delivery for the birthday boy.’
From inside the flat, at volume: ‘IS THAT MR CAVANAUGH?’
Freddie materialised in the hallway like a summons. He was wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt, cake crumbs on his chin, and a paper crown that had been sellotaped together twice. He took one look at Rory, abandoned all restraint, and launched himself.
Rory caught him. Picked him up with one arm, a movement so natural it didn't look practised. Freddie wrapped both arms around his neck.
‘You came to my PARTY.’
‘Course I did, mate. Happy birthday.’
‘I'm SIX.’
‘I know. Ancient. Practically retired.’
‘What's that?’ Eyes on the package.
‘Open it and find out.’
Neil stepped aside. Rory entered. His eyes swept the flat, the painter's scan. His painting on the wall, the briefest pause. The bookshelf. The fridge with the drawings. The clean surfaces.
Freddie tore the paper. The Spider-Man painting emerged. A3, mounted on thick card. Spider-Man mid-swing above a city skyline, the figure rendered in full technique, the musculature real, the web detailed, the city below in Rory's characteristic bruised palette but warmer, brighter.
Freddie went still.
‘That's proper,’ he whispered.
‘Did you paint this? With paint? Like the real paintings?’
‘Same paint. Same brushes. Same technique. You deserved the real thing.’
Freddie looked up at Neil. The chin trembling. The eyes bright.
‘Dad. Look.’
‘I see it, Fred.’
‘It's art.’
‘It is.’
‘It's art of Spider-Man. That's the best kind of art.’
Gemma appeared from the kitchen. Saw the painting. Looked at Rory. Looked at Neil.
‘Rory,’ she said. Bright. Direct. Extending her hand. ‘I'm Gemma. I've heard a lot.’
‘Likewise.’ Rory shook her hand. No stiffness. No performance.
‘The coffee's terrible,’ Gemma said. ‘Fair warning. But the cake's good.’
