Ah yes, straight to the jugular. Roger never minced his words. Neither did his mum, Val, but at least she managed hers at a normal decibel level. Kieran pictured Lisa turning up her nose at Val’s mince and tatties, lecturing them all about the dangers of gluten, meat and joy.
‘No,’ Kieran said. ‘Well, a tiny bit. It’s the app that’s doing my head in. Maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.’
‘Nonsense!’ Roger roared. ‘Last time we spoke – when was that, three weeks ago? – you were all fired up. Enthusiastic. Driven.’
Guilt curled heavily in Kieran’s chest. He’d let the calls slip. The visits, too. ‘I’m overwhelmed,’ he admitted. ‘There’s too much involved. I need help, but I can’t afford to outsource anything.’
‘I’ll lend you money,’ Roger declared immediately. ‘Low interest rates. Pay me back when you sell it for ten million.’
Kieran smiled despite himself. ‘Dad, I need to do this on my own.’
‘Stubborn as a mule, just like your mother. Ouch! Val, put that tea towel down!’
A scuffle, more booming laughter, then?—
‘Kieran, sweetheart,’ came Val’s gentler voice. ‘Are you eating? Sleeping? Washing your clothes properly?’
‘Mum, I’m not twelve.’
‘You’ll always be twelve in my heart.’
He sighed. Lovingly. ‘I’m eating well enough. The pub food’s excellent. I escape there when I need fuel or company.’
‘Anyone in particular?’ Val asked innocently. Too innocently. Mother-mode engaged.
‘Mum…’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘There’s Beth. The new chef at the pub. She’s … interesting. But not like?—’
‘Lisa? Good. You don’t need another Lisa in your life.’ Val paused. ‘What’s Beth like?’
‘Different.’ He couldn’t explain it. Wouldn’t even try. ‘I think she’s run away from something. Or someone.’
‘Do you think she’s in trouble? Or maybe she needs a friend?’
‘Maybe,’ he said, throat tight. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go. Prom’s hungry.’
‘Feed both of you properly,’ Val admonished. ‘And come visit soon.’
‘I will.’
After the call, Kieran sat still for a few moments, staring out of the streaky cottage window. Wind rattled the rickety panes. Rain began to spit against the glass.
His parents, rock solid for over thirty years. That made his three years with Lisa pale into insignificance. Would he ever meet someone he wanted to spend decades with?
‘How long do cats live, Prom?’
Prom, unsurprisingly, didn’t reply. A quick Google search revealed that the average domestic cat lived for between fifteen and twenty years. Kieran had no idea how old Prom was – they’d never exchanged birthday cards – but the thought of hitting his forties with only a cat for company didn’t fill him with joy.
Beth.Why had he mentioned her? He knew his mum dreamed of the day he turned up with a woman who made him happy. One who embraced Scottish grub and him with equal enthusiasm.
He didn’t know what to make of Beth. She was stoic, guarded, with the occasional glint of wicked humour, but shadowed. Haunted. Something about her felt fragile, like fine glass with invisible cracks.
He grabbed his coat.
A plate of chips at the pub wouldn’t break the bank. With mayo. Lots of mayo.
‘Keep an eye on the place, Prom,’ he said.
Prom blinked once. Translation:I will continue lying here like a starfish.
