Jez’s face has become crimson. “You could have been anyone.”
“And I was.” Xavier shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I know how it is.”
Jez nods, looking relieved, but I stare at Xavier, feeling troubled. Does Jez not see the vulnerability in his son’s face? It’s covered by several layers of snark but is still completely obvious to me. How did he feel? His mum died, and years later he discovers a few things about his father. How much courage did it take for him to reach out? And what must he have thought of Jez when he treated him like a criminal?
“I’m sorry about your mum,” I say quietly. Jez had found out that she’d died in a car accident. Her boyfriend at the time had been driving, losing control of the car and ploughing into a tree.Apparently, Xavier was very young when it happened, and his grandparents had taken over his care.
He examines my face, but his expression is inscrutable. Finally, he nods, his eyes warming. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I didn’t have her for long, and I know she was wild, but she was also funny and very kind.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, then,” I say. Our gazes meet and hold, and for the life of me I can’t look away.
Jez shifts, clearing his throat, and I drag my eyes away from Xavier.
“Yeah,” Jez says. “I’m sorry too,” he mutters.
Xavier inclines his head, and I feel a surge of admiration for him. He’s so young, but there’s something dauntless and brave about him.
Jez motions at me. “Reuben can sympathise, anyway. He didn’t know his dad.”
“I actually didn’t know that, but how absolutelysuperof you to tell me that private detail,” Xavier says.
Jez nods as if he’s done a good job, completely missing the sarcasm.
Xavier turns to me. “I’m sorry.”
I look up, smiling my thanks as the waiters remove our plates. Xavier hasn’t touched his. “It’s fine. He walked out on us when I was only a few weeks old. I’m pretty sure it’s a case of what I don’t know can’t hurt me.”
He stares at me with a look of surprise and sudden understanding on his face. “Yeah, I can see that. What was your mum like?”
I hesitate, looking at Jez. Shouldn’t they be discussing their own connection?
When Jez picks up his phone and scowls at it, I exhale slowly and smile at Xavier. “She was wonderful. Very beautiful, but also funny. She died when I was five.”
“So, who brought you up?”
“My godmother. She lives in the South of France, so I grew up there.” I shrug. “Well, spent the holidays there. I went to boarding school in Scotland because she didn’t want me to lose track of my roots.”
Jez puts his phone away. “That fucking school,” he says, signalling for more drinks.
Xavier doesn’t even look at him. “Was it nice? My grandparents bought me alotof books about boarding schools when I was little.” He leans closer, his eyes dancing. “Looking back, I think it might have been a teeny, little hint at what they saw in my future.”
I laugh and run my hand through my hair. “It was fine,” I say.
Jez blows a raspberry. “It was fucking dreadful. A godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere.”
I roll my eyes. “Otherwise known as the Scottish Highlands.”
“Whatever. It had been a monastery, and I don’t think they ever updated the heating in the place.”
I nod. “They could have set up as a sanatorium in their off time.”
Xavier laughs. Our meals arrive, and after a few minutes of passing the salt and pepper and sampling the food, I pick up the conversation. “Anyway, it was a school that aimed to turn boys into men—men who should be preparing for the army. There were rather a lot of ice-cold showers and beatings. The teachers could have moonlighted as interrogators.”
“It was Lord of the Flies with the addition of treacle pudding and cross-country,” Jez mutters.
Xavier laughs. It’s a loud laugh, unrestrained and full of amusement, and I see Jez look at him with new eyes. He’s always liked an audience, and performs in order to draw people in. It’s what makes him such a good journalist.
“God, that cross-country,” I mutter. “I think the SAS use that path for training missions now.”
