“For all its faults, the Internet has some uses,” I carried on. “If only for reassurance that other people feel like you. Growing up, I was convinced I was the only one.”
Pouring it out to Matt in the semi-darkness of my guest bedroom felt so easy. Like a confessional or a psychiatrist’s couch. Secrets were not a good foundation for building a successful marriage, and yet I’d never felt brave enough to broach any of this with Samantha. In retrospect, we’d been doomed from the start.
Matt was good at silences. I didn’t remember that when we were kids—in my memories he’d been a frenetic bundle of energy, always on the move, always with an opinion or five, and always keen to share them. I reminded myself that was a long time ago; a six-month, childish love affair, over in the blink of an eye compared to all the years of adulthood that followed.
His eyelids were drooping, so I gathered up our crockery, ready to leave him in peace. Rest, more than anything else, would heal him quickest. The effect of hot food and painkillers had temporarily improved his mood, but it made sense not to push it.
“See you in the morning, yeah? Shout if you need anything.”
He gave a drowsy nod; his eyes already closed. “It’s good to talk to you again, Alex.”
I swallowed, my eyes pricking with sudden tears. “You too. It’s been too long.”
Our cosy chat of the night before had been an aberration. Matt slept late, which pleased me. The downside being he regained sufficient strength to curse and hellfire his way into the bathroom then back to bed, from where he accused me of secreting a razorblade into every mouthful of soggy Weetabix . Oh, and I was to blame that the room spun each time he turned his head a fraction to the right or left.
With better ways to occupy my time, I lent him my iPad, showed him how to navigate to Netflix, and retreated, but not before being informed I must be a useless doctor, because everyone knew that screens and concussion were a bad combination. Concussion and Matt were even worse. I left him alone to stew in his own miserable juices for four hours before sidling in to find him glued to back-to-back episodes of a youthful Sean Bean playing dashing Lieutenant Richard Sharpe. I had to conclude; Matt had good taste in men.
“It hasn’t improved. It’s just as historically inaccurate as I remembered the first time I watched it.” He flung the iPad aside. “Bloody ridiculous.”
“Sean looks good in that green soldier’s uniform though, doesn’t he?” I answered, feeling mischievous. “All those rows of shiny buttons, waiting to be ripped apart. Mmm.”
“I hadn’t noticed. The screen’s too small. And too fucking bright. It made my headache worse.”
I hung around for a while, irritating him with mundane chatter, winding him up by keeping him fromSharpeand the Portuguese campaign. He side-eyed the iPad longingly. After fluffing his pillows to the point he swore he’d suffocate me with them when he felt fucking stronger, I refilled his water jug with water that wasn’t fucking cold enough, and took the blame for his persistent nausea, caused by my pissing, shitting, crappy anaesthetic and not the thwack to the head that had nearly landed him with a serious brain injury. Apparently, being constipated was also my fault. Unable to take any more, I retreated to the safety of the kitchen to find Ryan letting himself in. A veritable burst of sunshine in comparison.
“Hi, Dad,”
“Hi, sweetheart, how are you?”
“All right.” He slung his bag onto the kitchen table and toed off his enormous, clodhopping trainers. “Mum and Mike are having mushroom stroganoff for dinner, so I’ve come here for the night.”
Good to know he valued and appreciated my company. I resisted the urge to pull him into a bearhug as I’d learned the hard way that wasn’t cool. The days of him looking at his dad as though he’d hung the moon and stars were long gone. Unless he needed cash or a phone upgrade, of course.
“Is your friend still here?” he asked, swiping an apple from the fruit bowl.
“Yes. You’re having dinner soon, so don’t eat too much now. You’ll spoil your appetite.”
He rolled his eyes at me. When had I turned into my mother?
“Your text about him came as a bit of a surprise. I didn’t know you had any friends.”
Hah! Ryan had turned into a right little comedian. I had loads of friends, or rather, Samantha and I together did. After the divorce, my seat at dinner parties had so seamlessly been taken over by Mike that I couldn’t help wondering how long all our so-called joint friends had known about him.
“Ha-ha, very funny. And his name is Matt. We lost touch for a while.” Did twenty-five years constitute a while? “Perhaps that’s why I’ve never mentioned him.”
“Shall I go and say hello?”
“Sure.” I gave him a cautious nod. “He might be asleep, so don’t disturb him if he is. And if he isn’t, then he’s not feeling his best, so don’t be surprised if he’s a little…abrupt.”
One way of putting it.
Ryan trotted off, oblivious to the fiery bundle of bad humour awaiting the other side of the closed guest suite door. I started putting the ingredients for pizza together, pleased my son seemed so upbeat, also pleased I could offer him a dinner much more palatable to teenage tastes than mushroom stroganoff. Not that Samantha and I ever played each other off or anything.
Ryan emerged from Matt’s room half an hour later. I’d been about to run the gauntlet and rescue him. “He’s nice.”
“Is he?”
Blimey, Ryan must have caught Matt in a narrow window. Maybe Sean Bean had bared his manly chest after singlehandedly winning yet another obscure European musket fight. Ryan ambled over to join me at the table.