Page 9 of Maybe
Funnily enough, no one returned his greeting. It didn’t stop him pressing on.
“For anyone who doesn’t know, Henry had another child. I’m guessing that’s most of you?” He waved his beer can. “My invite must have got lost in the post. But it's me! Ezra Fitz-Henry. Oldest son! Perpetual failure! The cross my dad had to bear!”
Mustard Michael was not as perimortem as I’d thought. “Get him out of here,” he barked. “For God’s sake, someone call the police. Or campus security. Hey, you! Server! You, over there in the short black skirt and fishnets, call for fucking security!”
Ezra’s unhinged gaze swerved towards the voice. “Hey, Mikey, my old mustard! Long time no see! Hardly recognised you!”
Having drained it, Ezra tossed the can over his shoulder before advancing on him. “Trust you to notice a pretty pair of legs! You always did have wandering eyes and hands, didn’t you?”
With a dangerous grin, he surveyed the crowd until his own eyes landed on my mother. “Isn’t that right, Janice? This is fun, isn’t it, Lady F-H? You know what they say, can’t have afuneral without a littlefun.”
“Get out.” A sturdy ship of a woman, dressed in twinset and pearls, barged Michael out of her way on route to poking her finger in Ezra’s chest. “Get out at once.”
“Nah, you’re all right, love,” said Ezra. “He likes ‘em a bit younger, don’t you Mikey?”
Too late, I recognised the stout woman as Mrs Mustard. “Disgusting boy. Getting yourself into a state like this. You should be ashamed of yourself. Get out! Go on! Shoo!”
Ezra slid past her like she wasn’t there, heading for my mother. He let loose a low whistle. “Looking foxy in black, Lady J. You had some new boobs? Very tasty. What do you think, Mikey? Fancy a bit of that?” He followed up with a lascivious expression and an obscene gesture involving his hand in the vicinity of his crotch.
“Now you’re single and ready to mingle, Lady J, how about you and me find a little quiet corner around the back of this fucking maze of a building? I’ll feed you a stiff pink gin, we can see about unfastening a few of those dinky buttons down the front of your blouse, and I’ll introduce you to my stiff pink?—"
Oh, fuck. I was going to have to do something. Mustard Michael had it coming, to be honest. More than once his hand had wandered down my mother’s back at random social gatherings, including today’s. But my mother wasn’t, no matter how poor her relationship with Ezra. “Okay, Ezra, out.” Grabbing him by the arm, I hauled him away. “With me, now.”
If I’d learned anything during my endless hours working in the Emergency Department, it was de-escalating drunken dramas. Rule one: remove the antagonist from the scene. If Ezra hadn’t been so sozzled, we’d have had a far more unseemly battle. As it was, he was barely standing.
“Never mind that,” brayed an indignant someone behind us. “The police should be here, sorting this out.”
Oh, just fuck off.“It’s quite all right, everybody,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Nothing to see here. No need for the police.”
Despite the firm grip on my brother’s arm, I sounded a lot more in control than I felt. Manhandling troublemakers in a packed Emergency Department surrounded by fifteen colleagues and burly security guards within yelling distance wasone thing. Managing an unpredictable drunk brother losing any chance of his rightful inheritance was a different kettle of fish entirely.
Still laughing like a drain, Ezra wriggled against me; I gripped him tighter. “No you don’t. I know you hated him, Ezra, and my mum too, probably, but you’re not doing that.”
“You forgot you,” he slurred. “I hated you too, just so you know. Still do.”
“Trust me, right now, that feeling is mutual. Now, keep walking.”
Miraculously, he obeyed, although it was more of a dance than a walk. In any other circumstances, I would have found his elegant form weaving along the cobbled path towards wherever the hell I’d left my car charming. However, after insulting my mother and trashing my dad’s memorial service, I’d run out of fucks to give.
“Right, we’re here. Get in the bloody car.”
I pressed the key fob, and the lights of my car flashed in a welcome response. Ezra snorted. “Fuck me, is that thing yours?”
Nonplussed, I opened the door of my perfectly serviceable electric VW Golf. “No, I’ve opened some random university lecturer’s car. Of course it’s fucking mine. Just get in.”
He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Isaac, babe. Forget I said I hate you; you’re fucking adorable. Anyone ever tell you that? Look at you. A gazillion in the bank and not spending any of it on a flash car? A bit like having Jonathan Bailey in your bed and sleeping on the sofa. If you had even half a scrotum, that’s not going to happen.”
Fuck, so perhaps hewasgay?A question for another day. I didn’t even know who Jonathan Bailey was—a famous hot male celeb, I assumed.
“Ezra? It’s been a hella long fucking week and, honestly? I’m at the end of my rope. You still live in London?”
He nodded. “In between trips to my sprawling villa in the Tuscan hills and the yacht anchored in Antibes, yeah.”
Twat.“Great.” I pointed up the road. “Then home is about sixty miles that way.” Slinging a thumb over my shoulder in the opposite direction, I added, “And Oxford train station is about a mile that way. Feel free to start walking. Get yourself a ticket to Marylebone, board the train, and find yourself a cramped seat. Sober up, maybe make love to some soggy chicken McNuggets before you pass out. Alternatively, you can stop ridiculing my car, get in, and have a free lift. The choice is yours.”
We climbed in—or, rather I climbed in and Ezra sort of fell in, still sniggering. What a fucking day. Taking a second to collect myself, I braced on the steering wheel, letting my eyes drift closed. My teenage memories didn’t include an Ezra like this, and I wasn’t sure what to do with him. The Ezra of my childish dreams had been acid-tongued, but kind and indulgent. Funny and tolerant. Like a big brother should be. He’d ruffled my hair whenever he had to leave, and promised he’d be back soon, with new, better songs. He hadn’t slagged off my mode of transport, which, at that point in time had been a skateboard. Nor pressed randomly at the buttons on the dash.
“FYI, the VW ID.5 is the best of the mid-range electric cars,” I informed him tiredly. “It does around a hundred miles without a need for recharge.”
