Page 20 of The Notecard
‘Tea?’ I ask him.
‘No thanks,’ says Michael.
He has a gentle accent. Somewhere from the west country. Somerset? Devon? He’s standing uneasily in my living room. I turn the kettle on, more for me than for him. I still want a cup of tea. I pop a tea bag in a cup and walk back into the living room.
‘She choked,’ I say. ‘On a grape. That would have been no way to die.’
‘Lucky you were there.’
‘You can sit down.’
‘No thanks, I’d rather stand if you don’t mind,’ says Michael. ‘Nick, we need to talk about what happened.’
‘Right, yes,’ I say with a certain uneasiness.
He looks at me with his steely blue eyes. This is the most we’ve spoken since I moved in. It’s the first time he’s been in my flat.
‘Why did you do it? And be honest, Nick. Tell me the truth,’ says Michael, and the guilt of what happened slides through my body. I feel bad. Guilty. I shouldn’t have done it, and the truth is, I don’t know why I did.
Just over a week ago, Mum was visiting. We were in the hallway saying goodbye when who should walk past but upstairs Michael. We have barely spoken more than two words to each other. He’s quiet and I respect his privacy. I smiled at him and was more than happy to let him go about his day, but Mum had to say something. She said hello and they started talking. Apparently Mum and Michael can talk. They talked for fifteen minutes and I stood there like a lemon. Eventually they said goodbye, Mum left, and I went back into my flat. Ten minutes later and there was a knock on my door. I opened the door and Michael was there. He wanted to know what Mum’s situation was. Was she single, married, etc? I panicked and told him that Mum had a boyfriend. I don’t know why I told him she had a boyfriend, but I did. It just came out.
It wouldn’t have mattered but a few days ago, Mum came over again. She was in the area and thought she’d pop in for a cup of tea. She texted that she was nearly there. I waited. And waited. Eventually I walked into the hallway to open the front door to see if she was there, and that’s when I found Mum and Michael talking. It was awkward. I don’t know why, but I felt it. The unease. The tension. Mum was acting strangely. Michael gave me a look. Mum finally walked into my flat, sat down and said.
‘You’ll never believe what just happened. Michael asked me out. Michael Byron. The man who wrote A Call To You just asked me out on a date. I can’t believe it. Michael Byron.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said yes. It’s Michael Byron, he wrote…’
‘A Call To You,’ I said, finishing her sentence. ‘I know.’
‘It’s unbelievable, Nick. Me and Michael Byron.’
It hit me right away. The look he gave me. The tension. The fact I had told him that she had a boyfriend even though she didn’t. He had obviously asked her about her boyfriend and Mum being Mum had told him she didn’t have one. She was now going on a date with him, and I had to deal with Michael confronting me about the lie. Best to be honest. He said it himself.
‘The truth,’ I say to Michael. ‘Is complicated.’
‘The truth always is. It’s something my therapist always says. She’s right, though. I understand she’s your mum, Nick. I know your father died.’
‘She told you?’
‘We talked about it,’ says Michael. He has such a calm voice. ‘Listen, I like your mum, okay? I understand it might be hard for you. But trust me, I mean no harm. I lost someone too.’
‘Your wife?’
He looks at me for a moment. His face changes. An uncertainty that wasn’t there is suddenly like a mask over him. He looks down at the floor and then back up at me again, as if he’s resetting himself. It looks like a well-rehearsed routine.
‘No, not my wife, a woman I was with back in the day. We weren’t married, didn’t have kids, but she died, and it broke my heart. I understand.’
‘Does Mum know?’
‘That you lied to me? No. I didn’t say anything.’
‘Thank you.’
We stand in silence for a moment. Two men. Basically strangers. He’s about to go on a date with my mum. In the presence of Michael, and probably because of the lie, I feel small. Like a child. I’m a thirty-two-year-old doctor, responsible for people’s lives, and yet he makes me feel as though I’m ten and in trouble for lying about brushing my teeth.
‘Just so you know,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t about you.’
