Page 61 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
It wasn’t until much, much later, when Phil had disappeared off back to his flat saying he had stuff to do and an early start on Monday morning, that I realised I’d forgotten to tell him about Cherry’s offer of the house.
Ah, well. There’d be plenty of time for that.
I had vaguely thought I’d just ring Cherry and tell her me and Phil had set a date for the wedding and picked a venue and all that guff, but it occurred to me she’d probably want a longer conversation about it than we tended to do over the phone. Plus I’d sort of left the Mike Novak question hanging a bit, and we probably ought to clear that up too. So when I gave her a bell Sunday evening after Phil had gone, I just arranged to meet for lunch on Monday.
Given that’d be two lunches with her in two days, my phone call left her clearly ready to combust with curiosity, which was a nice little added bonus.
Then it occurred to me I probably ought to have a word with the man himself before I started making all these plans involving him.
I looked at my watch. Still pretty early. He’d probably be in, and he wouldn’t have gone to bed yet. I took a deep breath and called his number. As it rang, I had a moment’s panic—it was a landline number, and chances were, the whole family would be home. What if his wife answered? Or his son—his legitimate son? Should I introduce myself? Had he even told them about me?
In the end, it was Mike’s voice I heard. At least, I was betting Novak junior didn’t have that trace of foreign accent I associated with his dad, having been born and bred here. Panic over. “Hello?”
“Uh, hi. It’s Tom.”
“Tom! It’s good to hear from you. How are you? You’re well?”
“Yeah, I’m good. You?”
“Ah, can’t complain. My knees are giving me trouble again, but then, I’m old. What can you expect? How is that young man of yours?”
“Phil?” Like there was anyone else he might mean. “Yeah, he’s good too. Actually, that was what I wanted to talk to you about. We’ve, uh, we’ve set a date for the wedding.” I named it, trying to ignore the weird feeling in my stomach. “And, um, you’re coming, right? I mean, if you want to?”
“Of course.” Something about the slight pause before he said it, and the warmth when he finally did, told me he hadn’t been counting on an invite. I felt a right git for almost living down to his expectations. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And my boy, Daniel, is looking forward to meeting his brother.”
I’d invited him too? Oo-kay. “Uh, yeah. Me too.” I was. Honest.
“My Anna too. She can’t wait to meet you.” Well, that cleared up the question of whether he’d mentioned my existence. Hopefully it also meant they hadn’t been a thing back when Mike and my mum had been doing the dirty. Oh God. If Mike’s wife was coming to the wedding too, that meant she and Mum would meet. If they had been a thing back then, would she still bear a grudge after thirty years?
I had a brief, surreal, and frankly horrifying vision of Mrs. Novak grabbing Dad for a quick snog to get her own back and only just managed to stifle a nervous laugh.
We chatted a few minutes longer, mostly about all the extended family back in Poland who’d be sorry to miss the wedding (given what I’d read online about attitudes to gay people in Poland, I had a strong suspicion he was either deluding himself or just being polite), then said goodbye. Mike signed off with a promise to bring the vodka. Or possibly the wodka.
I had a feeling I was going to need it.
Monday lunch with Cherry went pretty much as expected. She was over the moon we’d set a date and suitably impressed with the venue. Turned out she’d been to a wedding there a couple of years ago—well, the reception had been there, anyhow. The actual wedding had been “a proper one, in church, of course.”
Then she’d remembered who she was talking to, blushed, and apologised.
I had to laugh. “Never mind. Maybe we’ll get Greg to give us a blessing, yeah?”
Sis looked doubtful for a mo, which I took to mean she wasn’t sure how keen old Tobes would be about that sort of thing going on in his cathedral. Then her frown eased, probably because she’d worked out just how low the chances were of me ever actually bothering to try to arrange it.
“I’m quite surprised you went for Cottonmill Hall,” she said, fiddling with her uneaten breadstick. Sis always wanted to meet for Italian when we had lunch, but she never ate anything there with carbs in it like pasta or pizza, which I’d always thought was the best bit of Italian food. Maybe it was some sort of modern-day Christian equivalent of the hair shirt.
Or maybe she just liked feeling morally superior to the rest of us all chomping down on our stodge.
“Why’s that, then? Too classy for an oik like me?”
She flushed, meaning yes. “I just didn’t think it was the sort of place you’d feel comfortable.”
“Oi, I can do classy. What were you expecting—back room of a pub?”
“Pretty much, yes.” She smiled. “Phil’s been a good influence on you.”
Huh. Did that mean I’d changed since me and Phil had got together? If I had, was that a good thing?
I was still worrying about it when I swung by Phil’s office after my last job of the day.
