Page 59 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
Or how I’d square it with my conscience afterwards. He was my . . . Well. Not my dad. But he was my father. Maybe I wasn’t too happy with the way he’d buggered off and left when Mum told him to, but if I told him to piss off when it came to family occasions, I’d just be doing the exact same thing, wouldn’t I?
Blood’s blood, innit?
“More wine, Tom?” Greg asked, holding out the bottle of red and politely not mentioning the way I must have been staring into space for the last five minutes while that little personal epiphany unfolded.
“Uh, yeah. Ta.”
“So anyway,” Cherry went on brightly. “We were thinking you could bring him round for lunch one Sunday. But no hurry. Although it will have to be before December, obviously. Now, we’re trying to decide what the ushers should wear. How would you feel about putting on a top hat and tails, Tom?”
It was just as well I’d already got gravy on the tablecloth. That way, I didn’t have to feel guilty about the way I spluttered red wine all over it.
“You all right?” Phil asked as I drove us back to St. Albans. We’d taken my Fiesta, as it hadn’t had a good run for a while now and had probably been getting itchy wheels.
“Fine.” My hands tightened on the wheel.
“You don’t have to let them steamroller you into having your real dad at our wedding if you don’t want to. Or theirs, for that matter.”
I didn’t tell him he could have spoken up at the time. I had a fair idea why he hadn’t.
“No, they’re right. He should be there. I mean, at our do. I don’t s’pose he really gives a toss about Cherry’s wedding, but yeah, probably best to get the awkward stuff over with at their do, not ours.” I took a deep breath. “And we should set a date. Start looking at venues, all that bollocks. Dunno why I’ve been putting it off, really.”
Now, see, this is why I love my bloke. Instead of saying You don’t? It’s been bleedin’ obvious to me, he just put a hand on my thigh and squeezed it gently.
“Oi, none of that,” I told him with a weak smile. “You’ll get me done for driving without due care and attention.”
“Can’t have that, can we?” Phil took a breath. “There’s a place we could take a look at on the way back, if you want. I’ll direct you.”
Working out what sort of a place he was on about didn’t tax the old mental faculties unduly, and I gave him a look. “Oh yeah? You been scouting out gay-friendly wedding venues on the sly?”
“Darren suggested it. Said he took a look when him and Gary were planning theirs, and it wasn’t his sort of place but he thought I might like it.”
Okay, so now I was intrigued. “Any word on whether I’m likely to go for it?”
“Just have to make up your own mind, won’t you? Right. You want to take a right at the roundabout, then left down past St. Stephen’s.”
I tootled on down in the Fiesta. “Are we nearly there yet?”
“Yes. Now turn right.”
“Oi, we’re not going to your mum’s, are we?” I asked, suspicious. “I know we said a small wedding, but I don’t reckon her front room’s gonna take more than a dozen, and that’s if we squash ’em in like sardines.”
Phil smiled. “No, we’re not going to Mum’s. Just keep going.”
I kept going. Just as I was wondering if the housing estate was ever going to end, it did, and we were out in the countryside again. I was well confused. “Hang on a mo,” I started.
“There it is,” Phil interrupted. “Right here.”
I turned down a tree-lined lane I really wouldn’t have expected to find here—and there it was: a big old Georgian red-brick frontage with a wide sweep of lawn outside. The drive led us round the back, past what were probably really nice flower gardens in the summer, and even now weren’t doing too badly, with a healthy-looking selection of shrubs.
I hadn’t spotted any signs out the front that it was anything other than some posh bastard’s country cottage, but here at the back it was obvious it was a hotel, with a nice-looking car park—and there’s a phrase I never thought I’d need—and a discreetly tasteful sign proclaiming its four-star status. “Hang on a mo,” I said again. “Isn’t this gonna cost an arm and a leg?” I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked for a couple of kidneys on top.
“Not if we have the wedding on a weekday. They do an off-peak deal. Sundays too, but I reckoned that’d be difficult for Greg and your sister. Park up, and we can take a look inside.”
I parked. I was beginning to think Phil had put a bit more thought into this than just having heard the name from Darren. I wiped my palms on my jeans as I got out of the car. Christ, what if he’d set his heart on this place and I hated it?
We crunched over the gravel to the main door. Halfway there, a flash of colour caught my eye, and I turned to see a bright-red bridge over an ornamental pond, half-hidden by plants.
“Chinese garden,” Phil said. “Thought it’d be a good spot for the wedding photos.”
