Page 43 of The Happy Hour
‘I know. Let me get you that coffee. And,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘I’ve got one of my special sandwiches, as promised.’
Ash groaned, but his thoughts were already back with Jess. Was it right that she didn’t know where he came after seeing her? He was so desperate to keep her separate from this, but now that they’d kissed, now that their companionable hours were becoming more, should he tell her the truth?
Peggy brought over a cappuccino and a packet of Bourbon biscuits. ‘I couldn’t do it to you. My tuna and peanut butter masterpiece will have to wait until another time.’
‘Thanks.’ Ash took a biscuit.
‘No witty comeback?’
‘I kissed Jess.’
Peggy didn’t seem surprised. ‘A quick peck goodbye, or...’
‘More of anI really like you, hellokind of kiss.’
‘Oooh. And I’m guessing a “hellooooo” rather than a “hey”.’
Ash laughed. ‘Yep.’
‘Then you had to put her down and race over here. No wonder you’re all at sea.’
‘It’s fine – it’s not like I haven’t kissed a woman before.’ Why had he said that? He took a second Bourbon and bit straight into it, not even removing the top layer of biscuit with his teeth so he could scrape off the cream.
‘I don’t doubt it, you absolute cad,’ Peggy said indulgently. ‘You know I should get paid extra, as your therapist?’
‘I do know that,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Peg.’
‘Nonsense.’ She patted his knee. ‘But I do have some news for you, actually. And I’m here, however you want to take it: cry, use me as a punchbag, scream. If you try and run out of the door, though, I will block you.’
‘That sounds ominous.’ Ash’s muscles tensed, the knot that lived permanently between his shoulder blades tightening painfully.
Peggy gave him her gentlest smile, her tone matching when she said, ‘He’s awake.’
Ash stood in the doorway, looking at him.
He’d seen him last week, of course, and had been able to catalogue all the changes: how much his dark hair had thinned; how pale his face looked whereas, when Ash was a boy, there’d been no mistaking his Italian heritage; the way the skin on his forearms was loose and wrinkled now, lying on top of the blanket on the bed. It wasn’t the man he had worshipped growing up, and then come to hate. That had made it easier, somehow.
Now, however, he was sitting up against the pillows, the machines beeping in the background, monitoring or assisting various parts of his body.
His head turned slowly, and Ash watched his eyes widen. It was a small movement, as if he wasn’t thatsurprised, but Ash sensed that it was just that everything about him was smaller. He was no longer the gregarious, physical man Ash had grown up with. His cancer was in charge now.
‘Ash.’ His voice was barely there, but his strong Italian accent twisted the word into a name Ash hadn’t heard for years. He had stopped beingthatAsh the moment his dad had left them, and when his mum had reverted to her maiden name, he had too – becoming Ash Faulkner instead of Ash Lombardo. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, then. He didn’t feel a whole lot different now.
‘Hey, Dad,’ he said.
He felt a small, almost imperceptible nudge in his lower back. He turned, and Peggy nodded him forwards. He frowned, and she – shestuck her tongue out at him.He was outraged, comforted, calmed. He squeezed her wrist, then turned his attention back to the room that, with its large window and lush greenery outside, the earlier cloud thinning to reveal the blue of the afternoon beyond, was the real waiting room.
He sat in the chair next to the bed, squeezing his hands between his knees, and tried not to let panic overwhelm him. What could he say? Nothow areyou?OrHow’s life been treating you?because both those things were obvious. He closed his eyes, casting about for a subject, and found one: something that would help him edge towards the end of this window of time, when he could see the man who should have meant everything to him, but had come to mean nothing. A voice whispered that it was a very complicatednothing, but he pushed it aside.
‘Dylan says hey,’ he said to Nico Lombardo.
‘He’s in Aukland?’ Nico scratched out.
‘With his wife Sadie and two boys, Zack and Eli. Your grandkids.’ He didn’t put any emphasis on the last words. His dad knew all the ways in which he was lacking.
‘What about you?’ Every word was a struggle, and Ash knew he would have to do the heavy lifting in the conversation.
‘I haven’t given you any grandkids,’ he said. ‘I work in the City as an occupational psychologist. I have a flat in Holborn, I play rugby out near St John’s Wood when I can get there. My neighbour, Mack, makes me get the Sunday paper for him, then rewards me with a coffee and a lecture about whatever outrageous headline is on the front page, as if I’m personally responsible for the state of the world.’
