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33. SUMMER 2013

Nicholas takes his holdall up to the spare room, drops it with a bang onto the floor then launches himself backwards onto the bed: freefall, legs out, shoes on, head hitting the pillow. He closes his eyes and smells his mum. He opens his eyes. Yes, he really can smell her. He sniffs the pillow. It’s definitely her. She’s been sleeping in the spare room. What the fuck’s going on? His dad didn’t say good-bye when she left. He didn’t even go to the door. That’s not like him — he’s a devotee. That’s why Nicholas made the effort — well, someone had to. He’d felt sorry for her. He can’t remember ever feeling sorry for his mum.

Seeing her leave like that reminds him of when he was little and she used to go away for work. It never bothered him. When she got home she’d fuss around him, like she’d missed him so much. He used to ignore her — it never felt real, like she was putting it on. He could keep it up for days, not talking to her. She’d come back with presents — Sandy the dog was one of them. She probably bought it at the airport anyway, but he loved it, used to sleep with it every night. When she was home she was always the one who put him to bed and read to him. He’d lie there with his eyes shut pretending to be asleep, but she’d carry on and he’d listen to the sound of her voice until eventually he did fall asleep. He’d hurt her when he told her he didn’t want to keep Sandy. For fuck’s sake, why would he?

If it was the other way round, she’d never have invited him to stay in their nice new home. Dad’s soft though, but it’ll drive Nicholas mad if he keeps up the cheery banter: constant fucking chat about what they’re going to eat. Even watching him pick away at the cellophane on their meal for two made Nicholas’s skin itch; he couldn’t wait to get upstairs. Still, it’s good to have a few home comforts but will he be able to stand being round his dad if he’s like this the whole time? Yes, because he needs the cash. He’ll sublet his room, no need for Dad to know — there’s money to be made. Poor old Mum, the last thing she wants is him messing up their spanking-new spare room.

He hangs over the side of the bed and drags his bag towards him, taking out his washbag. He’s brought his toothbrush but no soap, no shampoo; no need. He’s back “home.” Mum would have a fit if she knew he’d brought drugs into the house. She’d think he was “losing control”; “not on top of things”; worried he was going to “slip off the edge” again. Of course he won’t. Steady job. Suit. What more do they want? It’s like old times — his parents knowing fuck all about what’s going on. Something’s going on with them though, but he can’t be arsed to find out what. They can keep their secrets, he has his. Still, generous of the old man to offer to help out with a holiday. With his girlfriend. He cringes at the memory of his lie. He doesn’t have a girlfriend but it’s what his dad wanted to hear.

From where he’s lying he can see the tops of the trees in the garden. They fill the frame of the window. Just like the old house, only smaller. It’s even in the same neighbourhood, a spit from where he grew up. His dad was pleased when he said he had a girlfriend but Nicholas doesn’t want the hassle of a girlfriend — too much fucking bother. He’d like the money though, so he’ll have to spin it out a bit longer — or maybe he’ll say he’s decided to go away with friends instead. Dad’ll still cough up — he’ll find it hard to back down after saying he’d help out. He laughs when he thinks what his dad would make of his friends.

Nicholas hates that word, “friends.” What does it mean? Muckers? Mates? Companions? They’re just people he hangs out with. They don’t waste time getting to know each other. It’s like being part of a shoal of fish, slipping in, dropping out, different faces all the time but all swimming in the same direction, keeping formation. Just floating along. The money for a holiday could keep him afloat for a whole week: close his eyes and disappear; a little break and then back to work. He rolls a joint and sticks it in his mouth, unlit. Don’t want the old man to worry. Work/life balance, that’s what it’s called, isn’t it? And Nicholas is managing that very well: just a little something now and again to soften the edges, but never too much.

“Supper’s ready,” his dad calls up. Nick rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer. Not answering. It used to drive them mad. Supper’s ready. No answer. Then one of them would have to come up and get him. Had he heard? They’d been shouting for ages. It’s getting cold. He rolls onto his side and buries his face in the pillow, taking in one more draught of his mother. They’ve never been close but, still, the smell of her nearly brings tears to his eyes.