To Cornwall, where my son is, and the Cents aren’t.
Buy a little flat, two bedrooms so Logan can stay over. I could have joint custody. I could take him to school and cook his tea and help him with his homework. Pi could put all hisStar Trekmodels back out. What if we learned to surf? What if we taught rugby to the local kids?
What if we . . . grow old together?
And now I’m fucking crying.
I push my fingertips into my sockets to stem the flow of tears.
Somebody yells—yelps in fact—like an animal caught in a trap. The sound is followed by an almighty crash. I look up, and a blur of black and white and blonde curls pitches into the bushes beside me.
“Fuck! Fucking spiky cunts!” an Australian accent screams. It’s Pi. He’s flat on his back, grappling with what appears tobe a rosebush. The bush rustles wildly and fat pale-pink petals tumble to the ground like confetti. “Ah, fuck off, you fucking drongos. Get away from me.”
“Shit, pard, are you okay?” I rush over to him and try to help him to his feet, but he’s right, those rose spikes are fucking drongos.
They’re massive, and the more Pi struggles, the more entwined he seems to become. I hold my hands out to him and pull him free, but his jacket doesn’t give up without a fight.
“Does that hurt?” I ask.
“Nah. But it fucking will tomorrow!” He laughs like nothing has ever been funnier.
“How did you find me? Also, Gadget is supposed to be watching you.”
“I told Gadget . . .” Pi crawls the rest of the way out of the bush. He stands up and there’s mud on his knees. He takes one step to the left, five steps to the right, one backwards, and then timbers forwards. I catch him before he faceplants the path, but now he has dirt all over his hands. He wipes them down the front of his white shirt.
“I told Gadget I was gonna spew,” he finally finishes. “He said don’t spew in the tent, go find a bush to spew in. So I did and you’re here. Funny that.”
I plop him onto the bench and sit beside him. “Are you gonna spew?”
“Oh, yeah. Hundo per cent.” He holds his dirty hand over his mouth, puffs out his cheeks, and shrugs. “Not yet, though.”
“Okay, well, let me know when you’re gonna barf so I can move out of the way.”
“Okay,” he says, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. Only there’s nothing for his head to rest against, so his neck jerks backwards. He groans. “I’m so drunk.”
“You are.” I pat his thigh, and leave my hand there.
“Georgie broke up with me, didn’t she?” Pi says, swinging unfocused eyes towards me.
“She did. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not sorry . . . Oh!” He holds his fingers over his mouth again. “Nope. Not yet. It’s okay, it’s okay, false alarm.”
“You’re not sorry?” Why the fuck is my heart beating so fast?
“Nope. Not sorry. At least I don’t have to feel guilty any longer. About shagging you!” he shouts.
There’s no one in the rose garden with us, but who knows who could be lurking on the other side of those bushes.
I shush him by holding my thumb over his mouth, but he nestles his face into my palm, hiccups, and closes his eyes.
“I really like shagging you, actually.” Thankfully, he’s whispering now.
“Thanks,” I say. “I also enjoy it.”
“I’m glad I never let my stupid girlfriend stop us from shagging.”
I don’t reply to this because I have nothing to say. Again, it’s all my fault. We wouldn’t have started all the shagging if I hadn’t kissed him at Halloween. He wouldn’t even have dated Georgia if I’d never introduced them.
