Now I’m wrinkling up. ‘Shit. God, I’m so sorry. . . is it still sore?’
He shakes his head. ‘Only when I need to look at something. How’s the hand?’
I hold up the cast, which now has Alfie’s signature and three superhero stickers attached to it. ‘Smarts like a bitch,’ I reply, ‘but the painkillers help.’
He nods and stay silent for a moment. Why does he look concerned? Fuck, is he reliving the punch? Am I going to be apologising for this for the next fifty years?
‘Um. . . how is Sarah?’ he finally asks. ‘Does she hate me?’
I smile with relief. ‘She’s good, mate, and no, she doesn’t hate you.’
‘OK, good. Great. Great news.’ I’m sure the look of relief on his face is visible but the camera has frozen again.
‘She does think you’re a bit of a prick maybe, but that’ll pass.’
He laughs loudly. ‘That’s fair enough. Just make sure she knows I’m sorry, yeah?’
‘I will. . . Wish your parents a merry Christmas from me, will you? I’ll send them some Christmassy flowers or something.’
‘Nice idea,’ he replies. ‘Damn, you were always the more thoughtful son. I’ll speak to you lat—’
The connection finally drops as Sarah’s parents’ terrible Wi-Fi flatlines. I swear, somewhere in this house is a dial-up modem from 1998.
I head downstairs to the living room where everyone is snuggled up watchingElf. Alfie, lying on the floor, scoops handfuls of popcorn from a bowl in front of him, kicking his legs as he laughs in delight.
‘We’ve just opened the mulled wine, Nick,’ Stephen announces. ‘Linda, grab him a glass, honey.’
‘Sounds lovely, thank you,’ I reply, sitting down beside Sarah, who is engulfed in a giant, fluffy green blanket, also nursing a bowl of popcorn. She lifts a section and places it over my legs. ‘Dad made apple and goat’s cheese crostini,’ she informs me, pointing to the table. ‘So good.’
‘Crostini? That’s impressive!’ I reply, placing one on a napkin. ‘I can barely make toast.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Stephen says dismissively. ‘Slice a baguette, drizzle both sides in olive oil, grill them for a few minutes, then chuck stuff on top. Wait ’til you taste the devilled eggs I made with sriracha mayo. They have quite the kick.’
Linda hands me a large goblet of mulled wine. ‘He’s excellent in the kitchen. When we first met, he used to make the best hash brownies from scratch. We were pretty much high for the first year of our marriage. . . God, those were good days.’
‘MUM!’ Sarah exclaims, laughing. ‘Small ears are listening.’
Stephen laughs. ‘It’s true, honey. Before you know it, he’ll be El Chapo. We’re like gateway grandparents.’
We laugh as Sarah throws a piece of popcorn at her dad. I feel quite honoured to be part of this, to meet the people who raised the woman I’m so fucking crazy about.
I clear my throat. ‘It’s corny, but I just wanted to say thank you for allowing me to spend Christmas with you. I’m not sure many would have been so understanding if their only daughter arrived home with some guy in a bloodied T-shirt, sporting a broken hand, but—’
‘He deserved it,’ Stephen announces, his eyes still fixed on the television.
I glance at Sarah, who purses her lips, letting me know she spilled the beans.
‘Well, I’m not proud of—’
‘And looking after my grandson with such patience and kindness to the point where he talks about you incessantly is more than enough reason to welcome you into our home,’ he continues. ‘The two most important people in our lives think the world of you and that’s good enough for us. Now drink your wine before my darling wife starts to cry.’
I hear a loud sniff from Linda as Sarah leans over and gently takes her mum’s hand.
‘I’m fine,’ she insists, ‘I’m just thinking about. . .’
Sarah grins. ‘You’re thinking about those brownies, aren’t you, Mum?’
I splutter into my wine as we all erupt into laughter.
