‘So, it’s always the other person’s fault?’
Anthi tuts and turns to me. ‘That’s what he used to say when he got into fights at school. I used to worry about him so much.’
‘Yeah, because no one ever raised a hand to me at home,’ he says mildly.
The tone might be flippant, but his words aren’t. And I regret my crass joke about punch-ups being his favourite hobby.
At least against his peers, it was a fair fight.
Anthi acts like she doesn’t hear him. ‘Nella, your mummy says she’s very happy to have you so close again. She said she’s hardly seen you this past year.’
Greek mothers – struggling to cut the apron strings since 500 BC.
‘All my free time has been going into my studies.’
‘I’m so proud that you have such a good career. And you’re a doctor too, like my Marko.’
I wait for Mark to insist that my doctorate is hardly on a par with being a medical doctor, but he doesn’t.
‘I’ve told you, Mum. All surgeons are “mister”. Nella might have become Doctor Praxitelis, but I’ll always be Mister Marino.’
Anthi harrumphs. ‘I don’t see why they can’t call you doctor. It’s what I tell people you are.’
I smile at Anthi and can’t help butting in. ‘Is that true?’ I ask him.
‘It’s a hangover from the Middle Ages when surgeons didn’t need medical degrees, just a knack for hacking and sawing.’
I’m surprised to hear Mark talking his career down. Weren’t surgeons famously self-important? ‘So, basically, you’re a glorified butcher,MisterMarino?’
He looks at me, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or annoyed.
Before I can decode his expression, old Mr Lee comes out of the kitchen to personally greet Mum and Dad and tells them the banana fritters are on the house.
‘Food okay?’ he asks. ‘Or do I need to go back to cooking school?’ He laughs and Dad joins in enthusiastically, even though he’s been trotting out that line since Confucius was in nappies.
‘Mr Lee, your ribs are the best in London,’ he adds, completing tonight’s bingo card.
After the banana fritters arrive, Dad goes to the bar to pay, and Mark follows him. I’m not sure what they’re talking about, but it sounds serious. Dad is frowning. He doesn’t look happy with whatever Mark’s saying. Just when I feel Mark might not be as bad as I remember, he exhibits some typical self-centred behaviour. You can’t come to dinner late and upset the host.
On the pretext of going to the loo, I slowly walk past them, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. But when I reach them, they stop talking, so I don’t have any choice but to continue up the stairs towards the loo.
I reapply my lipstick, wait a couple of minutes then head out again.
When I step onto the landing, Mark is coming up the stairs. He stops when he sees me and retreats to give me room to pass.
His eyes follow my red shoes as I descend and when I’m level with him, he nods.
‘Careful in those. The air is much thinner up here.’
‘Yes, I’m a short-arse. You’ve made your point.’
‘Why are you being so touchy? You’re what, a hundred and sixty-five centimetres – five four in old money?’
He’s exactly right. ‘How did you know that?’
‘In my job as a glorified butcher, it’s useful to be able to quickly assess someone’s height and weight.’
I hold up my hand. ‘Don’t you dare guess my—’
