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‘I was trying to talk sense to him.’
‘And how far did you get with that?’ Sally flicked the hall light on and slipped out of her coat.
‘Not far,’ Owen replied, reading her thoughts, or thinking he could read them. Who was he to talk sense to her son? Owen Kingsley, walking, breathing real-life, one-man disaster zone.
‘Sorry if that seems presumptuous, but well, sometimes, I feel like George is the younger brother I never had.’
‘You’re the same age,’ Sally argued, then added. ‘More or less.’
‘Actually, I’m nearly two months younger, but I just feel older most of the time. And tonight, I was setting out scenarios for him of how his future might work out if he got married.’
‘And Millie getting pregnant was one of those scenarios?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you like Millie?’
‘I like her a lot. I just think George is too young for the commitment and the responsibility.’
Sally nodded, as if she might agree and led the way into the kitchen, heading straight for the cupboard where the whisky was kept.
‘Drink?’
‘Yes, please, but there’s no more to tell. That’s all it was.’
