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‘Birdsong. This is my second time reading it.’
‘Sebastian Faulks. Good.’
‘You’ve read it.’
‘I have. Since my wife died, I have more time for reading.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Owen frowned again and added, ‘About your wife.’
‘Thank you.’
A blanket of silence descended. Henry didn’t want to be sucked into a conversation about death. It would be too easy to ask questions about Owen’s mother that might be painful for both of them and could lead to discovery. It was too soon. Not the right time for Owen to know the truth. He moved to the Christmas tree and set a bauble spinning. ‘Nice tree,’ he said and thought sadly… it might never be the right time.
They made idle conversation then until the door burst open and Sally entered, her gorgeous red hair loosely curling around her shoulders. Henry breathed in… not quite a gasp. He was too old for that sort of thing, but Sally Halcyon was a fine looking woman.
The evening passed remarkably quicklyfor Owen. He waved Sally and Henry off for their night out, wishing them a good one, made a sandwich and helped himself to one glass of single malt and settled on the sofa with his book so that almost before he knew it the time was nearly midnight.
It was the street door closing that brought him out of the world of fiction and the next minute, George stood in the entrance from the hall looking happy and flushed.
‘Did you have a good time?’ Owen asked, glancing up for a second, then turning a page in his book.
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘To Millie’s flat. Martha and Sharon were out for the evening.’
Owen looked up again.
‘Before you ask,’ George said, a huge smile spreading across his face. ‘Yes, we did. And that’s all I’m saying on the subject. The rest is private. Very.’
‘Of course it is.’ Owen stood up and stretched, stiff from sitting too long. ‘Just answer this one question. You didn’t ask her to marry you, did you?’
‘I wanted to, but no. I stopped myself.’ George turned for the stairs. ‘I’m off to my bed. I’m knackered.’
‘That good, eh?’ Owen muttered too softly for George to hear and followed him up to the bedroom.
‘Mum in?’ George asked, flinging his clothes on the floor.
‘No, not yet.’
Owen noticed George frowning and said, ‘Don’t worry.’ He shivered slightly as he peeled off his jeans. ‘They’re probably having a good time, and Henry doesn’t look to me like the sort of man that will take her back to his flat and rip her clothes off.’
‘God! I hope not.’ George sounded genuinely worried.
‘You never know, though,’ Owen continued, speculating. ‘Maybe your mum will bring him back here, rip his clothes off and you’ll find him joining us in the morning for breakfast.’
George froze, half in and half out of bed. ‘She wouldn’t. Would she?’
Owen shrugged. ‘She’s a red-blooded woman,’ he said and slid under his duvet.
George sat in his boxers on the edge of his bed and frowned at Owen. ‘It’s not that I really mind,’ he said. ‘I mean, after Dad, mum deserves some happiness. It’s just we know nothing about this man.’
‘He’s a barrister.’
‘Is he? How do you know?’
‘He told me tonight. He said something about once having hair like mine, then smoothed down his silver felt and said, it’s best to keep it short nowadays, not so hot under the wig. That’s when he said he was a barrister. I guess he might have thought I was wondering what he did wearing a wig.’
‘What kind of barrister?’
‘Criminal – mostly prosecution, he said.’
George laughed and climbed into bed. ‘My dad would spin in his grave if he knew.’
