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‘It’s a special occasion,’ he said. ‘I did promise we’d celebrate your university scholarship properly.’
‘Well, I feel very spoilt. I have been fantasising about this meal all month. It all looks so delicious, Quinn.’
Behind Polly, Quinn watched an older man with grey hair lean forward in his chair and squeeze the hand of the woman he was with. It was a confident, intimate gesture and he saw the woman gaze back at her partner with doe-eyed admiration. Quinn reached out to take Polly’s hand.
‘Don’t worry about it. I want you to enjoy yourself,’ he said, giving her hand a squeeze.
Quinn had borrowed one of his father’s old jackets for the occasion. It was a beautifully cut blue woollen blazer, hand-made on Savile Row. His father was a slighter build and it was too tight for Quinn across the shoulders. Extending his arm caused him to hunch uncomfortably.
Quinn had met Polly six months ago. He’d spent the summer backpacking around Brazil with his university friend, Mike. It had been a rare opportunity to escape London, afforded by his aunt coming over from the US to hold the fort at home. Quinn and Mike had run into Polly and her friend Gina in a bar in Salvador. The girls were in Brazil on their gap year, planting trees for a charity. The four of them had spent the evening comparing travel tales and drinking caipirinhas so full of lime they made their eyeswater. Quinn had been besotted with this beautiful, funny, generous soul, from that first caipirinha.
‘So what shall we make our toast to?’ Polly asked, picking up her glass.
‘Your academic brilliance,’ said Quinn.
‘What about your birthday tomorrow?’ suggested Polly.
‘How about finally being in the same place?’ said Quinn.
Polly had only returned from South America in August, and then she’d started university in Reading that September. Quinn would go and visit her for a day at weekends, but found it hard to stay away overnight. He sent her train tickets so she could come up to London, but Quinn was still living at home and Polly often felt awkward staying with his mother.
The waiter arrived and presented their main courses. Hers, delicate slices of duck balanced on a tower of red cabbage and gratin potato, a perfect obelisk of food in the middle of a large white plate. His, the pan-fried sea bream he estimated at about ten pounds a mouthful.
‘Wow, this looks spectacular,’ said Polly, her eyes dancing with delight. ‘I don’t want this evening to end – maybe we should go clubbing later? Imagine if we could stay out until four and then spend all of tomorrow in bed,’ said Polly wistfully as she rubbed his leg with her foot beneath the table. ‘But I’m not sure that would be allowed at your mother’s house.’
Quinn glanced down at his lap. Living at home did mean there were some restrictions on his nocturnal activity – his bedroom was right above his mother’s room. A couple oftimes he had splashed out and hired a hotel room for an evening, just so they could be free of any inhibitions, but he felt seedy taking Polly to a hotel where they checked in at seven and out at eleven.
As if she knew they were talking about her, Quinn’s phone began to vibrate.
‘Right on cue,’ Polly said quietly. ‘Go on then.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, leaving the table to take the call out in the corridor.
New Year’s Eve was always hard for his mother. It was the anniversary of the day his father left. Quinn had learnt it was better to answer quickly, talk her down from whatever trigger had upset her. If he ignored her calls, it only made it more likely she’d have a full-blown panic attack.
Over the phone he managed to calm her. She was anxious about the locks on the French windows again. He was patient, he listened, he spoke in soothing tones, but inside he felt himself growing tense at the sound of her voice. He willed her to rally. He didn’t want to go home; he didn’t want to cut this evening short.
Back at the table, Polly had finished her main course.
‘Is everything OK?’ she asked. ‘Do you need to go?’
‘No, it’s fine. I’m sorry.’ How many times had they had this conversation in the last six months? How many times had he apologised?
Polly rearranged the wine glasses on the table, setting them into a symmetrical pattern.
‘She knows we’re celebrating tonight,’ Polly said with a sigh.
‘She doesn’t do it on purpose, Pol. It’s been a tough few months, with Dad getting married again.’
Polly watched him across the table as he tried to paste on a smile.
‘And it was a tough month in September when your aunt went home.’
‘Yeah, there are a lot of tough months … what do you want me to do?’ he said, more sharply than he meant to.
‘It just doesn’t seem fair on you,’ Polly said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
Quinn wordlessly shook his head. ‘Please, let’s not talk about it tonight,’ he said, shuffling forward on his chair. ‘I want this evening to be about us, about you.’
