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16
Jack
I should have got off at Waterloo, it would have been quicker in hindsight. Instead, I was having to leg it over the bridge at Embankment, my head down, barely noticing the view, the London Eye spinning on its axis to my right, the buses sliding back and forth across Waterloo Bridge to my left.
I charged down the steps on the other side, hugging the river as I ran past Giraffe and the Royal Festival Hall. The National Theatre on the South Bank was one of my favourite places in the world. I’d hung out here when I was a kid, when, admittedly, I’d been slightly more interested in the skatepark under the arches, but I’d always been fascinated by this great big hulk of a seventies building and the enticing posters I’d seen outside, inviting you to go and see performances of Hamlet or The Cherry Tree or some mysterious-sounding Greek tragedy.
I popped open the buttons of my coat, wondering if I ought to have worn something smarter than the black T-shirt and grey hoodie combo I had on. In my defence, I’d come straight from the pub. The thing was, I knew my brother would be in one of his sharp work suits and that everyone would think I looked a state in comparison, but that just wasn’t my style and they’d have to take me as I’d come.
Following signs for the Olivier Theatre, I flicked my wrist to check my watch: 7.25. I’d made it. Just.
I showed the usher my ticket and she directed me to a seat near the front, two rows back and right in the middle. Dom clearly hadn’t skimped on seats, they must be the most expensive in the house, but then my brother didn’t do things by half.
I walked down the steps of the aisle, breathing in the atmosphere, wishing I was behind the curtain waiting to go on stage instead of in the audience. I loved peering out at the auditorium just before the curtain went up. The clinking of glasses, the smell of the glossy pages of the programmes, the hushed chatter. Now I got a waft of expensive perfume as I made my way to the front. I hoped nobody would notice I had my oldest trainers on.
Mum spotted me and started waving frantically. I half waved back, saying ‘excuse me’ to the stuck-up couple sitting on the end of the row who gave me daggers, as though I’d suggested they kill someone when I asked if I could please get past.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled reluctantly, squeezing past their knees.
I made it to my seat next to Dom, who, of course, was all suited up and smarmily holding a glass of champagne, smirking at me.
‘You made it, then,’ he said.
‘Sorry, yeah. I was working,’ I replied, unravelling my scarf, stuffing everything under my seat, wishing to god I’d had time to get a drink. I grabbed Dom’s out of his hand and took a massive mouthful before he could protest. ‘Hi, Mum,’ I whispered, leaning forward. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘We didn’t think you were going to make it,’ she hissed.
I grimaced and apologised for about the fifth time in sixty seconds.
My dad nodded briefly in my direction and then pretended to be mesmerised by the stage with absolutely nobody on it. I didn’t bother trying to get any more out of him, he’d only ignore me to make a point. I supposed I was going to get a lecture in the interval.
The orchestra struck up and everyone shuffled in their seats, that wonderful loaded silence rippling through the audience.
At the interval, we traipsed out into the bar. Dad had pre-ordered drinks for everyone except me.
‘I didn’t know what you’d want,’ he said, which was a lie, because he was really into his red wine and it had rubbed off on me and he knew it had.
I joined the massive queue for the bar, simmering with resentment and feeling like I’d pissed everyone off, which was how I always felt with my family anyway. By the time I’d been served, there were only about ten minutes left until the second half started. I rummaged in my coat, pulling out the present I’d wrapped at work in the post-lunchtime lull. I was pleased with myself because I’d popped into Waterstones on the high street and had bought a sheet of the world’s most expensive wrapping paper. I thought the shimmery fern print elevated the gift, which in itself wasn’t that impressive, but it was something I thought Mum would like.
‘This is a surprise,’ remarked Mum, putting her glass down on a nearby ledge and pulling ineffectively at the paper; I’d got carried away and had used too much Sellotape. When she finally prised it open, she smiled kindly at me. ‘I’ve heard good things about this,’ she said, turning over the latest Margaret Atwood and skimming the synopsis on the back. ‘Thank you.’
I shrugged. ‘Sorry it’s not much.’
‘Still skint, are you?’ said Dom, ever tactful.
I should have thanked him for the tickets, but I couldn’t bear the gushing from Mum and Dad that was bound to ensue if I mentioned it. Sure, he’d bought Mum tickets to see Follies – she loved musicals – and splashed his cash around as usual and his reputation as son-of-the-decade was fully intact. I just wasn’t going to give him yet another chance to act out our tiresome family dynamic, starring Dom as the good boy and me as the bad. I’d text him later instead.
‘Um, things are OK,’ I said, not wanting to give him the pleasure of gloating about how much money he earned and how little I did. Although I’d rather be skint and happy any day, doing what I loved rather than stuck in a soulless office surrounded by wankers and piles of boring legal papers. Nobody ever seemed to mention the fact that he’d once announced he’d rather die than do corporate law, but that that was precisely what he’d ended up doing. ‘How’s things with you?’ I asked him. ‘Work OK?’
‘Busy,’ he replied, stuffing a handful of pistachio nuts into his mouth.
‘Any interesting cases?’ I asked, pretty convinced that there wouldn’t be. His job didn’t make for the most riveting anecdotes.
‘Really important case,’ he said, chomping loudly. ‘It’s been all over the press, you’ve probably heard about it. Big firm in the City being sued by the family of one of their employees after he topped himself in his lunch hour.’
‘Jesus,’ I said, gulping at my wine. I looked over my shoulder at the queue – I might have to get another to take in with me.
‘What do you make of the show?’ piped up Dad. ‘What’s your expert opinion, then?’
