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He takes a deep breath. “So, you’re not spending the weekend with family?”
“No, what about you?” I ask, because I’ve found out very little about him so far.
“I’m going to visit my mum on Sunday. She lives in Didcot in Oxfordshire.”
“Very nice,” I say grinning. “And here was me thinking you were self-made.”
He shoots me a knowing smile, then concentrates back on the road. “Oh, believe me, most people think that. I’ve always wondered why.”
“It’s the way you look. Rough and ready, I would say.”
He laughs quietly but he can’t stop grinning. “Oh. Oh. I see.”
“Sorry, did I volunteer sensitive information?”
He laughs loudly again which I find odd; I don’t think I’ve ever made a man laugh so much, unless it’s just nervous, flirty laughter… and I’m not funny at all.
“My mother is a very highly regarded lecturer on metaphysics,” he says, definitely proud. “That’s why she lives near Oxford. She brought me up on her own, did her PhD and all the extras while I was still in nappies.”
“Wow, that’s amazing.”
“So it might explain why I look like this, but have her brains, and get mistaken for someone who was not necessarily born and bred intelligentsia. From what she’s told me, my father was a jack the lad who she spent one glorious summer with… and he legged it after he realised he’d have responsibilities suddenly. She never heard from him again.”
With anyone else, I’d feel like I’d offended them, but Aidan isn’t so easily affected. In fact, he’s sitting taller in his chair as he talks. He’s really proud of his mother and how they both cracked life together, so it would seem.
“She sounds like a really amazing person,” I tell him honestly.
“She is. Which is why when I dropped out of university and chased a career as an Olympic cyclist, she nearly disowned me forever.”
“Holy hell!” I nearly shout, laughing.
“Yep. She was furious. I’d been studying economics at Oxford, of course. Just couldn’t find my feet, didn’t feel like I belonged, and I’ve always been very physical. Played rugby and tennis and cricket, all sorts, so the question would be, what hadn’t I played?” He sniggers absentmindedly. “I tried the cycling thing, qualified for some competitions, but never got very far. The Olympic dream died very quickly. I went and did some crazy stuff like ultra marathons, climbed Everest, scaled the Great Wall of China, scuba-dived for lost treasure, nearly died in the Amazon when I got bitten by God knows what.” He shakes his head at his younger self. “Then I left home to become a professional poker player. Lived in Vegas for a year. Made a lot of money. A lot of money. Came home, aggravated my mum for a few months, until one of her university colleagues said it was obvious I have a head for facts, figures, but also gambling… being able to read the room… and such… and if I had some money, why shouldn’t I try my hand at investment banking? And here I am. He was right, obviously.”
“Wow, that’s quite a story. So you must be older than you look, huh?”
“I’m thirty-three,” he says.
“Yeah, you look twenty-eight.”
“Thanks, I guess,” he laughs lightly. “And you’re what? Twenty-six, seven…ish…?”
“I’m twenty-six, nearly twenty-seven yes. And I knew in that interview you were someone who could read a room, so hell yes, I can totally see that’s why you do what you do.”
“Hmm,” he sighs. “It rather does put people off a little. My ability to detect. I apologise in advance for that.”
“Thanks, I guess,” I say, repeating the way he said it before.
He sniggers and we finally find ourselves out on more open road. He floors the vehicle and I feel my body hugged securely in the curved seat, feeling sure I’m safe in here, with him.
“What about you, Mirabelle? What’s your story?”
“Oh, well… it’s all a bit stale and sad in comparison.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.”
“Well, long story short… my mother left when I was twelve. Just walked away one day. My father is a cabbie who still sends me money to this day, because I think he always felt guilty, or maybe he really never checks his statements and never thought to cancel the direct debit he set up when I was a student.”
“Wow.”
