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“You think I don’t know what you’re doing, don’t you,” he said.
Then they were off again, like minor emotional devastation hadn’t happened.
“No, I know you will. But I reckon my cheek might get you to say it anyway.”
“Fuck’s sake. That’s amazing. You’re absolutely right it will. I want to do it.”
“So go on, then. Something that made you really mad.”
He seemed to consider for a second.
Head tilted to one side, eyes dark and faraway.
Though she suspected it was less about dredging up some memory and more about wondering if he should go with the memory he wanted to. If it was too much to reveal, maybe. But then he came back to her, he focused on her face, and the second he did he just came out with it. Like he hadn’t hesitated at all.
“My dad dragging me down the pub,” he said.
To which she couldn’t help making a guess.
Even though she knew what he meant, she had to do it.
“And you hated it because it made him a bad dad,” she said.
Then got the exact shocking explanation she’d imagined.
“No, I hated it because I fucking hate the pub.”
“As in there was a particular one you disliked?”
“I think you know that’s not what I’m saying, Mabel.”
“Yeah, I do. But it sounds bananas, so I’m checking before I write it down.”
He shrugged. Like it was no big deal that a huge chunk of his whole persona was built on absolute bullshit. Or that it wasn’t a big deal that he was telling her, even though it really was. In fact, this felt like more of a revelation than theangry all the timething—even if he didn’t seem to think so. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered about saying it. As if some part of him liked that he was this way.
Or at least liked sharing it with her.
Which probably explained why he simply carried on.
“I’ve never liked going down the boozer. It’s not my thing, despite what people think of me. Usually on a night out I just stand there, like a lemon, pretending I’m enjoying ten pints of lager that aren’t really lager at all,” he said, so matter-of-fact about it that she couldn’t doubt it was true.
Though she still had questions.
Lots of half-marveling questions.
Which had nothing to do with writing his memoir.
“What are the pints then, if not lager?”
“Mostly shandy. Sometimes I get away with fizzy apple juice.”
“But surely someone can tell that you don’t stink of booze if you do this.”
“Nah. You just swill a bit of proper stuff round your gob and splash a bit on yourself and you’re golden. Nobody is ever any the wiser.”
Another shrug. Though this one seemed just a touch more defensive.
Like he could fend off her questions about that with his shoulders.
