Dillon watched his mother push open the heavy glass door of the café. He saw the face of the maître d’ light up as he welcomed her. Business-like to the point of rudeness, the man, in his trendy suit – which looked deliberately two sizes too small – with his flicked-back fringe, designer stubble and pointed black lace-ups, took no prisoners when it came to the average customer. But for his mother his face softened as he kissed her on both cheeks. Everyone loved his mum.
Dillon rose from his seat to welcome her.
‘This is a treat,’ she said, sliding into the leather banquette opposite him.
He smiled. ‘Got to be allowed the occasional skive.’
Dillon was the spit of his dead father: tall, broad-shouldered and athletic, with clear blue eyes in a strong face, his dark hair rumpled from the cycling helmet that sat on the seat beside him – he biked everywhere. But he had none of his father’s drive. His current job was as an editorial assistant for a small academic publisher in Islington. The salary was rubbish, but he loved the team. And the low-pressure, although still diligent, approach to the work suited him. Dillon hated stress.
‘How’s Gaby?’ his mother asked.
‘Yeah, good. Crazy busy as usual. I hardly see her.’ His Brazilian fiancée was the ambitious one of the two, her small theatre company, always on the verge of extinction from lack of funds, demanding every minute God sent, with almost no financial reward and, as yet, no critical acclaim either.
‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ Lily asked.
‘Sometimes, I suppose. But she loves it, Mum. I either accept her as she is, or get out.’ He chuckled. ‘You know her. Can you imagine the fallout if I tried to control her?’ Gabriela was feisty, vibrant, full of energy – it was what he loved about her.
His mum smiled. ‘Not a pretty sight, I’d imagine.’
Dillon was never quite sure if his mother approved of his girlfriend. She was always kind and welcoming to her – and never criticized her to him – but he felt they had little in common, except himself. The clue was the odd remark, such as ‘She obviously makes you happy’, which implied reservations.
He fell silent as the waiter brought two chef’s salads, laid a round tin of mini-baguettes on the table, a saucer of butter wrapped in waxed paper, then topped up the Badoit they were drinking. He was desperate to broach the subject of the wedding money, but there was an unusual weariness about his mother today, a distracted air, which gave him pause. ‘How’s Freddy?’ he asked.
‘Busy,’ she said, without her usual enthusiasm.
It had been a painful revelation, seeing his mother fall in love. As it had never occurred to him that she might find another husband, he had been unthinkingly hostile to the very idea of Freddy. Hostile to Freddy as well, in the first months of their acquaintance. Even though, when they’d first met, it had been six years since his father’s death, the sight of his mother being held and kissed, however chastely, in front of him and his sister had made his stomach turn.
But Sara had told him scornfully that he was an ‘Oedipal cliché’, the son who is in love with his mother and jealous of his father. Or stepfather, in this case. Which had brought him up short and forced him to soften his hostility, because it was so clear that the man made his mum happy. And when he finally allowed himself to like Freddy, he found he liked him a lot. Freddy, wisely, had never tried to be a substitute father to the twins.
‘I suppose neither of us would have been happy with a layabout,’ he commented wryly, as they began to eat.
It wasn’t till coffee and an extensive chat about books – both of them devoted readers and always storing up recommendations for each other – that Dillon spoke about what was really on his mind. ‘Mum, I don’t want to bother you with this, because Freddy said he’s on it, but the Roof Gardens is hassling for the balance and Freddy did offer . . .’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘I tried. I’ve emailed and texted a few times, and he says not to worry, he’s got all the details.’ Dillon took a sip of his macchiato, not looking at his mother. ‘But they rang again this morning and said that if they don’t get it by the end of the week we’ll lose the booking.’
He saw the puzzlement in his mother’s eyes.
‘It’s only five weeks away, Mum. I’m sure they can sell the slot three times over if we don’t cough up.’
That wasn’t the only problem. The expensive venue was one thing, but all the other costs that went with it – invitations, cake, dress, cars – were eye-watering. And Dillon was too embarrassed to keep asking for more money. He wished he’d turned down his stepfather’s offer and gone for something smaller, more low-key. It would have suited him far better, but he’d wanted the best for his fiancée and Gabriela was so excited.
His mother was frowning. ‘I’m sure he’s just forgotten. He’s been putting in such long hours at the studio, and with these idiotic networking evenings he insists on doing, I don’t think he can remember his own name at the moment.’ She put a hand reassuringly over his. ‘I’ll talk to him tonight.’
Dillon breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, Mum. That’d be great.’ He didn’t add that his friend Josh, who was flat-sharing with Samuel, one of Freddy’s sound engineers, said Samuel hadn’t been paid last month.
It’s probably nothing, he told himself as he said goodbye to his mother, thanking her for lunch, then twisted open the D-lock securing his bike. An admin error or something. Freddy was loaded, that much was clear, and he’d been the one pushing for the Roof Gardens. The studio was always incredibly busy, too, according to Samuel. But the uneasiness he’d felt since he’d seen his mother’s expression when he’d told her about the wedding money would not go away. Something was up: his mother was not a worrier by nature. She was more a dreamer, someone who often didn’t seem properly attached to real life, with a calm, almost fatalistic outlook – a trait he envied. But she had appeared distinctly tense today, no question.