‘He can fucking forget it,’ Nick said, slamming the car into reverse while Astrid waved limply at the kids, who were standing outside in the cold to see them off. When Matt put his forearm around her neck from behind, Emily stuck her tongue out, making an expression of horror as if she were being pole-axed. Gravel flew.
‘Who does he think he is? Henry the Eighth? He can just forget it.’ Then, under his breath, ‘Calling me Gary. Stupid old shit.’
She had to press her lips together to stop the smile.
‘Gary,’ she said with genteel effect, breathing life into it, making it sound fragrant. ‘It could be worse,’ she lied. ‘Shane?’
‘Thanks,’ he said sourly. ‘You sound really sincere.’
He’d gone pompous on her. When he was pompous, he had no sense of humour. Still, she allowed him that occasional transgression. Most men of his age were shabby and tight. They wore the same underpants days running until you caught them out. The same jacket did them twenty years. They spent their money only if they were with you – and only on eating and drinking – and they cut corners in all the wrong places, such as holidays and jewellery. They didn’t seem to care what people thought, when that was all that mattered at all. But Nick had bought her a cocktail ring from Boucheron for Christmas. When she opened the gorgeous solemn box, she knew he loved her. She could see it right there.
It was best to be silent. She should sit and look amenable.
But, a few miles further down the road, she broke her own embargo.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ, Nick! For God’s sake. I’m sorry about saying you should go. I don’t blame you for not wanting to see him ever again. He’s a horrible old man, isn’t he? Look. You tried. And he just wanted to knock you back. Silly old sod. He’s jealous of you. Obviously.’
But he didn’t look comforted by any of that at all. In fact, he looked all the more rancourous. He looked like his old man. He was running through other lines of attack in his head, things he could have said to his father – rebuttals, matters of fact – and working through some cruel jibes.
‘Marina was very nice,’ Astrid said, sliding her fingertips in between his legs. ‘She ought to try low carbs. Anyway. Perhaps we can have them over for lunch sometime, just your brother and his family. He’s a nice guy, huh? Salt of the earth type.’
‘Hmm.’ He had the length of his finger along his top lip, his thumb in the crook of his cheek.
‘Some lowlights would take years off her . . .’
But he didn’t answer and she sat there, prim, thinking about his accent changing in that kitchen. She tried squeezing his hand. ‘I love you, darling.’
His eyes were hostile. ‘Well then, next time listen to me! You had to push me into it, didn’t you? The old man was right about that! You don’t know anything about our family, so you should keep your nose out!’
‘Nick! Don’t turn on me, if you don’t mind! Jesus Christ. Is it catching, or something, your father’s nastiness?’
‘Oh, wind it in, Astrid!’
They put it off, but an argument was brewing. She’d never known him speak to her that way. She knew what she was going to say when she had the chance, in a fight, and in drink, ‘It seems like you’ve got plenty of your father in you after all.’ But she contented herself for the time being by fixing her gaze out of her side window, crossing her legs to point away from him, and saying under her breath, ‘Gary.’
And she found enough satisfaction in that to tide her over.