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  ‘Aw, God love her, the poor wee lassie,’ Mum said. ‘Is she coping okay?’

  ‘Sounds like her man’s got a principled head on his shoulders,’ my dad said. ‘Got to admire that.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Mum.

  ‘Any kids yet?’ Dad.

  ‘Opening a school, that’s wonderful. She always was a clever one.’ Mum, again.

  ‘Now that is brave, starting a business abroad. Good for them.’ Dad, again.

  Screaming would have been inappropriate, so I just sulked and ate the remains of my dinner. ‘She’s coping fine,’ I said finally, forcing my frustration down along with the last mouthful of (frankly overcooked) chicken. ‘Seemed pretty happy, actually.’ Happened to be true, sadly.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ Mum said. ‘What are her plans now, then?’

  ‘She’s got a job at Glasgow Uni. as a German language lecturer.’

  ‘Oh, that’s excellent.’

  ‘What about ...’ Dad began.

  ‘English teacher at Holyrood,’ I said, resigned to what I knew was likely to follow.

  ‘He’s not even in the country yet and he’s already got a job lined up? That’s impressive.’ He waited for me to comment. I didn’t bother. It had to come up eventually, after all. ‘And here’s you ...’ Dad went on.

  ‘I’m starting a new job on Tuesday,’ I interrupted. That shut them up. For about two seconds.

  ‘Where?’ Mum said, failing to hide her excitement.

  ‘Oh thank fu ... hrgmm.’ My dad faked a cough and glanced at Mum. ‘Thank-s fu-for,’ he said very deliberately, ‘doing ... that. Jim.’ I didn’t smirk as he continued. ‘Good news, very good news. Good on you. Jim. So, what’s the job?’ He smiled, bless.

  ‘Bet you can’t guess,’ I said, for no obvious reason.

  Mum looked worried. ‘Do you want us to?’

  ‘Not really, no,’ I admitted. It wasn’t as though I was about to surprise them with news of my sudden appointment as CEO of the Adult Children You Can Finally Be Proud Of Conglomerate, so flippancy was almost certainly unwise.

  ‘I’m going to be a barman again. In The Basement. Again.’

  I gave the puppy-dog look another go, more for old-time’s sake and a desire to bid it a fond farewell than any hope of it doing any good. The silence at the start of the meal hadn’t exactly been comfortable, but it was only silence. What spread throughout the room, the house and, possibly, the country now was no mere absence of sound. This silence spoke volumes; it shouted volumes, and none of it anything I wanted to hear.

  I probably could have looked them in the eye, but I wasn’t about to.

  At my last visit two weeks previously I had decided to hit them with all my news at once, to get it over with. Simon would have been proud of me. I’ve handed in my notice and sold the flat was a rough approximation of what I said.

  Eh, why? (or words to that effect) they had responded.

  Because I’ve decided I don’t like my life and want to have another go, was the gist of my answer.

  Are you a fucking moron? (I’m paraphrasing) came their considered reply.

  I don’t think so, no, I countered, defending my corner.

  You are, you’re a fucking moron (not paraphrasing so much on that one).

  Imagine the above exchange lasting an hour-and-a-half, with a fair amount of repetition, a liberal use of glowering and looks aghast, and no sense of resolution whatsoever.

  I had, understandably I feel, skipped the next Sunday’s visit, to give both sides an opportunity to reflect. I didn’t just not show up, I’m not a coward. I phoned my mum and explained I had sprained my ankle and couldn’t make it over. Then, as I was on the line anyway and there being no point in wasting free weekend talk-time, I asked if I could move back in.

  And here I was. The really loud silence lasted a really long time, and I was running out of places to look that didn’t contain my parents. I was contemplating getting up and leaving, though I’d no idea where I’d go, when my mum finally spoke.

  ‘I hope the wages have gone up a bit since last time.’ She was, through gritted teeth, attempting to lighten the mood. God love her.

  ‘Hey!’ I joined her valiant quest. ‘Minimum wage is over a fiver an hour now!’

  And that was the end of that. Mum’s fake and feeble smile became a very genuine grimace and Dad’s head moved from side to side, his eyes on the table.

  ‘Sixty,’ Dad said, head still down.

  I had no clue what he was talking about. He was sixty-two.

  ‘I was thinking maybe seventy,’ Mum said. She was fifty-nine, so I was no less confused.

  ‘Good for you.’ Dad looked up and smiled at my mum. ‘Seventy it is.’

  They both looked directly at me. It was horrible. They seemed so ... united.

  ‘Remember when you used to give me forty pounds a month dig money?’ Mum smiled.

  Did I? I only earned about seventy-five quid a week at the time, it was a nightmare.

  Oh. Shit.

  ‘It’s not dig money anymore,’ my dad said. ‘It’s rent. Seventy a week, starting today.’

  ‘Today?’ I said. ‘But I’m just in the door.’ This was an outrage, sort of. A bit. Maybe.

  ‘Payable every Friday.’ For the first time in too long my dad looked genuinely happy. The Bastard.

  I looked at Mum, hoping for support. She smiled. Firmly.

  Jesus. The whole point of moving back here was to save cash. I could rent a flat for seventy quid a week, for Christ’s sake. Certainly a bed-sit at the very least. Probably. Maybe not a very nice one. Possibly not in a great area. Still.

  It was wrong, in a very fundamental way, to be charged rent by your parents. A bit of bill money, that was only to be expected. But actual rent. I’d be lucky to walk out with 150 quid a week after tax from The Basement, and they wanted nearly half of it? In whose world was that fair?

  ‘We can get a tenancy agreement written up if you’d like, to clarify everything.’ This was my mum. She was always the one who took my side, and she was very clearly enjoying herself. She also very clearly meant it. This was bad.

  It would need some serious manoeuvring to distract them away from this. Okay, I thought. They think you’re a tit. That you can’t deal with being a grown-up, so they’re treating you like a child to wake you up. They think you don’t understand adult responsibilities so they’re trying to teach you a wee lesson. They don’t actually want seventy quid a week; they just want you to prove you’re mature. Give them something that proves that, and everything will be fine.

  ‘I’ve stopped smoking.’ What?

  ‘Seriously?’ They said in stereo.

  ‘Eh, yeah?’

  Fuck!

  Chapter 11

  ‘Did they fall for it?’ Terry passed the ashtray over.

  ‘Oh yeah, cheered them right up.’ I stubbed out my Marlboro Light. ‘They still want seventy quid a week, though. Now I get to pay them a fortune to live in a house I can’t even spark up in.’

  ‘Well, I guess you’ve finally got your wish about starting all over again. You couldn’t smoke the last time you lived there.’

  This was true. I had only admitted my habit to my parents once I was firmly ensconced in my own flat, secure in the knowledge they might not approve but could no longer forbid me my vices with the old ‘not under my roof’ edict. Despite my numerous other failings, smoking had always been my prime sin in their eyes.

  I had escaped to Terry’s shortly after dinner. Terry lived in a two-room tenement flat in Rutherglen that had seen better decades, but, as it was now about the only place in the city I could have a smoke indoors, I wasn’t inclined to disparage the décor.

  ‘Do you want to hide your fags here in case your mum goes through your pockets after you’re in your bed?’ Terry asked.

  ‘I think I’ll cope. Fancy going for a pint?’

  ‘Not tonight, mate. I’ve got a meeting with Patrick first thing.’

  This st
atement was astonishing for two reasons. Firstly, I had never, and I do mean never, heard Terry refuse an invitation to the pub. Secondly, why the hell would meeting with Patrick be a reason for such a refusal? Actually come to think of it, thirdly, why was he meeting Patrick anyway?

  ‘Why?’ I said, covering all three burning issues.

  ‘He arranged it on Friday night.’ I remembered wondering what the two of them had been whispering about in The Basement. Terry shifted uncomfortably. ‘I think he’s going to offer me your old job.’

  ‘Why, what did he say?’

  ‘That he was going to offer me your old job.’

  ‘Not too ambiguous, then?’

  ‘Eh, no. Is that a problem?’

  ‘I suppose not. Not about you getting it, anyway. It smarts a bit that he did it at my leaving do.’

  ‘You know Patrick, if he couldn’t justify it by including some business he probably wouldn’t have turned up at all. You could say he did it deliberately so he’d have an excuse to say cheerio to you. You could view it as a compliment, sort of.’

  ‘I think you’re pushing it a bit, there.’

  ‘Aye well, maybe. It’s not, like, an issue, is it? Between us?’

  Terry could look quite endearing when he was nervous, like a grubby, chubby orphan child. Oliver Twist without the hunger. It was his version of the puppy-dog.

  ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘That extra 450 quid a year is going to change your life, though. I hope you’re prepared for the move into the lower middle classes.’

  ‘Oh aye, I’ve already picked out a villa in Govanhill where I plan to summer.’

  ‘Good stuff. Seriously though, you’re not going for a pint?’

  Terry’s cheeks reddened. ‘This is your fault, making me be responsible again.’

  ‘How d’you work that out?’

  ‘It’s your job I’m getting.’

  ‘So, me growing down is the reason you’re growing up?’

  ‘Christ, I’m not am I?’ Terry sounded scared.

  ‘It would certainly appear so.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll grow out of it. Around the time you get next month’s payslip would be my guess.’

  Terry laughed. ‘Aye, no doubt. You’re welcome to stay and smoke for another couple of hours.’

  ‘Why thank you, kind sir.’

  ‘As long as you don’t mind sitting on your own while I have a bath and iron my clothes for tomorrow.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Now I was worried.

  ‘Fuck off. A lack of hangover is the only concession I’m prepared to make to the corporate monster, just yet.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ I lit another cigarette.

  ‘So anyway, what’s going on with the beautiful Ms Fraser?’

  I sighed. ‘Nothing new. She said she’d see me in the pub at some point, but I’m not holding my breath. She was only there to see Sammy, and he’s not going to be working there for much longer apparently.’

  ‘I thought you said you had a moment?’

  ‘I think that was the tequila talking, unfortunately. She never even gave me her number.’

  ‘Did you ask?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  Bing bong.

  It was Simon Fraser. Terrific.

  - pint stube thirty minutes yes no -

  As succinct and unpunctuated as ever. ‘It’s Bruce Lee’s agent,’ I told Terry.

  ‘What incredible fact is he enlightening us with tonight?’

  ‘None, he wants to get a drink.’

  ‘You’re on your own I’m afraid, mate.’

  ‘Do you think I should?’ I wasn’t sure. Meeting up with Simon before Paula came home had made some sort of sense (at least to me). Now she was back, I couldn’t help thinking that going for a beer with her dad was a bit, well, weird.

  ‘You said you fancied a pint.’

  ‘Yeah, but ...’

  ‘You should know something before you make your decision.’ Terry sounded nervous again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think I am actually going to have a bath and, possibly, iron.’

  - See you in there. -

  ***

  Stube was relatively quiet and there was no sign of Simon Fraser when I arrived. I bought a pint and settled at the same table we’d used for our first meeting a few weeks previously.

  I hadn’t spoken to Simon since the day we’d watched the football together, and his texts and emails had thankfully tailed-off to only one or two an hour. I knew far more than felt healthy about Bruce Lee by that point and was glad Simon had calmed his communications down. I wondered what had prompted his text tonight. I didn’t think I had said anything to upset Paula at my leaving do, though when tequila’s involved you can never be sure. I hoped being in a house all day with two women had simply prompted a desire in Simon for some male company. At any rate, I was sure he’d be pleased about the progress I’d made with my parents. I decided not to tell him about the smoking thing.

  I was idly wondering what he would want me to call him tonight when I was, once again, surprised by an Irish accented voice behind me. I really needed to start facing the door on nights like this.

  ‘Hi, Jim.’

  ‘Paula?’

  Paula Fraser slipped into the booth opposite me. She smiled gorgeously. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said stunningly.

  ‘Ack,’ I replied inanely.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked beautifully.

  ‘But ...’ I countered idiotically as I looked around to see if she was alone.

  ‘Shit, you thought I was my dad.’ Her eyes widened with ravishing understanding. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Jim. Your number was in his phone so I used it to text you. I forgot you wouldn’t know it was me. Christ, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. It’s fine!’

  ‘Are you sure? Do you want me to go?’

  ‘No!’ I shouted, causing Paula to flinch with grace and finesse.

  ‘Okay.’ She looked both uncomfortable and enchanting.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, trying to get it together. ‘I just wasn’t expecting to see you. How are you? You look great. Is everything okay? Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Just a beer, ta.’

  The trip to the bar gave me time to calm down a little and I felt relatively composed as I retook my seat and smiled.

  Paula smiled back.

  I smiled some more. This seemed to be going quite well.

  ‘So,’ Paula said after a while. ‘Can I have my drink?’

  I realised I was still clasping her bottle of Becks in my hand.

  ‘Shit, sorry.’ I slid the beer quickly across the table, spilling a fair proportion of it over the side onto her lap in my haste. ‘Oh shit! Sorry.’ I thrust my hand out and caught the wobbling bottle before it disappeared after its contents. ‘Sorry.’

  And there was that special smile on Paula’s face I’d missed so much. The one she’d always reserved for me. The one that told me exactly what she was thinking.

  ‘The word wanker has just popped right to the front of your mind, hasn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘In big red capital letters.’

  ‘Flashing on and off?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Jim. No puppy-dog look?’

  I laughed. ‘I figured I’d outgrown it.’

  ‘Since Friday? Shame, that was always a favourite.’

  ‘Seriously though, sorry about the, you know, damp ... crotch.’ I could probably have worded that better.

  ‘And that’ll be the end of that conversation, thank you. Still, at least you didn’t punch me.’

  ‘See? I’ve matured.’

  ‘Ah, there’s the puppy-dog.’

  Five minutes later Paula had dried off in the ladies and I had very carefully placed a fresh bottle of beer in front of her.

  ‘Sorry about rushing away on Friday,’ she said after taking a swig. ‘I’d promised Sammy w
e’d go out.’

  ‘No, no problem.’ She’d come to apologise? Interesting. ‘I had my thing going on. Don’t worry about it.’ I was going for casual. ‘It all got a bit blurry towards the end anyway.’

  ‘The best nights usually do.’

  ‘They do when Terry’s picking the drinks.’

  The pause that came next wasn’t awkward, but it was definitely there.

  ‘Listen, I hope you don’t mind me getting in touch tonight,’ Paula said eventually.

  Pfff! ‘No, it’s cool.’

  ‘Thanks. I needed a bit of space away from my mum and dad.’

  ‘Believe me I understand all about that, and I only moved back today.’

  As I dragged my eyes eight-inches upwards to meet hers, I reflected that Paula must be feeling pretty lonely. She’d been away from Glasgow for over a decade and, Sammy and her family aside, I was probably her only point of contact in what must now be an unfamiliar, possibly even scary, city. I tried not to feel in any way glad about this.

  ‘I mean they’re great and I love being able to spend time with them,’ Paula said.

  ‘Yeah, but parents are parents, aren’t they?’ I wanted her to know how much I understood.

  ‘You don’t understand, Jim. They really are great. I’ve spent five years screwing up my life and getting into shit-loads of debt and they’re being so brilliant about it. They haven’t once said I’ve made any mistakes or messed anything up. All they keep saying is I was really brave to try and it’ll all work itself out and I’ll see it’s been worth it in the long run. That’s a lot to live up to, you know?’

  ‘Eh, yeah, of course,’ I said. ‘That’s harsh. They need to give you a break.’

  ‘There’s only so much positive reinforcement you can handle before you start to feel unworthy. I feel like I’ve let everyone down and they haven’t even noticed.’

  I was starting to lose the thread of her argument and decided to steer back to more familiar waters. ‘Add all that to having to come back here after so long. You must be feeling pretty isolated, especially with Ingo still being in Germany.’ Damn, why did I bring him up?