Nigel
‘Always sweet and sour. Remember you used to steal all the chicken pieces and leave me with the veg.’
‘I didn’t take them all.’
He laughed. ‘I was doing you a favour. Veg is better for you. Anyway, I eat veg now. Years of living with Madison rubbing off on me, I suppose.’
‘She’d be very disapproving of the monosodium glutamate-laden stir fry we’re about to order, I’m sure.’
‘Publicly, yes. Though I used to find the occasional takeaway carton in the garbage.’
Helen raised an eyebrow. He sensed she wasn’t commenting on Madison’s secret junk food habit.
‘In the bin,’ he corrected himself.
‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘We’ll turn you back into an Englishman yet.’
Nigel paid for their order and sat next to Helen on the vinyl bench under the window, watching the large red and gold cat statue with its fixed smile, waving its paw at him across the counter.
Was it trying to wish him good luck? He felt like he needed it, but why?
It wasn’t spending time with Helen that was making him nervous.
It must be the fact that she had sons now, and he was about to come face-to-face with one of them.
‘Are you alright with me meeting Harry?’ he asked.
Helen hesitated.
Stupid question, Nigel. You’re old friends. It’s not as if she’s going to introduce you to Harry as his future stepdad. How did stepfathers behave with adult children? Probably like Klaus. Very hands off. He realised Helen was replying.
‘He’s legally an adult. He knows we were friends years ago.’
‘I just thought he might find it uncomfortable.’
‘Not Harry. Callum maybe - he’s not forgiven Angus for the way he treated me.’
Nigel liked the sound of Callum. ‘Are you two close?’
‘I’m closer to him than Harry. Harry’s always busy with other people. Callum’s more … not shy, exactly. Thoughtful. That’s the best description.’
It might be a good thing that Callum wasn’t home. He was going to be a tougher nut to crack than Harry, by the sound of it.
The woman behind the counter appeared with a white bag full of plastic containers. ‘Crackers?’ she asked.
Nigel grinned at her. ‘Yes, I possibly am.’
She looked at him for a moment, then slid the bag of prawn crackers towards Helen, obviously deciding that he couldn’t be trusted with them. ‘Have a good evening.’
Helen smiled. ‘Thank you. We will, won’t we, Nige?’
He was glad she was confident about that because he certainly wasn’t.
‘Harry! We’re back,’ Helen shouted up the stairs as she let Nigel into the house. ‘We got you duck in hoisin sauce.’
‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
A stay of execution. But Nigel would rather get the “meeting the offspring” element of the evening over and done with.
‘Forgive the mess,’ she said as she hung her coat on the stand at the bottom of the stairs.
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Nigel said. ‘I always felt at home here.’
‘We were never a family that stood on ceremony.’
He followed her into the kitchen and put the bag of takeaway containers on a free stretch of work surface.
Rocky was sitting patiently by the back door.
Helen sighed. ‘Harry, when did you last let Rocky out?’
‘Lunchtime,’ the disembodied voice shouted from upstairs.
‘Sorry, Nige. I’ll get some plates out in a sec. Rocky needs a trip to the garden.’
As soon as she unlocked the back door, Rocky disappeared outside like a shot. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ she said, following him.
Nigel found plates and cutlery and laid the table.
‘I couldn’t find the glasses,’ he said as Helen and Rocky walked back in.
‘I moved them over the fridge.’
‘The one cupboard I didn’t look in.’ He grabbed a couple of white wine glasses, unscrewed the top on the chilled Chablis they’d bought from the off-licence next door to the Chinese, and poured out two generous helpings.
‘Shall I dish up?’ he asked.
‘Please.’
He opened the tubs while Helen finished washing her hands. If you’d timed that initial kiss better, this might be your regular Friday routine now. He tried not to dwell on that thought.
‘Hi.’ The disembodied voice now had a body. A six-foot-four one with the physique of a Rugby player, a shock of ginger hair, and a large set of over-ear headphones around his neck.
At the risk of stereotyping, Nigel guessed this son took after Angus. ‘Hi. You must be Harry.’
‘Yeah.’ Harry nodded, then turned his attention to the food. ‘This one mine?’ he asked, picking up the duck.
‘Yes, and the fried rice.’
‘Thanks.’ He grabbed a tray from beside the kettle and started to leave the kitchen.
‘Manners!’ Helen called after him.
‘What? I said thanks.’ He carried on out into the hall and up the stairs.
‘It’s fine,’ Nigel said.
‘It is not fine. The first time he meets you and he all but blanks you.’
‘He’s a teenager.’
‘Is this how your children treat people?’ Helen asked, clearly exasperated.
‘Harry acknowledged my existence, which is far more than either of my daughters has done for weeks.’
She looked mortified. ‘Sorry, that was insensitive.’
Nigel shrugged. He was relieved that Harry had gone back to his room. That avoided having to make awkward conversation around the dining table. But he couldn’t say that to Helen. Or could he?
‘I get more time with you on your own. That’s a plus as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Is it?’
‘I’d say so.’ He smiled.
Helen picked up one of the wine glasses. ‘To a quiet evening alone.’