Wearily, Christian dropped the spoon back into the bowl and placed it on the bedside table.
"Are you sure you can't manage anymore? You've barely eaten anything."
Linda shook her head, mulishly pressed her lips together and waved him away; putting him in mind of Yasmin refusing a carrot stick and making him smile. He wiped the corners of his mother's mouth and plumped the pillow behind her head, gently laying her down and straightening the gaudily patterned bed sheet across her chest.
"You'll waste away." He chided.
"Nonsense. I'm getting my girlish figure back. Your father always said I had the best legs in Sidcup…" Her puffy lids began to close, although he could tell she was gamely fighting the onset of sleep, attempting to fix unfocused eyes on his own.
"Smooth devil. I'm sure you did, mum." Christian wondered how many other women his father had used the line on, replacing the town where appropriate. Sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, stroking Linda's hand, letting her ramble on about the dates she had been on, how she could have married a doctor, how her career was cut short when she fell pregnant with Jane, Christian ran through a list of his own chat up lines, cringing at the memory of the cheesiest ones. He found comfort in the fact that he had hardly ever needed to use them, a knowing look, a common intent, being all that was required on most occasions. Until there was Syed and all rules and rituals burned in his fire, froze in his ice. Christian's blood ran dizzyingly hot through his body, feeling the first urgent, intense pressure of Syed's lips against his own as if it had happened minutes ago, recalling his own surprise and delight and passion, the helpless, abandoned descent into love.
"But of course, she had a wooden eye…" His mother's comment, the last before she finally succumbed to sleep, made him blink in surprise and laugh.
"Course she did mum…" He kissed her on the forehead and got to his feet heavily, still aching from the flight, the night's vigorous lovemaking and the weeks of tension spent lurching from joy to misery and back to joy again. He listened carefully to his mother's ragged breathing until he was sure there was no chance of her waking to find herself alone and went to attend to the chaos he and Syed had left in the sunroom.
"Oh my gawd." Christian muttered and scratched his head, uncertain where he could start his attempt to bring order to the havoc he and Syed had created. Half-heartedly, he stooped to pick up Syed's discarded shirt, crumpled, smelly shirt, sniffing it before placing it on the broken camp bed.
"Washing pile." He said, formulating a system and added two pairs of pants and his jumper. He found Syed's pyjama top and considered ripping it slightly, accidentally on purpose, decided not to and folded it, putting it on top of Syed's case. As his hand left the material, he glimpsed an antler, sticking out from the bottom, partly obscured by Tamwar's sign. Rescuing Moosey, he held the stuffed toy to his face, his eyes filling with tears.
"Oh…" He gulped. Pulling himself together, he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and placed Moosey on the windowsill.
"You sit there and watch."
He gazed out towards the small sliver of sea, tantalisingly visible beyond the iron gates, wishing he could go for a swim, imagining muscles flexing and contracting as his arms curved through the blue water, sending white spray high into the air, pounding his sadness away. He was about to turn and continue tidying when he spotted a figure, lying on one of the sun loungers, battered straw hat tipped low over his lined face, engrossed in the sports pages of a newspaper.
"Son."
"Roger."
His father turned over a page then reluctantly laid his paper down on his lap, covering his neatly pressed beige shorts, and crossed his legs at the ankle, a varicose vein bulging from his tanned calf. He smiled, deep grooves etched across his cheeks, making Christian think of walnuts.
"Long time no see."
On the point of snapping, 'and whose fault is that?' Christian concluded that at least half the blame lay on his own shoulders, sniffed haughtily and stretched out on the other lounger, hands behind his head, squinting at the cloudless sky.
"Been busy. You know how it is."
Roger flipped at the brim of his hat and winked.
"Not sure if I do, son. You settled at anything yet?"
A familiar rage gripped at Christian's gut and he struggled to keep it under control, mindful that he was no longer fifteen and should rise above it.
'Yes dad.' He thought. 'Had two successful businesses, a home, friends, a community and I have the love of a remarkable man.'
"I got married." He said aloud. "But you know that."
He detected a faint snort and he fought down the compelling urge to storm off, slamming some doors in the process and yelling 'I hate you!' in his wake.
The vision of a teenage tantrum made him smile, despite his anger and he managed to keep his voice steady.
"It's legal and it should be equal."
Raising his eyebrows, Roger twitched at his newspaper, looking as if he were bored of the conversation and wanted to get back to reading the football results.
"Whatever floats your boat. He's here, isn't he? What's his name again? Something foreign, isn't it?"
Christian swung his legs from the sun lounger, twisting to glower at his father.
"It's Syed and he's a British Pakistani Muslim. Got a problem with that?"
Maddeningly calm, Roger grinned.
"Not me son, just asking. You're a grown man; you always made it quite clear you could do whatever you like... Bit disappointing for you, if you were looking for an opportunity to kick off… Have you seen your mum?"
Deflated and wrong footed by the rapid change of subject, Christian opened and shut his mouth and answered sadly,
"Yes. I didn't realise she was so poorly."
Blithely returning to his paper, seemingly without a care in the world, Roger rolled his eyes.
"Oh she's okay. Being a drama queen. Must be where you got it from. Is Jane around? I'm a bit peckish. Make us a sandwich, will you?"
The resurgence of a rightful rage came as a relief and Christian stood, pushing back his shoulders, snarling,
"Make it yourself and go and sit with your wife. I'm going to get a haircut."