Later that night, after
the tears and spilt wine and stilted apologies, I buried myself between the coats in my wardrobe and placed a hushed call to Caroline. The line was terrible; I was on the verge of emerging from the soft folds of 2009 Topshop and second-hand Whistles until I discerned some tinkly words on the other end. They sounded rather like ‘Highlands’ and ‘in touch’.
About a week later,
Bron shuffled through to my room in her slippers.
‘Mum phoned. She said do
we want to go up North to her new cottage. She said she’s got a surprise for
me. I said no.’
‘Bron, I think we
should go.’
‘She’s only doing this
because she’s seen a baby in her Boden catalogue
or something—’
‘I think we should go.’
It must have been
something about my tone, or perhaps she was just noticing the hollowness in my
cheeks for the first time in the cold afternoon light, because she shifted on
her feet for a moment before nodding almost deferentially.
‘It’s a boy, by the
way,' she said after a pause. 'I know it. And he’s going to be virile and kind, not like his father. I’m
going to call him Marius.’
‘Marius is wet. Valjean is more alpha.’
‘I can’t call my son Valjean, Cathy.
Anyway, Hugo’s original Marius wasn’t wet. Everyone just thinks he’s wet
because of Michael Ball.’
‘I really like Michael
Ball,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you call him Michael Ball? Both names, like the Tiger in Life of Pi.'
Briar twisted her mouth
about for a while, trying not to smile. I did the same.
