‘Getting bored,’ Nick says.
‘Lori told him off for being late,’ I say.
Nick laughs. ‘Seriously?’
‘I kid you not. I didn’t say anything.’
‘Pot, kettle, apple from tree?’
‘Not a peep. Game of Thrones or True Detective?’ I waggle the remote.
Nick shakes his head. ‘I’m going up. Site visit tomorrow. I’ll reset the alarm.’
Left on my own, I wonder why Nick asked about Tom or, more specifically, why he waited four days to ask about him. Nick and I have been together for eleven years and we’ve gone through a lot of manoeuvring to make sure Lori spends time with her dad. It’s been a rocky road but easier as Lori grew old enough to make her own arrangements with him. Nick still resents Tom, hasn’t forgiven him for the hurt he’s caused with his lack of organization, and the times his chaotic approach to life left us in the lurch or Lori disappointed. Nick is protective of me too. He’s been witness to me raging about Tom’s latest fuck-ups too many times.
Perhaps there’s some jealousy as well. Much as Nick is a great stepdad to Lori, she and Tom are even closer.
Tom and I were never a good match. It was his difference that caught my attention. He was flamboyant and opinionated and impulsive.
Our first encounter ended in a blazing row. I was staffing a stall signing people up to a petition and vigil in support of the Chinese students on hunger strike in Tiananmen Square.
‘What’s the point?’ he said. ‘Nothing we do here will affect what happens.’
‘With enough support and attention-’
‘It’s all over the telly – the whole world’s watching anyway. A few names on a petition is a waste of time.’
‘So we do nothing?’ I said. ‘This is a mass movement, a real chance at democracy.’
‘When the Chinese government have had enough, they’ll clear the lot of them out. Water cannon or whatever. None of this,’ he waved his hand at the stall, ‘will make a bit of difference.’
‘You’re talking crap,’ I said.
‘Put money on it – the protest is quashed, the Commies carry on and you have a drink with me.’ His eyes were dancing. He was enjoying it, winding me up.
‘You want me to bet on people’s lives? Talk about shallow.’
His mouth twitched. I could tell he was fighting a smile. My face felt hot.
‘You wait and see,’ he said.
He wore a long duster-type coat, which emphasized his height, black denims, and I could see his jumper was shrunken and had holes in it. He’d sharp cheekbones, long hair the colour of honey, eyes of the palest blue.
