A couple at the next table look round.
— Simon, Marianne warns as the waiter departs.
Marianne and Ben are looking edgy, but Dan’s loving it, so I speak a little louder. — Seduce a straight fucker and wreck his life, then, after he’s divorced, become BFF with his ex-wife, make each other wild cocktails and gossip about what a lousy lay he is. Discover a passionate love of musical theatre. Go to underground techno nights in Berlin dressed in lederhosen.
— We’ll bear that in mind, Dan laughs, turning to Ben. — So Germany it is for the holidays then!
Ben blushes. He’s a couple of years younger than Dan, and it shows. I wonder if he’s getting rammed, or doing the ramming, the saucy wee devil. I suppose the benefits of poofery is that you get to mix it up. Lucky bastards. — Good! I don’t want you guys squandering your gift of homosexuality on dating apps, mortgage brokers, estate agents, architects, adoption papers, meeting with surrogate single hoors who will take you to the cleaners, and arguments about fucking fabrics!
— There are no arguments about fabrics with us. It’s my way or the highway, Marianne says, as she rises to go to the toilet.
— I like her, Ben says. — I’m happy for you, Dad.
I move in close and lower my voice. — She’s either a predator or a victim. Like Churchill said about the Germans, at your feet or at your throat. It’s great living with her, it keeps me on my toes. She tries to undermine me as much as I do her. Every day is a fucking joust, I punch the table in euphoria, — I have never felt so alive in my life!
— That doesn’t really seem like a recipe for –
I cut him off right away. — Three words: make-up sex. Or is that two?
The boys look at me, and giggle a little. Not in a faggy way, more a what-the-fuck-is-that-embarrassing-old-cunt-saying-now manner. It’s taboo talking sex to youth: they don’t want to envision middle-aged sleazebags banging away. I was the same at that age. Still am now.
— Enough said, I tap my nose, and fuck me, it’s sore. Renton. That cunt.
Ben’s voice rises to an acceptably fey pitch with the wine, and his camp mannerisms become more pronounced.
— That’s it, lads, you can dispense with all the Hollywood closet-case stuff and let it all hang out. I’m straight, but I’m still as camp as a row of tents.
— He is, Marianne agrees, returning from the toilet to slide back into her seat beside me.
— That’s because I was rifling you aw weys, I laugh, enjoying the wine, as she digs me in the ribs. I look at them. — Well, why should you raving buftie boys have all the fun? No offence meant, my bellissimi bambinis!
When they get off the tube at Tufnell Park, Marianne and I have a drunken argument. — You don’t have to try and outperform them, they’re just young lads, she says.
I know that look, and it calls for an olive branch. — You, my darling, are exactly right as usual. I was remiss, please forgive me. I guess I’m just nervous. My boy moving in with a new partner. But he’s a nice lad.
— They’re a great couple, she says, assuaged.
The next day we are off to Edinburgh on the train. The journey is very pleasant; it beats flying hands down. I love the way it gets progressively more beautiful the further north you go.
— Do you think this is a good idea? Marianne asks.
— Not particularly. Richard Branson is a wanker and I hate giving money to him. But flying is such –
— No, I mean this dinner!
— Yes, I insist, thinking about that cunt Euan. A sapling whose weakness led to Danny boy’s sad demise. — I spoke to my mamma on the phone. She’s all excited, I could hear her crossing herself. ‘My-a boy finally settling doon and getting married…’
— But she doesn’t know it’s tae me, Simon. We have history. And your sister…
— Carlotta and Euan are fine now. They’ll just have to accept you, or we won’t be seeing any of them. Simple as, I tell her. — They have to learn that it can’t all be about them, that fucker Euan leaving a trail of devastation with his dick, then going back to playing bourgeois happy families when it suits him… I look her in the eye. — Not on my watch.
— I just wish I hudnae… you know… Her gaze is penitent, as well it might be. A terrible slut, but I really would not have her any other way. — I was so angry with you at the time. She squeezes my hand.
— I don’t care about that… well, only in so far as it sparked off a twisted chain of events, but it was Euan’s folly that messed it up.
Marianne sweeps her hand through her hair. It falls back into place instantly. — But won’t they be freaked out that it doesn’t matter to you, likes, about myself and Euan?
It only matters to me that you shagged fucking Renton. — I’m not a man prone to jealousy. It’s only a ride. I drop my voice as the trolley dolly creaks past. I consider shouting up a Stella, but decide against it. — You’re a hot vixen slag and that sort of wanton, reckless behaviour just makes me desire you more.
She fixes me that ‘I’m game’ look and we repair to the toilet. I sit on the lavy seat, her straddling me, and we’re banging away. Suddenly the door slides open and a chunky cunt in a Sunderland strip stands looking at us, mouth open. Marianne turns round. — Fuck… Simon… I slap the shut knob and it slides back, and this time I remember to press the locking button. The bloater’s intervention has upped the horn stakes and we shit-talk each other into a joint shrieker of an orgasm.
Staggering back to our seats, we regard the rest of the carriage in languid, superior, sex-case snide. The train rolls into Waverley, a little delayed, but I’ve texted Mamma, and we shouldn’t be too late. We jump in a cab up to the Outsider restaurant in George IV Bridge. It’s a favourite haunt of mine when I’m back in town. Great locally produced food, and a friendly but unfussy service.
— I’m nervous, babe, Marianne says.
— Fight through that shit, oh cherishable force. I’m proud of you, doll, and nobody is snubbing or disdaining you on my watch, I tell her. — Bring it on! Tony Stokes!
It’s kid sis who looks up first, as her darling brother walks in arm-in-arm with his lovely fiancée. I’d decided that this would be the best entrance we could make. Carlotta’s eyes bulge in disbelief and she sits in a choking silence. Louisa notices and looks shocked, but almost pleasantly, and her man, Gerry, turns to her, trying to work out what’s going on. Then Euan, doubtlessly sensing the disturbance in the air, glances up from the menu to see us standing above them, about to sit down.
— Cards on the table time, I announce to the aghast company, getting in my seat, Marianne following stiffly, — there’s a wee bit ay history for us all to get past, it might make your hearts go oh, oh, oh, oh… but we’re all grown-ups and we don’t care what the –
— AH DINNAE BELIEVE IT! YOU BRING HER HERE! Carlotta wails, as diners’ heads swivel round to us. — YOU… YOU’RE GAUNNY MAIRRAY… She turns to Marianne. — AND YOU… YOU’RE GAUNNY MAIRRAY HIM?!
— Carlotta, please, Mamma appeals, as the shocked diners tut and the maître d’ hovers nervously.
— Sounding gey Bananay Flats thaire, sis, I smile for levity.
Of course, it falls on unreceptive lugs. — C’MON! Carlotta grabs Euan’s hand, hauling him to his feet and pulling him through the scandalised diners towards the door. He looks briefly back, spazzing in confusion, like a lamb in an abattoir, bleating consoling inanities at his wife.