— Thanks, Dad, Ross sniffs, mildly reassured. — And happy birthday, by the way.
With that Ross runs back upstairs to his room. No sooner has he departed than Euan hears a key in the front-door lock. Moving out to the hallway to investigate, he witnesses his brother-in-law creeping in. Simon’s eyes are wild, rather than bleary, with his shock of grey-black hair, shaved at the sides, sprouting from a still-angular face, all cheekbones and wedged chin. So he’s stayed out again, hasn’t used the spare room they made up for him. It’s ludicrous: he’s worse than a teenager. — You’re in, Euan, Simon David Williamson says with puckish enthusiasm, instantly disarming Euan by pushing both a card and a bottle of champagne into his hands. — Happy five-zero, buddy boy! Where’s kid sis? Still in the Maggie Thatcher?
— She has a lot to do for tomorrow, so I expect she’ll lie in, Euan declares, heading back to the kitchen, lowering the champagne to the marble worktop and opening the card. It features a cartoon depicting a wily, sophisticated man, dressed like an orchestra conductor, holding a baton, and linking arms with a young buxom woman on each side, both of whom hold violins. The caption: THE OLDER THE FIDDLE, THE BETTER THE TUNE, SO GET YOURSELF FIDDLING ABOUT REAL SOON! HAPPY 50TH BIRTHDAY!
Simon, his gaze burningly intense, drinks in Euan’s study of his offering. Euan looks up at his brother-in-law and house guest, feeling himself surprisingly moved. — Thanks, Simon… It’s nice somebody remembered… My birthday tends to get forgotten in all the Christmas hullabaloo.
— You were born one day before that daft hippy on the cross, Simon nods, — I mind of that.
— Well, it’s appreciated. So what did you get up to last night?
Simon Williamson’s face screws up as he reads a text message that has jumped onto his screen. — It’s what I didn’t get up to that seems to be the problem, he snorts. — Some women, mature women, will not take no for an answer. Life’s crazy casualties… Otherwise, old acquaintances. You need to keep in touch; it’s only good manners, Simon insists, popping the champagne, the cork smacking the ceiling, as he pours the bubbling elixir into two flutes he’s taken from the glass display unit. — If somebody gives you champagne in a plastic vessel… no class. Here’s a story that will interest you, professionally speaking, he snaps in a way that permits no dissent from this contention. — I was in Miami Beach last month, at one of those hotels where they strictly adhere to glass. That’s Florida, you aren’t allowed to do anything there unless it’s potentially hazardous to others; guns in waistbands, cigarettes in bars, drugs that make you cannibalise strangers. Of course, I love it. I was ogling some poolside lovelies, cavorting in their skimpy wee two-pieces, when a bit of drunken horseplay resulted in the breaking of a glass. One of the said lovelies stood on the shards. As her blood plumed in the blue water at the edge of the pool, to the consternation of all in the vicinity, I was straight over, taking a leaf out of your book and doing my ‘I’m a doctor’ thing. I demanded that the staff brought me bandages and plasters. As they were swiftly procured, I wrapped the girl’s foot and helped escort her back to her room, reassuring her that although it didn’t need stitches, it would be best if she lay down for a bit. He breaks off his tale to hand Euan a glass, and toasts him. — Happy birthday!
— Cheers, Simon. Euan takes a drink, enjoying the fizz and rush of the alcohol. — Was it bleeding heavily? If so –
— Aye, Simon continues, — the poor lassie was a bit worried that the blood was seeping through the bandages, but I told her that it would soon clot.
— Well, not necessarily –
But Simon is allowing no interruptions. — Of course she started asking about the Connery accent and how I became a doctor. Obviously, I was giving it the old chat, inspired by you, buddy. I was even telling her the difference between a podiatrist and a foot surgeon, for fuck sakes!
Euan can’t help but feel the balm seep into his ego.
— To cut a beautifully long story crassly short, his brother-in-law’s large eyes blaze as he necks the remains of the flute, urging Euan to do the same before topping them up, — soon we were riding away. I’m on top, banging her senseless. In response to Euan’s raised brows, he helpfully adds, — Young thing, fit as a butcher’s dug, on holiday fae South Carolina. But when we’re done, I’m concerned to note that the bed is covered in blood, and the poor poolside lovely, on also noting this, starts going into shock. I told her we’d best call an ambulance in order to be safe rather than sorry.
— God… it might have been the lateral plantar, or perhaps one of the dorsal metatarsals –
— Anyway, the ambulance arrived post-haste and they took her away and kept her in overnight. Just as well I was off the next morning!
Simon continues his tales of his recent Florida holiday, every one of which seems to Euan to involve sex with different women. He stands and listens patiently, drinking his glass of champagne. By the end of the bottle, he feels satisfyingly heady.
— We should slip out for a beer, Simon suggests. — My mother will be round soon and I’ll get the usual shit from her about where my life is going, and we’ll just be under Carra’s feet as she prepares the meal. Italian women and kitchens, you know the drill.
— What about Ben? You haven’t really seen much of him since you’ve been up here.
Simon Williamson rolls his eyes in contempt. — That lad is spoiled tae fuck by her side: rich, Tory, Surrey, cock-sucking, hound-wanking, House of Lords- and monarchy-worshipping paedophile bastards. I’m taking him to the Hibs–Raith game at New Year. Yes, he’ll pine for the Emirates, but the boy needs to experience the real world, and we’re in the hospitality suite, so it’s not like I’m exactly throwing him in at the deep end… Anyway… He makes a drinking gesture. — El peevo?
Euan is swayed by Simon’s logic. Down the years stories about his brother-in-law have abounded, but as Simon lives in London, they have never done anything as a duo. It would be nice to get out for an hour or so. Perhaps if they bonded a little it would make for a more pleasant Christmas. — The Colinton Dell Inn has a really nice guest ale from –
— Fuck the Colinton Dell Inn and its guest ales all the way up their petit bourgeois rectums, Simon says, eyes up from fiddling around on his phone. — A cab is on its way right now to whisk us into town.
A couple of minutes later they emerge into brisk and squally weather and climb into a hackney cab, driven by a loud, brash man, his hair a mop of corkscrew curls. He and Simon, whom he calls Sick Boy, seem to be arguing about the merits of two dating sites. — Slider’s the best, the driver, whom Simon refers to as Terry, argues. — Nae fuckin aboot, jist get right doon tae it!