“Your brother said you were funny. He and your parents think you’re too fussy.”
Spencer hadn’t been surprised to hear his brother had been talking about him.
“Now I’ve finally met you, I disagree,” she had continued. “I said to him tonight, you wait, he’s just biding his time. One day he’ll shock the hell out of the lot of you.”
One pleasant surprise from the night before was how much he had enjoyed chatting with Peony, even if he didn’t agree with her prediction about him. She knew what she wanted and recognised what she had in Garrett, rough edges and all. And even a fool could see that, right now at least, she was as besotted with him as he was with her. And in Spencer’s book that had to be a win-win all round.
After showering, he wandered into the kitchen diner where his father perched on a bar stool at the kitchen island wearing his tartan dressing gown, his earbuds in, totally immersed in a news channel on his tablet. Behind the counter, his mother scowled at their swish new coffee machine, which appeared to have been designed to look like the control panel on the flight deck of an airliner.
“Any chance that contraption makes cappuccinos?” asked Spencer.
“It does. Usually,” she replied, clearly flustered. “If only I could find how to switch the stupid thing on. I used this button on the side yesterday, but nothing’s happening. Surely it can’t be broken already. We’ve only had the thing a couple of weeks.”
Spencer walked over, put a plug into the wall socket and flicked the on switch. Instantly the machine whirred to life. His mother turned and shook her head at him with exasperation.
“Honestly, I don’t know why your father finds it necessary to unplug things at the wall socket at night. It’s so annoying.”
“You know how safety conscious he is. Doesn’t want the place to burn down while everyone’s sleeping. And as long as he doesn’t touch the fridge or the freezer, I’d say you’re okay. Any chance of that coffee?”
Even though she’d had no idea to check the wall plug, his mother appeared to handle the coffee machine with the expertise of a barista. Within minutes she had produced a generous mug of foaming cappuccino with a sprinkling of chocolate on top. His father, no doubt getting a whiff of coffee, removed his earbuds and smiled at his wife.
“Ah, there he is, my husband. Back from the outer reaches of the Interweb.”
“I’d love a coffee, thanks, dear.”
“Where is this Guy Fawkes event tonight?” asked Spencer. “In a park, I’m guessing. Will they still be going ahead?”
“Let’s see what the weather does,” said his father, peering out at the garden through the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors that provided a perfect panorama of the ongoing thunderstorm. “They usually put on a display along the seafront, off the pier, but if this keeps up maybe they’ll cancel. We’ll see.”
“Emergency triple espresso, mother,” came a croak from the door. If Garrett’s carrot-coloured mop had appeared unruly the day before, this morning it had taken on a life of its own, like a ginger mushroom cloud.
“I’m not even going to ask what time you got in,” said his mother, standing guard at the coffee machine. “How come Spencer doesn’t look like an extra fromThe Walking Dead?”
“I left them to it,” said Spencer. “There are only so many lime sodas a boy can take.”
“Are you permanently off alcohol?” asked Garrett, scraping out a stool and taking a seat next to him. Once installed, he grabbed Spencer’s mug and took a mouthful of his coffee.
“No, of course not. But you know I’ve never been one for getting wasted.”
“Which probably explains your abysmal batting average.”
“He’s being sensible. A person shouldn’t rely on Dutch courage to chat up people. That’s how accidents happen. Ask your Auntie Julie,” said his mother, about her single parent sister, before turning towards the window. “Oh my goodness. Will you listen to that.”
His mother’s words had been partially drowned out by a loud clap of thunder, rattling the patio doors.
“Alcohol helps get your foot in the door,” said Garrett before turning to Spencer. “What’s Mum knocking up for breakfast?”
“Mum’s not knocking up anything,” said his mother, back to them, slamming down a mug of coffee in front of Garrett. “If you want toast, you know where the toaster is. Your father’s treating us to brunch at Hunters at midday, a restaurant along the seafront that we both adore. They have a special set-price brunch which comes with freshly caught lobster cooked to your liking. Tonight we’ll grab hot dogs or fish and chips from one of the stalls along the front while we watch the firework display.”
“What firework display?” asked Garrett. “The event got cancelled two weeks ago because of the dreaded plague. Along with everything else.”
“Seriously?” said Spencer, clunking his mug down on the countertop. “You mean I’ve been dragged all the way down here under false pretences?”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked their mother.
“I thought you knew. And I assumed Dad would be doing fireworks in the back garden instead. Like he did when we were kids. Anyway, what’s the big deal?”
His mother sighed and shook her head.
