By the time I get to his floor I’m so worn out I forget that I’m scared. At least until he opens the door. Niall stands beneath the lintel, his hair brushed back off his face, wearing clean, dark jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Hi.” He takes a step forward and his forehead furrows, his brows pulling together as he looks at me. “Are you okay?”
I’m still gasping for air, my heart hammering against my chest. “I’m a bit... unfit.”
He bites his lip, trying to stifle a smile. If I had any spare oxygen I’d huff.
“Let me take that from you,” he says, grabbing the wine bottle. “Come in, come in.”
The first thing I notice is how light and airy his flat is. Though it’s almost twilight, the evening sun illuminates the room as if it’s still midday. It makes sense, I suppose, that he’d choose to live somewhere with good light. He’s an artist, after all.
I’m so busy looking around that it takes me a minute to notice the petite lady who comes to join us, a wine glass in her hand and a smile on her lips.
“Ma, this is Beth. Beth, this is my auld ma.” There’s a sardonic lilt to his voice.
She hits him on the arm. “Stop it, you little horror, you know my bloody name.” When she looks at me she’s all sweetness and light. “You can call me Maureen.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maureen.”
“You, too. It’s always lovely to meet one of Niall’s friends.” Her eyes are the same colour as her son’s, a deep blue that reminds me of oceans and seas. “Niall, stop hanging around and get your friend a drink.”
She nags him with humour and he takes it in the same way, doffing an imaginary cap at her before he winks at me. When he walks into the small kitchen at the end of his living room, I can’t help but admire the way his jeans skim over his behind.
“Shall we sit down?” Niall’s mum asks.
I tear my eyes away from her son’s arse. “That would be lovely.”
I’ve barely sat down on the battered leather sofa before she starts talking. She’s perched on an over-stuffed easy chair opposite me. “Niall tells me you work at a drug clinic. Do you enjoy it there? It sounds hard work.”
“It’s not so bad. I work with children rather than addicts, so I don’t get to see the worst of it.”
Niall hands me a glass of wine and sits down next to me. “Is she giving you the third degree?”
“Hush up, you auld spa.” There’s a grin on her lips and I presume she’s insulting him. “It’s the only way I can find out what you’re up to. It’s not as though you ever call me.”
He catches my eye. “Once a week. Every Sunday at six or I’m a dead man walking.”
“He schedules me in like I’m a trip to the dentist,” she tells me. “Is that any way for a boy to treat his mammy?”
There’s fondness in their mutual insults, and I can’t help but smile. They seem to have the sort of relationship I could only dream of having with my parents. I think I might like Niall’s mother as much as I like him.
They eventually stop talking long enough to draw breath, and Niall says he’ll start cooking the steaks. He takes me up on my offer to make the salad, and the two of us work away in his kitchen, chopping and seasoning as we chat.
“I’m sorry about my ma, she can be pretty full on.”
“She’s lovely.” I take a sip of wine and lean on his breakfast bar. “You’re lucky to have her.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle up. “I really am. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” His voice deepens. “That summer...when everything happened. God, she was a rock. I think I would have given up without her.”
I look down, feeling a tug in my stomach so strong it hurts. I should be pleased that he found some support where I had none. A cheerleader instead of the critics I had to endure. But if I’m truthful, there’s something galling in knowing he had her while I had months of angry silences and recriminations.
When my father brought me home from college that summer I was an embarrassment to them both. I’d let them down. They’d proudly sent their pretty A-grade daughter off to university only to have her return as a drug-addled failure who’d been at the centre of a national tragedy. I was their dirty little secret that year, hidden away at home.
No matter how hard I try, the pain never heals over completely. There’s still a little scab that’s so easily picked at.
“Are you okay?” he asks, concern etched in his eyes.
I take a deep breath followed by an even deeper mouthful of wine. “Yeah.” It comes out as a sigh. “I just hate remembering what happened. It still hurts, thinking about it.”