The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

when so that I could stay away, saving us both the embarrassment of more awkward conversation?

In the end, I replied with a brief message which was carefully worded to convey neutrality, but which probably just made me sound like a disinterested and cold-hearted dick.

Thanks for meeting with me. Hope the painting goes well.

I still don’t know what to do. Today’s Saturday and as it’s been dry, I’m guessing she might have already started work on the mural, but luckily I’ve been busy finishing off a job that overran, visiting my dad and ferrying Josh between friends’ houses, so going to see her hasn’t been an option. Tomorrow, though, I need to make a decision. Should I call in and see her? Would it be rude not to? Would it be weird to do so?

I’m still agonising over it when I arrive in front of the Canal House. I only intend to stay an hour at the barbecue. Josh is a good excuse for getting away early. If I’m honest, he’s always been my excuse for lots of things – for not dating, for not committing. His growing older and more independent is highly inconvenient. What will I have to face when I don’t have him to hide behind? Anyway, just for tonight I can say he’s home alone, which was true at the point of leaving the flat, but probably isn’t any more, seeing as his friend Sam was on his way over to play video games. In reality, Josh won’t be bothered in the slightest that I’m not there.

The sun is starting to dip, and barbecue smoke carries on the air over the roof of the Canal House and right out to the high street, along with the sound of talking and laughter. Knowing the bar is likely to be even more busy than usual, I open the gate and make my way down the side alley and straight through to the terrace at the back. The tables – adorned with tea lights for this special occasion – are all taken, and groups of people are mingling in the spaces in between, laughing, drinking, eating hotdogs and burgers. It’s not a private party – far too much revenue to be lost on a Saturday night to warrant closing the place – but all the regulars have turned up.

“Jay!” I spy Leo across the terrace, a good few inches taller than anyone else. “All right, mate?”

I give him a nod.

“Where’s Michael?”

I briefly scan the crowd and shrug.

Ah, crap. Don’t say he’s not here. He’s like my buffer in these situations, allowing me to take a back seat. He’s always up for a get-together. Unless… I check my phone with a sinking feeling.

Not going to make tonight sorry, not feeling so good.

Normally he would have been one of the first to arrive, but the text was only sent ten minutes ago. That means he intended to come, he tried, he spent some time working up to it, not wanting to let Stu and Irena down, not wanting to let me down, but in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

I hold my phone up towards Leo and shake my head sadly. He nods, understanding. There’s not that many people that know the other side of Michael, but Leo’s one of them. Michael’s had to cancel too many rehearsals and even the odd gig for any members of his band to be left in the dark.

You okay? I type back. We both know that I don’t really mean are you okay because clearly he’s not. What I mean is Is there anything I can do? Do you need me?

I sigh, my heart suddenly feeling heavy.

“Heeeyyy!” Irena dives towards me and kisses me on both cheeks. She’s in high spirits, her usual brusqueness evaporated. “I was asking people where were you. You don’t have a drink, no? Come, have something to eat—”

“I’m good, I’ll get myself a drink in a minute,” I tell her, “but, listen, congratulations—”

“’Bout bloody time, isn’t it?” she scowls, her accent still thick after all these years. “That son-of-a-bitch slowcoach, it took him seven years, you know?”

“Well, all good things are worth waiting for. Plus,” I add, nodding at her slight swell of a belly, “he’s doing the honourable thing.”

“That’s right,” she smiles, stroking her little bump. “And now I think it’s your turn, isn’t it?” She pokes me hard in the chest. Even when she’s being playful she looks aggressive, her raven black hair and thin, pencilled-in eyebrows doing nothing to soften her demeanour. “Who are we going to find for you, eh?”

I smile and shake my head. “No one. I’m good thanks.”

“No one is good on their own. Especially not you. You are wasted. You and Rachel, I think I can see—”

“You cannot see anything.”

“She would be good for you, I think. Let you have a little fun. She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t it?”

“Stop trying to set me up with people.”

She places her hand on my upper arm, bright red nail varnish adorning fingers that by the feel of her grip must be made of steel. Matchmaking is Irena’s passion, and she doesn’t like to be held back.

“You are infuriating,” she says sternly. “I don’t know what I can do with you.”

“Don’t do anything. Just enjoy your evening.”

“But where is Michael, anyway?” she says, scanning the crowded terrace.

“Sick. A bug.”

“Oh, you kid me! I thought he is coming. Poor him. But still,” she says excitedly, peering around, “your friend is here! Yes, over there.”

Seated at a table with a group of people I vaguely know is Libby, wearing the same jeans and blue T-shirt as last weekend, cradling a glass and looking around uncomfortably. My stomach flips.

“Why is she still here?” I ask, sounding far more accusatory than intended.

“What is point in her going home?” says Irena, taking a step back and looking a little alarmed by my tone. “She is going to stay here and then carry on tomorrow with the painting.