The Time Bubble Box Set 2, стр. 291
It was well into the evening by the time I finished andthere was still no sign of her. What if she didn’t come back at all? It was NewYear, after all – she may have gone straight out to a party after work. I triedto remember, but it was pointless – I couldn’t remember exactly what hadhappened in this particular year. It was a nondescript one, not like anAustralia or a Sumatra which stuck in the mind.
Social media was no help either. I no longer had asmartphone – my Nokia having only the most basic of internet facilities. I didhave Facebook on the laptop, but it was an extremely primitive-looking versionand I had only recently joined. I had the grand total of seventeen friends andmy mother was not one of them.
This backwards nature of technology was seriously beginningto irk me. Stuck at home for the evening, I decided I may as well stay in andwatch the telly, but we didn’t even have a decent TV anymore, just this greatbig silver/grey box, on which the standard definition picture quality wasseriously lacking by the standards I was used to.
By the time Jools Holland came on I had pretty much writtenoff any hope of having a decent conversation with my mother tonight. Even ifshe did come in before I went to bed, she was bound to be drunk and I neededher to be sober if I was to have any hope of getting through to her.
Drunk is exactly what she was when she rolled in at 2am as Iwas struggling to keep my eyes open. Even worse, she wasn’t alone. She haddragged some dodgy-looking geezer from the pub back with her.
I had never seen this man before, but I only had to take onelook at him to see he was a waste of space. He seemed to be trying to cultivatesome sort of aging rockstar look, with long, greasy hair tied into a ponytailand a faded, old denim jacket. Even this far back in my past, his attire wasstill at least a decade, possibly two, past being fashionable. His outfit was roundedout by matching jeans, and a scuffed old pair of Doc Martens.
As for his appearance, he was unshaven and unkempt, butstill fairly fresh-faced underneath the two-day-old stubble. I was guessing hewasn’t as old as his clothes suggested and probably closer to my age than mymother’s.
“Oh Amy,” gushed my mother, “I wasn’t expecting you to behome. I thought you were at a party tonight.”
She was slurring and unsteady on her feet.
“Who’s this?” I asked, gesturing at the denim-clad losernext to her.
“Oh, this is Andy,” she said. “I met him at the pub tonight.He used to be a rockstar, didn’t you, Andy?”
“I did,” replied her drunken friend in an equally inebriatedtone. “I’ve been on TV and everything.”
“Yes, he’s been telling me all about it,” she said. “I’veinvited him back for a nightcap.”
“So I see,” I said, knowing full well what the nightcapwould lead on to. This sort of thing had happened several times in those finalyears. I decided to leave them to it and try again in the morning.
“Well, I’m off to bed,” I said, trying to hide my disgust.“Have fun.”
I got out of there sharpish as the two of them staggeredinto the kitchen in search of more booze. I was quite disgusted by what I hadjust seen. My forty-six-year-old mother with some loser from the pub who wasalmost young enough to be her son was not a pretty sight.
When I heard laughter and heavy footsteps on the stairs, Igrabbed my iPod classic and turned it up to full volume. Hearing Phoebe havingsex through the walls in our flat was one thing – the thought of my mother withthis waster was quite another.
Thankfully, when I got up late the following morning, therewas no sign of him. Mercifully, she had sent him on his way and was now sittingin the kitchen nursing a coffee. She was looking seriously the worse for wear,but as least she hadn’t started on the booze – yet.
“Morning, Amy,” she began. “Want some coffee?”
She hadn’t given any indication she was going to mentionlast night, so it looked like it was up to me to bring it up.
“Who the hell was that last night, Mum?”
“Don’t judge me, Amy,” she snapped, clearly spoiling for arow. This was a bad start. I had got her on the offensive with my first remark.Why was I so crap at handling these things?
“I’m not,” I replied. “But seriously, how old was he?”
“He’s thirty, for your information,” she said. “That’s whathe said anyway, not that it matters.”
“That’s sick,” I said, and before I could stop myself, Iblurted out another unwise choice of phrase. “Don’t you think that makes himseem a bit desperate?”
“Why, because he wants an old slapper like me?!” sheshouted? “Who the hell do you think you are, Amy? It’s my business what I do,nobody else’s.”
“Look, Mum,” I said, trying to be reconciliatory. “I’mworried about you. You’re drinking an awful lot these days and bringing allsorts back to the house.”
“Who’s the parent here, me or you?” she demanded. “Let’s getone thing clear right away. You don’t tell me what to do, OK? I tell you. Andbesides, Andy isn’t all sorts – he’s a nice guy.”
I wanted to retort with the observation that he was a totalloser but managed to restrain myself. I had messed this up enough already.
“OK, I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe I misjudged him. But I’mreally worried about how much you’ve been drinking since Rachel…”
She cut me off before I could finish, yelling, “Don’t youdare bring her into this!”
This was not going well at all. It was in danger of turninginto a carbon copy of the conversation we had already had three years in thefuture. I was getting nowhere and it was time to change tack. There was nothingelse for it, I was going to have to try and tell her the truth.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’ve got