His face is frozen.
‘I think she might be joking,’ says Rosella, patting him on the shoulder.
‘Anyway, isn’t what you do a vocation?’ I say, deflecting the question. I don’t want to be Cat the Cop tonight; the romanticised public servant, protecting the mean streets of London with her steel resolve and warm heart.
‘A vocation?’ His tone says I’m mad. ‘Are you serious? Is that another joke? I was going to be a marine biologist. My life was going to look like something out of a Caribbean vacation brochure. But then I didn’t get the grades in college . . .’
‘But you do make triple the pay-cheque,’ Zach reminds him.
‘I was going to be Sheryl Crow,’ says Rosella, fixing her scarf back in place.
A gut punch when I least expect it. In an instant, it’s May 1998 and I’m in the back of Dad’s car. Maryanne Doyle in the passenger seat, Sheryl Crow on the radio. Dad and Maryanne singing along, badly, to that song – that one about whatever makes you happy can’t be so bad.
If there was ever a song that summed up Dad’s philosophy on life.
‘I wanted to design planes.’ Aiden’s voice edges Maryanne closer. I gulp my wine, praying it does its magic quickly. ‘Didn’t matter that I couldn’t draw or that I hadn’t set foot near an airport, never mind a fecking plane – I’d seen Air Force One a few times, that was good enough for me. I wouldn’t have had a clue what a risk analyst was, though. There wasn’t great call for them around Mulderrin.’
I plaster on a smile. ‘I didn’t know that, about the planes.’
‘Ah, there’s lots of things you don’t know about me.’
‘Lots of things you won’t want to know either,’ adds Jack.
‘Yeah, thanks for that, boss man.’
Jack laughs, throwing his hands up in placation. ‘Well, it’s the truth. Trust me, there’s plenty about Amy I wish I could un-know. I won’t go into it before we eat. Some of it’s beyond gross . . .’
Kyle says, ‘Yeah, Amy’s so gross, Jack only got her pregnant five times.’
‘Wow, five kids,’ I say. ‘That’s a basketball team.’
‘Well, four and a foetus. She’s due in October . . . that’s if she hasn’t thrown herself in the Hudson.’
‘The heat,’ explains Rosella. ‘It was ninety-two when we left on Monday.’
‘But it feels closer to a hundred,’ says Jack.
‘It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,’ Aiden says with a grin, reciting the line like he’s learned it in class. ‘Apparently, we have it easy here.’
‘Remind me of that next time I’m putting the bed sheets in the freezer.’
‘So have you ever been to New York, Cat?’ It’s the standard question but Rosella’s tone is laden with something more meaningful.
‘I’ve never been to America,’ I say before realising I have. ‘Oh well, Disneyland Florida when I was ten. But we never left the resort, does that count?’
‘No.’ Zach is quite clear about this.
‘New York’s definitely on the list, though.’ The standard response.
She hits the table, delighted, eyes shining. ‘Oh, you’d love it. You would. You’d absolutely love it.’ She’s probably right, although I’m baffled at how she’s arrived at this assumption, knowing very little about me, except I like pasta and vodka and Irish risk analysts. ‘I moved from San Jose in 2013. Always thought I was a West Coast girl, it was going to be a two-year adventure, nothing more.’ Her other hand comes down. ‘Best thing I ever did. The West Coast has got the better beaches, no two ways about that. But New York is everything. The hope, the energy, the food, the people. What did JFK say? Most cities are a noun. New York is a verb.’
I’m not sure that even makes sense, but I am sure I’m being pitched to. It’s not my spidey sense tingling, or my twitchy detective nose at full snuffle, it’s more the fact that that’s the longest anyone’s spoken without someone else cutting in or contradicting.
‘We’ll get there, right?’ I say to Aiden. ‘I’ve always fancied New York at Christmas.’
Aiden smiles at Rosella, who smiles at Jack, who smiles at the sight of our huge, gluttonous starters finally arriving. Squeezing my hand under the table, Aiden says, ‘You never know, babe, you never know.’
But of course I know. I’m the last person he should try to hoodwink. They haven’t come all this way for the pasta, or to swap one mortal heat for another. They’re talking to Aiden about a project, I know it. He said ages ago that a three-month stint might be on the horizon. That it was the norm, hard to say no to if you get the call-up.
And what’s three months, anyway? It’s a six-hour flight. A place I’ve always wanted to visit. With wine in my bloodstream and the Manhattan skyline in my head, I find myself smiling too.
And then my phone rings. Parnell. Who else?
I stand up. ‘Sorry, I need to take this. You all crack on.’ I mouth another apology at Aiden, but he doesn’t notice. His chilli king prawns are more than making up for me.
‘Hey, Sarge, you still hard at it?’ I’m on the street now. Soho is being Soho: a glorious, beer-soaked beehive, chock-full of tattoos and tourists and everything between. ‘Any joy?’
‘I wouldn’t call it joy. I’ve been stuck listening to Swaines and Flowers going another ten rounds over Brexit.’
‘Oh dear. Was the boss there?’
‘No. So while the cat’s away . . .’
‘The mice will hurl insults at each other. What kicked it off this time?’
‘Started with Swaines’ mum stockpiling olive oil, finished with the Irish border.’
‘Oh, and they’re both experts on the complexities of the backstop, are they?’
‘Hey, we’re all politicians now, kiddo. Makes you long for the time that only nerds and intellectuals gave a damn. Still, it beats Flowers moaning on about his blistered feet – just.’
‘Urgh. Do you mind, I’m just about to eat.’
Parnell’s voice goes up an octave. ‘At nine forty-five? You’ll pay for that tomorrow. You’re supposed to give your food time to go down before bed. Four or five hours, they say.’
Work-Dad strikes again.
‘How do you know I won’t be up for another four or five hours? I am a Bright Young Thing, you know.’
‘You’ll be a Tired Young Thing. I need you in early. We have a date with Church Guy.’
‘Wow, you found him?’
‘Of course. Was it ever in question? He turned up on CCTV a few streets away from the church getting into a very nice Lexus.’
‘So does he have a name?’
‘Dale Peters. Car’s registered to a Nottingham address. His wife was a bit stunned by a couple of Nottinghamshire’s finest ringing her doorbell on a Thursday night. She was expecting a Chinese takeaway.’
‘For two?’
‘He wasn’t home. He’s still down here, apparently. Anyway, she gave us his number and long story short, he’s agreed to attend a voluntary interview at 7.30 a.m. tomorrow.’