She took a step closer and pushed her glasses further up her nose, as if that would help her decide whether to trust me or not.
“You’re the girl from the photo.” She pointed her bony finger and poked my chest. “You’ve lost a bit of weight, but it’s you, isn’t it?”
I had absolutely no idea what she was on about.
“What photo?” I asked, wondering if perhaps she meant something in the newspapers from when Brodie died. I didn’t think they’d published my photograph, but I supposed anything was possible with some of the gutter press we’d had to deal with back then.
“The one in his bedside drawer. He leaves it out sometimes. I see it when I’m cleaning. But most of the time he hides it. God knows why. That boy has no secrets from me. I go through everything.”
I bet she did.
“So, he does still live here then.” She grimaced, no doubt inwardly cursing herself that she’d slipped up. “Unless I see the photo, I have no idea if it’s me.”
“Oh, it’s you. I’ve got a head for faces. I remember everyone.” She tapped the side of her head and smiled like she was keeping state secrets up in that brain of hers and then she went back to scowling.
“What do you want with my boy, anyway?” She looked me up and down and her face twisted like she was sucking on a lemon. “You’re not his usual type.”
“And what is his usual type?”
I didn’t like how this conversation was going.
“I wouldn’t know. He’s never brought anyone home to show me.”
Okay then.
It looked like I was going to be going round in circles with Grandma Mathers for a while longer yet.
“Can I come in and wait for him?” I asked, and then wondered what the hell I was doing offering to sit with this bat-shit crazy old lady while I waited for Brandon to emerge… Whenever that would be.
“I’m busy. But you can come in if you like?”
Don’t do me any favours.
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude. If you’re busy, I can wait somewhere else.”
Grannie Mathers scoffed and stepped back, opening her door to indicate that I was welcome to come in.
“I was just about to start the season finale of Breaking Bad. As long as you don’t tell me any spoilers we’ll get along just fine.”
Yeah, she was Brandon’s nan all right. No doubting that.
“I haven’t seen it. So you’re safe.”
She quirked her eyebrow at me.
“What sort of shit do you watch then? Downton Abbey, I bet. Although judging from the plum in your mouth I’d say you live in it too.”
This woman was so rude. But I honestly don’t think she knew it.
She didn’t wait for my response, but as she toddled down the narrow hallway that smelt like bleach, she pointed to a door on her left.
“Kettle’s in there. Make yourself useful and put it on. I like my tea strong, milk, two sugars.”
I didn’t bother arguing. This was probably her way of being hospitable, letting me make the tea for her.
I shut the front door behind me, and the narrow hallway was suddenly shrouded in darkness as the light from outside disappeared. I made my way down to the kitchen, filled the kettle up, and switched it on. I was just opening random drawers and cupboards to find the spoons and the mugs when I heard the front door close. Seconds later, a familiar voice said, “What the fuck are you doing? Why are you making the tea?”
I spun round to face Brandon and shrugged on a laugh.
“Your nan likes it strong. Milk, two sugars.”
He marched over and took the spoons out of my hand and then gave me a gentle, loving kiss that made my heart flutter.
“You don’t make the tea. Ever. She’s trying it on. Don’t let her frail old lady act fool you. She’s as tough as old boots, my nan.”
The old lady act hadn’t fooled me. But the crotchety one had kept me on my toes.
Brandon pulled me into him and then buried his face into my neck.
“I missed you. It’s a nice surprise to find you here,” he said. “The last place I expected to see you was in my kitchen.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
He held me in his arms as the old kettle started to jump around to indicate it was close to boiling. I could hear his Nan grumbling about something in the living room, but I blocked her out. No one was going to spoil this moment for me.
“Let me make this tea then we can go up to my room and talk.” He pulled away and got busy making his nan a cuppa. “Do you want one?” he asked.
“No. I’m fine.”
He frowned.
“You were making her a tea and you didn’t even want one yourself?” He huffed on a smile and shook his head. “I need to teach you to have a better comeback when she tries that shit again.”
“I don’t mind making her a drink.”
“You’ll set a rod for your own back. She’ll have you running the hoover round next.” He laughed to himself as he carried her tea through into their lounge. Then he plonked it unceremoniously down onto the table in front of her. “There’s your tea, Nan. Don’t ask Harper to make it again. You’re supposed to treat your guests, not have them doing shit for you.”
“She offered,” his nan snapped back.
I hadn’t.
She reached forward to grab her mug then looked up at him and tutted. “Where’s my biscuits? I’ve got some garibaldis in the biscuit tin.”
“Get them yourself,” he said, and then took my hand and led me back out again, guiding me to the staircase.
“Bloody kids. No work ethic these days, that’s the problem,” his nan muttered, but loud enough so we’d both hear.
Brandon didn’t bite back. I guessed he was used to hearing stuff like that.
I held his hand as we walked up the stairs that creaked with every step we took. The carpet was threadbare and the wooden bannister was well-worn, but it was clean. They might not have had a lot, but his nan obviously took pride in keeping her house to a certain standard.
When we got to Brandon’s room, he shut and locked the door behind us. I took in a deep breath, inhaling his scent that I loved. This room was full of it. I had to hold myself back from falling onto his bed and burying my face in the sheets. I wondered then if that was how Sal felt when she visited our house and went into Brodie’s room, before they broke up, obviously. I always thought his room smelt of farmyards and old socks. I figured all guys’ rooms smelt like that, but not Brandon’s. I could’ve stayed here all day.
“It’s not much, but it’s mine. I’m saving up to get my own place though,” he said, like he needed to justify why he was still living at his nan’s.
I wasn’t one to talk. Twenty-three years old and I was still with my parents. I’d never felt the urge to move out and live on my own. That had never appealed to me before.
“The parties must pay well. I couldn’t afford to rent a single room in Sandland on my teaching assistant wages.” He tensed, and when I looked back at him, I knew he was keeping something from me. “What is it?” I asked, sitting on the edge of his bed and bracing myself for the bombshell I knew he was about to drop.