At last the sun is getting too hot to keep striding around, and we settle back down on the blanket.
“What are those birds?” asks Alex, as he stretches out his legs, and I feel a tiny satisfaction that he noticed them. He didn’t have to.
“Skylarks.” I take another swig of cider.
“They don’t shut up, do they?”
“No.” I laugh. “They’re my favorite birds. You get up early and you step outside and…” I pause, letting the familiar sound wash over me. “It feels like the sky’s singing to you.”
We’re both silent again, and Alex seems to be listening intently to the birdsong. Maybe he’s never heard skylarks before. I have no idea what his upbringing was.
“I called you a city boy before,” I say tentatively. “But are you? Where did you grow up?”
“Try ‘cities boy.’ ” He tilts his head as though recalling. “London, New York, Shanghai for a bit, Dubai, San Francisco. L.A. for six months when I was ten. We followed my dad’s work.”
“Wow.”
“I’ve had thirty-seven addresses in my life. Been to twelve schools.”
“Seriously?” I gape at him. Thirty-seven addresses? That’s more than one a year.
“We lived in Trump Tower for a few months; that was cool….” He catches my expression and winces. “Sorry. I know. I’m a privileged bastard.”
“It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t—” I break off, biting my lip. I need to tackle something that’s been bothering me ever since I saw him again. “Listen, I’m sorry for what I said at the office. That your famous daddy gave you your career.”
“It’s fine.” He gives me a wry smile, which tells me he’s heard it said a lot of times.
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s not fine; it was unfair. I don’t know anything about how you started out, if you had an advantage—”
“Well, of course I had an advantage,” he says calmly. “I watched my dad my whole childhood. I went into the office, the studio…I learned from him. So, yes, I had an advantage. But what was he supposed to do? Not share his job with me? Is that nepotism?”
“I don’t know.” I feel confused now. “Maybe not exactly. But it’s not…” I trail off.
“What?”
“Well,” I say awkwardly. “Fair, I suppose.”
There’s silence. Alex lies back and looks straight up at the endless blue sky, his face unreadable.
“You know the names of birds,” he says. “You lived in the same house all your childhood. You have a two-hundred-year-old farming background keeping you stable and grounded. Your dad loves you more than anyone could love anything in the world. You can tell that in thirty seconds.” He pauses. “That’s not fair either.”
“My dad?” I say, taken aback. “What do you mean? I’m sure your dad loves you too.”
Alex says nothing. I survey his face, sidelong, and it’s motionless except for a tiny twitch at his eye. Have I stumbled on ground I shouldn’t have? But, then, he’s the one who brought it up.
“Doesn’t your dad—” I stop dead. I can’t say, Doesn’t your dad love you? “What’s your dad like?” I amend.
“Super-talented,” says Alex slowly. “Awe-inspiring. And a total shit. He’s very driven. Very cold. He treated my mother badly. And, for what it’s worth, he didn’t get me my first job.”
“But you had your name,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Yes.” His face crinkles as though in humor, but he’s not smiling. “I had my name. That was half help, half hindrance. My dad’s made a lot of enemies along the way.”
“What about your mum?” I ask tentatively.
“She has…issues. She gets depressed. She withdraws. It’s not her fault,” he adds at once, and I can see a sudden boyish defensiveness in him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, biting my lip. “I didn’t realize.”
“I spent quite a lot of my childhood being scared.” Alex is still staring up at the sky. “I was scared of my dad. And sometimes of my mum. I spent most of my childhood like a fish. Weaving and darting. Trying to avoid…stuff.”
“But you don’t need to weave and dart anymore,” I say.
I’m not even sure why I say it. Except that he suddenly looks like someone who’s still weaving and darting. And is maybe a bit exhausted by it. Alex turns onto his side, rests his head in his hand, and looks at me with an odd, lopsided smile.
“Once you’ve got into the habit of weaving and darting, it’s hard to stop.”
“I suppose,” I say slowly. My mind is still reeling at the idea of thirty-seven addresses. It’s dizzying just to think about it.
“Whereas your dad…” Alex interrupts my thoughts, and I roll my eyes.
“Oh God. My dad. If he tries to sell you a bathroom suite, do not say yes.”
“Your dad’s lovable,” says Alex, ignoring me. “He’s strong. You should tell him the truth about your job, you know. This whole secret thing you’ve got going…it’s wrong.”
It takes a moment for Alex’s words to hit home, and when they do, they make me inhale sharply. “Oh, you think so?”
“How’s he going to feel when he realizes you’ve been keeping such a huge secret from him?”
“He might never have to know. So.”