Tribute Act

by Joanna Chambers

  Much worse.

  It turned out they’d borrowed against the house—Mum’s house, the one my dad had signed over to her when they’d divorced—and sunk all the cash into the business. They’d given personal guarantees to the new lender too and were behind on their monthly payments. I hadn’t realised things were so tight, but no one would have. Derek hadn’t been living like a guy who needed to tighten the purse strings, had still been splashing the cash as much as he ever had. Only a few months before that, he’d taken Mum and Rosie to Florida and bought a new car.

  It wasn’t that he was a bad guy, but he was thoughtless. Feckless. When I was growing up, he’d been a great stepdad: fun and cool and easygoing. Never tried to replace my own dad in my life who I hero-worshipped, but yeah, involved in my life. Took his turn at driving me to swimming training at the crack of dawn and came to my football games. In fact, he’d been the first person in the family I’d told I was gay, and he’d been great about it. Took it in his stride and paved the way for me tell Mum.

  But he couldn’t run a business to save his life.

  Luckily for him and Mum, just as everything had been going to shit for them, I’d inherited a chunk of money from my paternal grandmother. It was enough to bail them out, so that’s what I offered to do. I paid off half the tax bill, negotiated a time-to-pay arrangement for the rest of it, cleared the loan against the house, and got the personal guarantees discharged. In return, they gave me fifty per cent of the shares in the company. Of course, since the company had been worth basically nothing at that point in time, I hadn’t really been getting anything beyond a piece of paper, but I’d been okay with that. They’d needed the money more than I had right then.

  I’d been ready to kiss my “investment” goodbye forever after that, figuring that Derek and Mum would probably run Dilly’s into the ground over the next ten years, but would get their living expenses out of it at least. But then, to my surprise, Mum asked me to join them in the business.

  At first, I wasn’t going to do it. My job in London was going well, and okay, I hadn’t wanted to do that job forever, or to live the City lifestyle for much longer, but I hadn’t been looking to make a change either. And then, one night on the phone, Mum had confided that she was worried sick about my kid sister. Rosie had been depressed and anxious for weeks, and though Mum had had her at the doctor a few times, she wasn’t getting any better. She was convinced something was terribly wrong.

  That was when I’d realised how much everything had been getting on top of Mum: Rosie, the business, Derek’s inability to stick to the new systems I’d put into place. So, on an impulse, I said I’d do it. Join the family business so Mum could cut her hours and spend more time with Rosie and stop worrying so much. I’d told myself that maybe I’d get the business on a good enough footing that my shares might actually be worth something one day.

  My dad had been furious. He’d told me I was an idiot, squandering my inheritance, then giving up a well-paid City career to become “an ice cream man.” He was pissed-off at Mum for suggesting it to me in the first place and even more pissed-off at Derek for “not taking care of her” properly. And yeah, he was probably right, but like I’d told him at the time, I couldn’t help how I was wired. The bottom line was, I was a fixer. When people—my family especially—asked for help, I couldn’t say no. I was a doer. I made stuff that needed to get done happen. Right from being a kid, I’d done that. So of course, when Mum had come to me about the Dilly’s situation, I’d done what I always did.

  I sorted it out.

  When you were a fixer, people close to you got so they relied on you. It wasn’t really their fault that they got used to you stepping in all the time, and assumed that was going to always happen. But it made it hard when something came along that you couldn’t help with. Something you desperately wished beyond anything you could do for someone but you . . . couldn’t.

  With the help of the coffee, I made good progress with the paperwork, blasting through everything in my pending file in five hours flat. All bills paid, all spreadsheets updated, all invoices and receipts and delivery notes checked and filed away, our nascent website updated and a bunch of emails sent out—two of them finalising details for meetings with local retailers. I’d been trying to arrange those meetings for a while, one with a big farm shop near Newport and one with Fletchers’ Delis, a chain of four delicatessens in the Southwest. My big dream was to get Dilly’s ice cream into the retail market. I planned to try selling through a few local places first, then, if we could get some traction with that, scale up manufacture before looking at pitching to a retailer with wider reach. Maybe even one of the smaller upscale supermarkets. It was a long-term project, but it was important to me, allowing me to keep my marketing and business skills current.

  At the moment, Derek and I were locked in a battle over which three or four flavours to launch from the thirty-plus we offered at the café and how to package the product. Derek couldn’t seem to see that we needed to differentiate ourselves from our competition, and that generic-looking vanilla and strawberry ice cream in bog-standard cartons wasn’t going to cut it.

  Since Derek and I couldn’t agree on anything, I’d come up with the idea of contacting a few local retailers. I figured we could ask for their expert advice and do a soft pitch at the same time—warm them up for taking some of our products once we were ready to go. Most people actually love giving out advice, provided you ask in the right way, so I’d thrown everything into my emails: a big dose of flattery, a slice of humble pie in the form of citing my youthful inexperience, and even a shameless celebrity pass—Our ice cream maker is my stepdad, Derek MacKenzie. He’s an incredibly talented pastry chef and a bit of a local celebrity. (Remember the old festive hit “Christmas Stocking”? Derek is better known as Dex, the lead singer of The Sandy Coves! He’s been known to burst into song over the ice cream machines . . .).

  As I powered down the laptop, I called Derek to share the good news about the retailer meetings.

  It was my little sister who answered.

  “Hey,” Rosie said flatly. “What’s up?”

  “Just calling for a chat. How’re you feeling today, Ro?”

  “Like I always do—like shit. Do you want Mum?”

  I was used to this now—her constant low-level anger and bitter resentment against the world and everyone in it—but I still found it hard to deal with. Before her illness, Rosie had been a bubbly kid. Maybe she’d have grown a bit grumpier anyway as she got further into her teens, but I felt it was mostly her illness making her so difficult. And really, who could blame her for being angry at the universe? Not me.

  Patiently I said, “Is Derek there?”

  “He’s down the pub with Eric watching the match.”

  “Okay, put Mum on.”

  She clattered the phone down, yelling for Mum.

  Mum picked up a minute later. “Jonathan, love, are you coming for dinner? I’m making your favourite.”

  Shepherd’s pie then. Shepherd’s pie hadn’t actually been my favourite meal since I was about twelve, but yeah, it was a more attractive option than cooking for myself tonight.

  “Okay, great. I’ll come over now. I caught up on the books today, and I’ve got some stuff to talk to Derek about anyway. Fletchers’ Delis got back to me.”

  “That’s good, you can tell us all your news when you get here.” She didn’t sound especially interested, but that was no surprise. She had other things on her mind these days what with Rosie being unwell.

  I took a quick shower before I went over. There were still remnants of styling product in my hair from the night before, since I hadn’t washed my hair properly in the hotel last night. I shampooed it twice and left it to dry on its own, not bothering to restyle my quiff, leaving the light-brown strands to flop over my forehead.

  As I brushed my teeth, I ran my hand over the bristle covering my chin and wondered for the millionth time if I should let a proper beard grow in. And with that stray th
ought, Mack from last night popped into my head. Not that he’d had a proper beard, but he’d had quite a few days’ worth of stubble.

  I’d liked his whiskers, the rasp of them on my skin.

  I’d liked them a lot.

  And why was I wasting time thinking about a guy I’d never see again?

  Shaking my head, I reached for my jacket and headed out.

  Mum and Derek’s house wasn’t far from my flat, just a ten minute walk away in one of those tasteful new-build estates. Four bedrooms, en suite, integral garage, that sort of thing. Not my cup of tea—I preferred Dad’s traditional cottage a few miles up the coast—but Mum loved it.

  As I walked over there, I thought about Rosie and how depressed and angry she’d sounded on the phone. I understood why—the poor kid was dealing with stuff no one her age should have to deal with—but it was difficult to know how to respond. We were all a lot more careful around her now, though somehow that only seemed to annoy her more.

  Sometimes I wondered if she had a problem with me in particular. Because . . . well, because I couldn’t help her. She was used to leaning on me, used to me being the one in the family who fixed stuff, but now, for the first time in her life, I couldn’t give her the one thing she really needed.

  Mum’s worry over Rosie’s health had been well-founded. The doctor had thought she was suffering from depression at first, but when she’d started showing signs of jaundice and lack of coordination, further tests had led to a diagnosis of a rare condition: Wilson’s disease. Her body had been accumulating copper for years, and by the time she was diagnosed, her liver had already sustained serious damage. Damage so serious it couldn’t be repaired. Now she was on the waiting list for a liver transplant.

  When the doctors had told us it was possible to get a transplant from a live donor—a person could give away over half their liver and it would regrow to its original size within three months—we had all been sure that was the answer. Mum, Derek, and I were all willing to donate, and family members were the most promising candidates. But in our case, it had turned out that not one of us was a match. And nor were any of the other more distant family members or friends who’d been tested. So now our hopes were pinned on the donor list. And with every day that passed, it seemed like Rosie got a little worse, and we all got a little more desperate.

  I’d been so certain that I’d be a match. As soon as Mum had first mentioned the possibility, it had felt inevitable to me. It just made sense—Rosie and I were siblings, plus I was the right age and in good health. I didn’t have a second’s hesitation about going under the knife. The idea of giving up half my liver hadn’t troubled me at all, even though I had a bit of a phobia about general anaesthetic. I’d have been able to deal with that to save my sister.

  When they told me I wasn’t a match, I’d been devastated. Worse, Rosie had been distraught. I’d taken one look at her face and known that, up to then, she’d been as convinced as I had that everything was going to be okay. After all, when hadn’t her big brother been able to sort out any problem?

  Well, her illusions had been well and truly shattered.

  The door of Mum’s house was open as usual, and as soon as I stepped inside, the homely smell of shepherd’s pie greeted me. I shucked my jacket and hung it up in the porch before wandering through to the living room. Derek was back from the pub. He was lounging on the sofa in front of the TV, beer in hand. He glanced up at my entrance and smiled. He had a great smile, did Derek. You could see how he’d ended up as front man of a band. It wasn’t so much that he’d been particularly good-looking. He just had that elusive charisma people talk about. A glint in his eye that people responded to.

  “I hope you’re not hungover from your night out,” he said. “Lorraine’s made your favourite.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. “Famished actually.”

  He chuckled, and I walked past him to where Rosie sat, curled up in her favourite armchair, staring at her phone with her earbuds in. She pulled the buds out as I approached, muttering an unenthusiastic “Hey.” Her face had a yellowish sickly tinge I’d grown used to. Between that and the bruise-dark circles under her eyes, she looked exhausted.

  I dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair—dark like Derek’s rather than the light brown I’d inherited from Mum—smelled of apples. It was the same shampoo she’d always used, the one Mum used too, and for some reason, the smell of it made me suddenly sad.

  “How you doing, kiddo?” I said.

  She shrugged, eyes fixed on the screen of her phone. “Fine.”

  I suppressed a sigh at the monosyllabic response and turned back to Derek, dropping down onto the sofa beside him, Yawning, I asked, “What was the score on the Arsenal game?”

  “One-nil.”

  I chuckled. “You’ll be happy.”

  “Should’ve been at least three-nil but a win’s a win. I’ll take it.”

  I nodded at the TV. “What you watching?”

  He made a face. “One of those singing competitions. Bloody awful. Is this what we’ve come to with music?”

  On the screen, a young and very beautiful girl was toiling through a Whitney Houston song.

  “She’s a good singer,” I pointed out, though I didn’t disagree with him.

  Derek snorted. “She’s singing it to death. She doesn’t even know what the song’s about.”

  We watched her complete the final tortuous bars of the song to rapturous applause. When the camera flicked to the head judge, Derek cursed and switched off.

  “Hey, it was just getting to the good bit!” That was Rosie. She glared at Derek.

  “I’m not listening to that bloody idiot,” Derek ranted. “What he knows about music could be written on a postage stamp with room to spare.”

  “He knows more than you do,” Rosie muttered.

  Derek’s jaw tightened at that. “What, because he puts out mediocre records that sell to the idiots who watch this rubbish?”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” Rosie replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And he makes a shed load of money doing it, so I think he knows a bit about the business, Dad.”

  “Not everything’s about money, Rosie.” That was Mum. She’d emerged from the kitchen bearing a handful of cutlery and a bottle of brown sauce. She plonked it all down on the low coffee table in front of the sofa then came round to kiss my cheek.

  “Jonathan, love,” she said fondly. “It’s good to see you. I like your hair like this.” She was smiling, but I could see how tired she was.

  I shrugged. “It’s the same as usual; it’s just that I haven’t put any styling stuff on it.”

  She ruffled my floppy fringe and laughed. “That’s what I mean.”

  “Do you want a hand with dinner?” I made to get up, but she pushed me back down.

  “No, it’s done. Wait here. Do you want a beer or a glass of wine? You’ll need it after being at the books all day.”

  I smiled. “Some wine would be nice.”

  She headed back into the kitchen, and I glanced at Rosie, who immediately looked away, leaning towards the coffee table to snag the remote control.

  I wished I knew what was going through her head. Was I imagining that she resented my inability to help her? Or was that how she really felt? It was so difficult to tell what she thought these days. She was so snarly all the damned time.

  “How was school this week, Ro?” I asked as she began to scroll through the endless menu of channels.

  “I didn’t go in after Wednesday,” she said flatly.

  Mum came back in then, balancing three plates of shepherd’s pie. “She wasn’t feeling too good on Thursday,” she told me, handing off the first plate to me. “So she decided to stay home.”

  She’d missed a lot of school lately. I wondered if she actually needed to, then felt bad for even having such a thought. Hardly surprising that school would be further down her agenda right now.

  Rosie put on some mindless gameshow, turning up the volume high. Mum
and Derek and I exchanged looks, but none of us said anything, though Derek glared at the television, probably only holding himself in check because Mum was there. Derek tended to let her call the shots on how to deal with Rosie

  After dinner, Rosie disappeared upstairs with her phone while I told Derek and Mum about the retailer meetings I’d set up. When Derek repeated his belief in his vanilla-chocolate-strawberry strategy, I pointed out that the purpose of the meetings was to get some market intelligence on what actually sold. Unfortunately, that was the cue for Derek to get on his Do you know how long I’ve been selling ice cream? soapbox. Again.

  When things started getting tetchy, as they inevitably did, Mum—ever the placater—interrupted to brightly suggest we put a film on. She called Rosie down, demanding she help choose. They eventually settled on some shitty middle-of-the-road rom-com. It was deeply awful, but since I was beat, and since Leonard, Mum’s pure white Persian, had settled himself on my lap, I let my eyes drift closed and slipped into a doze.

  It was the doorbell that woke me some time later. I lurched back to wakefulness with the chimes ringing in my ears.

  “Are we expecting anyone?” Derek asked, though he made no move to get up.

  “No.” Mum set her wineglass on the table and got to her feet. “I suppose it could be Val though.”

  As she went to answer the door, I glanced at my watch. It was just past nine—not the usual time for someone to pop by at the weekend.

  Derek reached for the remote control and turned the volume down on the TV, muting Jennifer Aniston mid-monolgue.

  “Hey!” Rosie protested.

  “Shhh,” Derek said, listening to the muffled voices. I listened too, but all I could hear was the vague rumbling of speech: Mum’s distinctive Cornish accent and another one. Male. Deeper, quieter.

  At length the front door closed. When Mum walked back into the living room, I expected her to be alone, but she had someone with her.

  Someone I recognised.

  Mack.

  I opened my mouth to say his name, but before I could do so, Derek stood up, his movements curiously jerky.