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“Briony, that’s class. Seriously.”
“You think so?”
“Aye. It looks great.” He swipes to the next photo, then the next. “You’ve got a real talent, you know.”
“Yeah? You’re a lot more enthusiastic than you were the last time you saw my work.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Remember when I made you that basket—the one you gave to me? I worked on it for hours, and you never even said it looked good. You didn’t say anything about it, actually.”
He winces. “What can I say? I’m a daftie. Truth is, I know nothing about flowers, but even I can see your stuff is something else.”
I tuck the phone away, trying to contain my smile. People compliment my work all the time, but coming from Ryan, it lands differently.
Penny stops to investigate a lamppost with great seriousness.
“She likes checking her pee-mails when we’re out on a walk,” I explain.
“Pee-mails?” Ryan chuckles. “Not heard that one before.”
Penny finishes her inspection and trots on.
“You heard from your family?” Ryan asks. “How’s the holiday going?”
“Good. Yesterday Innes sent me a photo of the three of them by the beach. Blue sky and everything. Looks like they’ve been lucky with the weather.”
Ryan has met Innes and seen the photos of Mum and Dad I’ve got up in my hall, and I’ve mentioned my family a few times in texts over the last few days. All I know about his, though, is that he grew up in an East End council flat with his mum. He’s never given me anything more, and I’m curious.
“Does your mum still live in the East End?” I ask.
There’s a pause before he answers. “Falkirk now.”
“Do you see her much?”
“Naw.” He looks straight ahead as we walk. “No for years. My choice.”
Ah. Whatever happened between them, it doesn’t seem like something he wants to talk about.
We walk on in silence for a few paces. I’ve no intention of asking any follow-up questions, but then Ryan says, “She was—is—a drug addict.”
“Oh, Ryan.”
He shrugs. “Growing up, some days she was great. Funny. Other times she’d no get off the sofa all day long.”
For a moment, I think that might be all he’s going to say on the subject. But he continues.
“I left when I was sixteen. I still went back now and then to see her, though. I tried to help her. Once I started earning proper money from fighting, I paid for private rehab. Twice.” His mouth twists. “Didnae stick.”
“God.”
“Aye. Eventually I just…cut contact. She’d caused me a lot of grief over the years, and I got to the point where I couldnae take it anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I still make sure she’s looked after. I pay her rent and get her shopping delivered every week. It’s better that way, rather than trusting her wi’ money. But everything goes through my solicitor now. I don’t speak to her.”
I brush his wrist then slip my hand into his. “That says a lot about you, Ryan. That you make sure she’s got a roof over her head and food in the cupboards.”
He glances down at our hands, then shifts his grip and laces his fingers through mine.
He clears his throat. “Well, would you look at that? We’re almost at Coorie & Blether. I could really do wi’ a coffee about now. And the biggest cake they’ve got.”
