I was on my way out that evening—well, afternoon really, but when it’s pitch black outside already and the Christmas lights everywhere are twinkling, it makes more sense to call it evening—when Mum called me back.
“Liam! Liam, come here, love. Your Aunty Des has got something for you.” She frowned, hands on her hips in that pose that even in her fifties still made delivery men get hot under the collar.
She’s got an old-fashioned figure, my mum: think Marilyn Monroe or Nigella Lawson and you won’t be far wrong. Not a single straight line about her. Hair like Nigella’s, too: tumbling locks I swear she keeps that rich, dark shade of brown by black magic alone. There’s a plumbing firm that’ll only send married men to our house these days, and the pizza boys won’t deliver at all anymore.
“Yo
