Page 77 of Maybe

I grinned then put my mouth close to Isaac’s ear. “Er… because he saw you dancingShake it Offin your pants and can’t ever take you seriously again?” I leaned in again. “And I’m so going to picture you doing that, babe, whilst you give your big speech.”

Which would be any second now, by the look of things. Mustard Michael was wrapping things up, thank fuck. I was getting peckish.

“At this point in the evening, it is my pleasure to welcome Dr Isaac Fitz-Henry—the son of my dear, dear friend, Henry, taken from us so, so tragically—to outline his future plans for awarding the Fitz-Henry Medal.”

My heart swelled as Isaac stepped up to the dais. Not in a pride of ownership sort of way—he wasn't starring in a school play, nor was he a creation I could claim, like Jonty. (Though I liked to think I’d had a big brotherly hand in showing him the error of his ways.) My pride was rooted in knowing Isaac was mine. For always.

“Thank you, thank you,” he began, his voice trembling only a little, and I stifled a smirk. “Thank you for having me and thank you for all the kind words I’ve heard this evening aboutmy father. Having a Fitz-Henry room in this library, dedicated to academic cardiac surgery, would make him very proud. I also like to think he’d be proud of what I’m doing with his generous annual legacy, too, awarded to further a young person’s career in the study of medicine.”

Personally, I had a feeling HFFH would fucking hate it,but we’d wrestled with this speech, and that was the ambiguous phrase we’d settled on. The thing was, Isaac had taken my throwaway comment that he couldbend the rules a bitto heart. Now, thanks to David Trethowan’s helpful oversight of the legal side of things, the Fitz-Henry Medal came with a few caveats, as Michael et al were about to discover.

“It is a great privilege to stand before you today to celebrate an exciting moment in this country’s journey towards medical excellence. The Fitz-Henry Medal will provide essential financial support to a young person between the ages of 17 to 18, from a less advantaged background, so that they might pursue a career in medicine.”

It was worth turning up just to see the frown of consternation on Mustard’s face as it sunk in that the Ruperts of this world weren’t eligible to apply.

Isaac’s voice—more steady, more sure—rose, filling the old library in a way that our father’s must have many times as he outlined the conditions necessary to be considered for the medal. His message was different, of course, but with each word, each carefully chosen phrase, I reckon he more than matched his old man’s for the weight of conviction clinging to every sentence. Sure, Isaac was young, and he wasn’t delivering the message half this audience of posh, overprivileged wankers hoped for. But still, his every deliberate word proved he’d transformed from the shadow of a person he’d become back to the wonderful human being he never realised he’d lost.

“This generous bursary will support a young person who may not otherwise be able to pursue their studies due to financial and educational constraints. Many students face financial struggles, which can affect their academic performance, mental health, and overall well-being. I hope that this bursary provides an essential lifeline in times of need, ensuring they can stay focused on their education and access opportunities the majority of us in this room today have always taken for granted. Financial challenges should not prevent capable and determined students from reaching their potential. Applications will be scrutinised to ensure those most in need are prioritised.”

I knew the speech, since Isaac had rehearsed it a few times. To appease his audience, he threw in a few kind words regarding HFHH’s work with the World Health Organisation. I switched off for that bit, but was sure to tune in for the last sentence.

“And it is very, very kind of Michael, an internationally renowned cardiac surgeon himself and a great, great friend of my late father, to agree to present the annual award each year going forward.”

Oh, yes. I wassocoming to those presentation ceremonies.

EPILOGUE

EZRA–6 MONTHS LATER

My last-ever busking set passed unremarked by the Covent Garden tourists. I didn’t have the time these days, what with starting a college course to study music theory and being the perfect dad and supportive boyfriend. Isaac had encouraged me; I’d developed an annoying habit of listening to my boyfriend’s solid advice. Of trusting him.

Naturally, as soon as Isaac pitched up, I segued from playing Robbie William’s crowd pleaser,Angels,to Dire StraitsSultan’s of Swingbecause, yeah, trying to impress my man with the trickiest of tricky guitar solos. Though underappreciated by most of the punters, Isaac knew exactly what I was doing, and for who, and his lips curled into a little smirk. When that came to an end, still drowning in flutters of happiness, I adjusted my amp, turned down the bass and turned up the mike.

“This one’s for all you pretty blue-eyed boys out there.”

I strummed the opening bars to the tune I’d been working on. “It’s for nerdy baby brothers, and for cool, moody older ones.” I paused a beat. “For dads with a penchant for Hawaiian shirts and hairy baked potatoes.” My fingers picked out thenotes of a song I could play and sing in my sleep. I’d never sing it again in public, though. Openhearted and vulnerable, the lyrics would always be too reminiscent of my raw, all-enveloping teenage angst. Of learning to fly and flying away. “And for the person who shines the light that is the right one for me. For the only love I’ll ever know. This one’s for you, babe. My very own Wonderwall. This song’s calledMaybe.”

There had been a few other changes recently, the kinds of big events announcing themselves as Important and Life ChangingTM. Such as Isaac buying a house. We’d moved in last month. I’d even agreed Jonty could have his room painted a hideous purple. Naturally, he didn’t know he was sitting on a small fortune; that boy couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. As far as he was concerned, he had the grand sum of seventeen pounds fifty in the bank, saved from last Christmas and his birthday. For his next birthday, we were surprising him with a puppy.

Event number two was Isaac taking up a non-career post in a hospital emergency department only ten minutes’ walk from our new house. He reduced his hours down to three days a week with a handful of Saturday nights thrown in, as he still hadn’t mastered the sacred art of saying no. I was working on him. The new house was a big Victorian semi in leafy Shooters Hill, overlooking a park. With enough bedrooms for Freya and Pax to stay over and a garage with a charging point for the mid-range electric car, the suburb was posher than our old one by a factor of ten.

Jonty was staying at his old school. It was having an upgrade over the summer, seeing as Isaac, my rich idiot of a baby brother, had bought the bloody tarmac and empty warehouse next door. There were plans to return it to grass, football posts,and a school garden. It’s sports facilities would rival the Olympic Park by the time the work was finished.

So yeah, a few big life events, but mixed in were some even more important ones that didn’t announce themselves so loudly. Ones already filed away as precious memories before you could pause and be impressed by them. Such as both of us taking Jonty and Freya down to the Cornish coast for a week at half term. And my reunion with Ed and Saffy, getting to know them and them getting to know me. I finally met Alaric; the subsequent hangover lasted three days. We invited Gerald over for dinner and I behaved impeccably. Isaac got a tattoo of an eagle on his hip, matching mine. We visited my mum’s grave back in Norfolk where she’d grown up, with Isaac holding my hand.

I sold a bunch of my songs to a couple of major record labels and won a Grammy.

Okay, so the last part didn’t happen, but who knows? One day. Maybe.