Page 3

CHAPTER TWO

Madigan

I held out the packet of Double Coat Tim Tams for Aunt Shirley to help herself and tried not to dwell on the handsome man I’d met in reception.

If there was a stereotype for a silver fox, Nick Fisher surely held the copyright. Mid-fifties, maybe a little younger, he was tall, lean, and strikingly good-looking with a rough, bad-boy vibe that piqued my interest in a way few did. Blond-grey hair—short at the back and long at the top—fell irreverently over a deeply lined forehead. He looked like he’d been frowning his whole life, but rather than off-putting, I found it almost amusing, like the man was trying too hard not to be liked.

A web of fine lines framed astute grey eyes and only added to his appeal, as did that one crooked eye tooth in an otherwise perfect mouth. A thick scrumptious layer of silver-tipped stubble accented a strong jawline, and if I were a betting man, I’d wager not a single moisturiser sat in Nick Fisher’s bathroom cupboard. He had that air about him. Like he couldn’t give a fuck about that kind of thing. Then again, with looks like that, he really didn’t need to. Like really didn’t.

Nick Fisher was also probably straight and definitely married, judging by the titanium band on his ring finger. Didn’t mean I couldn’t look and enjoy the view, especially since he didn’t carry the frantic air of far too many men of our generation who were desperately trying to remain relevant, not to mention attractive to the generations following.

I shuddered at the thought. The idea of dating a younger man brought me out in hives. Way too much angst and drama for my taste, let alone the fact they usually came as a package deal with a cohort of similarly aged men that one would be expected to socialise with. Ask me how I knew.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed male company of all ages, provided there was a clear exit strategy when exhaustion hit. The idea of tying myself long-term to a group twenty or thirty years my junior was quite frankly... horrifying. If I had to choose between a night clubbing with a hot younger man, followed by frantic but often disappointing sex, or a couch with a book and a large glass of excellent red wine, there was no competition. The couch won every time. There was always my trusty right hand if required—a reliable partner who didn’t require a second round or breakfast in the morning.

Each to their own.

I get that breakfast isn’t obligatory for a hook-up, but I’ve always felt it’s good manners. You get invited into someone’s body or vice versa, and it seems only fair to at least feed them in the morning, right?

Don’t answer that.

And regarding the second-round issue. It’s not that I can’t manage a second round, because I often do, but I need a little more refresh time than I used to, and it’s usually more for the other person than myself. The first round generally ticks the box for me, plus I happen to appreciate sleep more than I used to.

Have I mentioned a good book?

I shook the packet of biscuits and Shirley groaned, giving the open door a quick glance before nabbing her third Tim Tam in under an hour. Not fooled for a second, I left my hand where it was and shook the packet a second time. “You know you want to.”

Shirley’s mouth quirked up, sending laughter lines spiderwebbing across her face, her bright hazel eyes shining. Crepey skin didn’t stand a chance against those sharp, model-worthy cheekbones, even if her thinning grey hair was a pale reminder of the thick auburn locks that had once bounced on her shoulders. Shirley Church had been a looker in her day and still was. With both my parents dead, she was the last of her generation left and held a special place in my heart.

“I hate you.” She shot me a caustic look before squirrelling two more chocolate biscuits into her bedside drawer. Then she took a large bite of the one still in her hand and fell back in her chair with a porn-worthy moan that made me smile.

“You’ll be the death of me.” She spoke around the mouthful of biscuit. Then she smirked. “Well, hopefully anyway. Maybe you could try a little harder. Lord knows they won’t monitor my sugar intake in heaven because that’d be hell right there.”

I almost choked on my biscuit, spraying half of it down the front of my shirt. “Jesus, Shirley.” I brushed the crumbs to the floor as she watched, smiling.

My mother’s younger sister had always been a riot. Cheeky down to the Kiss Me Quick rainbow silicone wristband her wife had given her before she died and the ankle tattoo that read No Regrets. She’d been at my side the day I came out to my parents, who’d barely batted an eye at yet another member of the family joining the LGBTQ+ brigade, quipping that we almost had enough for a volleyball team, which was... true.

Alongside Aunt Shirley and me, my father’s brother was gay, my cousin was bi, and my brother’s first-born had begun her transition during her teens, a decision which had delighted all concerned. Lana was a twenty-two-year-old firecracker and took zero shit from anyone and was happier than I’d ever seen her. In many ways, she was my hero and I loved her to bits.

“How are Jonas and Charmaine?” Shirley enquired about my younger brother and his wife who lived in Sydney.

“They’re good,” I answered distractedly, wincing at the biscuit crumbs that littered the carpet between us. Still, considering how much Shirley paid to stay in Golden Oaks, they could run to a bit of extra cleaning, right?

I kept staring. Nope. The guilt was real. I scuffed the worst of it under the chair with my foot and felt a little better. When I looked up, Shirley wore an amused grin.

“Don’t ever change, Madigan.”

My cheeks blazed. “Shut up.”

Her grin widened. “Have I told you you’re my favourite nephew?”

“Every time you want something from me.”

She laughed. “Fair point. And right now, I want more than an okay about your brother’s family.”

I settled back in my seat. “They’re doing great. Jonas is talking about retiring by the time he’s my age, or at least stepping back from the daily management of the law firm, although I don’t see it. The man’s a workaholic. And Charmaine is busy as always, saving the whales or penguins, or campaigning about climate change. I can’t remember what this year’s focus is, but that’s Char for you. And Lana is gearing up for her uni finals in another month, regaling the family with angsty pronouncements of doom and gloom, even though we all know she’ll ace them all.”

Shirley snorted. “And the rest. That girl has success and determination written into her DNA. What about you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been skirting the topic.”

I sighed. “I’m fine. It’s just been a tough day.”

She cocked a brow. “Is this that fancy family Bible you’ve been working on?”

I nodded. “The Bannock Estate’s eighteenth-century leather-bound Scottish Bible.”

“I thought you were almost done?” She invited me to explain.

“I am, at least my particular part is done. But the Bible has a complicated cover lock with a distinctly Scottish engraving embedded into the leather. No one I’ve contacted in New Zealand feels confident to touch it, and I don’t want to contract the work offshore because that would mean sending the finished book, and there’s a lot of risk in that. I’ve burned through every contact I know.”

“Mmm.” She watched me closely. “So, what are your options?”

My head fell back and I stared up at the ceiling. “Basically, just one that I’m happy with. To ask the family to cover the cost of bringing someone here from Australia to do the work in my studio. But it’s not a phone call I’m looking forward to. The manager of the estate almost went into shock when I first submitted my estimate to complete the work. And now I’m asking for more.”

“But the manager still signed off on it, right?”

I shrugged. “I’m one of the few who have worked on something even close to this.”

“Exactly,” she declared. “And that experience means you’re worth every penny. It’s taken you months already, hasn’t it?”

Another nod. “It was a mess, falling to bits, but they want it on permanent display for tour groups next year, not to mention preserving the family history, so it needed to be done right.” I couldn’t hide my glee. “It’s a cracker of a book, Shirley. I’ve never seen workmanship like it.”

She smiled and patted my hand. “Then call the family and fight for what the book deserves. If they truly care, they’ll cough up the money. If not, then there’s nothing you can do and they can assume the risk of shipping it themselves.”

“I know,” I grumbled. “I just hate seeing a beauty like that not getting the workmanship and respect it deserves. I’ll never work on another project like it.”

“Never say never, son.” Shirley folded her hands in her lap. “Now for more important topics. Are you dating?”

I groaned. It was always the same question every time I came to visit. “Aunt Shirley, you promised.”

“Did I?” She threw me an innocent look. “My memory really isn’t what it used to be.”

I narrowed my gaze. “There’s nothing wrong with your memory, you little minx. Your manners, however, could use some work. I’m fifty-five, for Pete’s sake. I’m no spring chicken and I’ve earned the right to make my own decisions. My love life is none of your concern.”

Shirley snorted and patted my leg, her bright orange nails standing in stark contrast against my pale skin. “It’s cute that you think that. You might be fifty-five, Madigan, but I’ve got thirty years on that and I’m running out of time to see you happy and settled. You want to send me to my grave in a state of eternal speculation?”

“What?” I stared at her helplessly. “I am happy and settled. I don’t need a man for that. Remember how the last one turned out?”

“Pfft.” Shirley waved my protest aside. “That was four years ago, and that jerk clearly had no idea what a gem he’d found. Good riddance I say. I bet he regrets it now.”

I chuckled. “I’m thinking, not so much. He got married two years after we broke up to some guy who looks like he belongs on a catwalk. His social media is full of travel pics and dancing. Not a book in sight.”

“See.” Shirley wagged a finger my way. “I told you he was no good.”

I grinned. “You absolutely did not. If I recall, you said he was perfect for me.”

Shirley waved that taloned hand again. “I never said any such thing.” She caught my gaze and held it. “Are you sure you’re happy? I worry, you know?”

Was I happy? God, what a question . Happiness was such a complicated word. Answer yes, and everything that wasn’t perfect in your life stabs you in the eye. Say no, and you feel like you’ve failed at adulting and everyone feels sorry for you. Besides, was anyone ever really happy?

Good god. I needed a beer before I could handle the existentialism inherent in that particular question.

Shirley waved a hand in front of my face. “Hellooo in there. It’s not a hard question.”

Except it was, and Shirley knew it. “You first,” I laid down a challenge.

Shirley thought a long minute before answering, “I’d say I’m happy enough. But since my life is pretty much done now, I think that’s a reasonable place to sit, especially after losing Clare. She was the love of my life, and I had her for forty years. Nothing to complain about there.”

I reached for her hand. “She’d be so proud of you, and I get that you want me to have the same kind of relationship, but not everyone’s so lucky. I love my work and I’m good at it. It’s fulfilling and creative and I’ve got good people around me. I love my books and my home, and I have a family who love and accept me. That’s more than a lot of people can say, and I think that maybe it’s enough.”

“But—”

I held up a hand. “I’m not ruling out meeting someone, but let’s face it, I’m hardly a catch. I’m a book conservator—hardly the sexiest of jobs—an introverted nerd who works from home and who’d rather read a book than almost anything else. I hate loud music, shopping malls give me hives, and crowds make me anxious. Structure and predictability are my friends, Japanese tissue paper can set me drooling, and I deplore mess of any kind. Need I go on?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Shirley was quick to take advantage. “Inconsequential stuff, nothing more. No man worth his salt would see any of those as obstacles.”

I raised a brow. “Oh, really? Because it’s a rather long list, and the reason I know it off by heart is that every man I’ve ever dated has used one, several, or all of those items as a reason to break up with me. And I’m fine with that. I won’t change who I am just to make some bloody man happy.” I wasn’t done, but an image of Nick Fisher sprang to mind and put me off my stride.

Shirley sighed. “And I wouldn’t want you to change.” She cupped my face. “All I ask is that you keep an open mind. You’re one of the good guys, Madigan. You deserve the best. And if I do happen to check out before you find someone to share your life with, I’ll be having words with the boss upstairs as to what the hell they think they’re playing at. Omniscient, my foot. If they were omniscient, they’d have sorted this out by now, knowing I was heading their way.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “How do you know you’re headed for the good stuff? You might be going the other way.”

Shirley patted my hand. “They wouldn’t dare. Now get along with you. You’ve got better things to do with your evening than keep an old woman company. They’ll be ferrying me off to dinner soon, and I’m not sharing any of my crispy roast potatoes with the likes of you.”

But I knew better than to be bought by her easy flippancy. “Golden Oaks is working out okay for you then?”

She shot a glance toward the door. “It’s only been a week, but yes, it seems fine, although I wish people would stop using names like golden and autumn and evening when they just mean old. It’s juvenile and insulting not to mention lacking any creativity.” She sighed. “The truth is, I can’t stay on my own anymore, Madigan, that’s all there is to it. This is the next best thing. Golden Oaks has a good reputation, and it’ll do the job.”

It did have a good name and Shirley had spent months researching all the long-term care facilities before deciding. Not that it made me feel any better about seeing her effervescent self living in one. “I wish you’d agreed to stay with me?—”

She almost choked. “Not a chance in hell. I love you like you were my own son, Madigan, but that doesn’t mean I want to live with you.” She shot me a sly smile. “You’re altogether too neat and tidy for my liking, and I hear you spend all your time on the couch with a book, while—” She patted her legs. “—these things still have a few dances left in them yet.”

I rolled my eyes. “You think you’re so funny.”

“Don’t think. Am ,” she announced. “And now my ears are done for the day so be gone with you.”

She was impossible. “Shirley, I?—”

“What’s that?” She cupped a hand around her ear. “I can’t hear you.”

I groaned and got to my feet. “All right. All right. I’ll come back in a couple of days to make sure you haven’t instigated a coup or something.”

She pulled me down to kiss my cheek. “Bah. I’m too old for all that nonsense. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a decent puppet regime as long as I’m holding the strings. And it’s a lot less tiring.”

I laughed and dropped the packet of biscuits into her lap. “Hide those before you get caught. And maybe try to stay alive until my next visit.”

She shot me another wicked grin. “Not if I can help it.”

I rolled my eyes. “But I’d miss our talks.”

“So?” Shirley looked me up and down. “As shocking as this may seem, keeping you amused isn’t my problem, young Madigan.” She gave me a none-too-soft shove toward the open door. “You need to get yourself a boyfriend for that.”

I paused in the doorway and turned to face her. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

Her cheeky grin said it all.

“Whatever. See you in a couple of days.” I waved and stepped backward into the hall, straight into someone walking past the room. The poor man stumbled, and I had to grab his arm to steady him. “Oh god, I am so sorry.”

The man shook me loose. “You need to watch where you’re go—” He stopped when he saw me, those sorrowful grey eyes narrowing in recognition. “You... again. Madigan, right?”

Shit. It would have to be Nick Fisher, wouldn’t it? Only this wasn’t the enigmatic, joking Nick Fisher that I’d met in reception.

“Running into me once wasn’t enough?” There was a surprisingly angry bite to his tone that gave me pause. “This is a long-term care facility. A lot of the people using these hallways are unstable on their feet.”

It was hard to marry the friendly guy I’d been introduced to with this new boorish version. But my surprise lasted only a few seconds before I realised, looks aside, I really didn’t give a fuck about this guy.

“Madigan? What’s going on?” Aunt Shirley appeared in the doorway, her gaze narrowing at seeing Nick standing there glaring at me. “I’ll thank you to lower your voice, whoever you are.”

Nick turned to evaluate his new opponent.

Shirley stared him down. “This is my room, son, and your tone and volume are making me anxious.”

Nick blinked at the surly note to Shirley’s voice, and I would’ve kissed her lying lips if I wasn’t too busy trying not to laugh. Aunt Shirley and the word anxiety rarely, if ever, occupied the same sentence.

Nick hesitated, clearly put off his game. “I—oh. I—well.” He nervously licked his lips. “I was simply pointing out that one needs to be careful in a place like this.”

“It’s okay, Aunty.” I put a hand on her arm and straightened my spine before turning my attention back to Nick. “I said that I was sorry. I’m not sure what else you expect, so you can take it or leave it.” I should’ve stopped at that, but for some reason, I glanced at Shirley and added, “I’m sure Nick never has days where nothing seems to go right and he trips over his own feet.” I turned back to Nick. “Nice for some, I guess.”

The hall fell deathly quiet, and Nick’s eyes widened in surprise... or maybe shock. It was hard to tell. Then, like a balloon popping, that angry expression crumbled and he fled back along the hall and out into reception without another word.

I watched him go, my frown deepening. Then I turned to Shirley whose surprised expression no doubt mirrored mine. “Well, that was interesting.”

She stared toward reception a moment longer, a curious look on her face. Then she patted my arm. “Nice-looking man, that one.” And she was gone, disappearing back into her room and closing the door firmly behind her.

I’d been dismissed.

I looked up from my phone just long enough to give Jerry a wave as I passed through reception, heading for my car. A colleague in Perth had texted to say he was free to do the lock work on the Bible in a couple of weeks if I could swing the airfares. Delighted to have maybe solved my gnarly problem, I almost forgot about the whole incident with Nick. Almost. The man was clearly unstable.

As I crossed the shadowy carpark, I typed a reply and offered some potential dates that might work. Then I pressed send and looked up just in time to avoid walking into the front bumper of my old Toyota.

“Shit.” I pulled up short, arms windmilling for balance.

A chuckle sounded from somewhere behind and a voice came over my shoulder. “You really do need to start watching where you’re going.”

I groaned at the familiar voice and spun to find Nick Fisher watching me, his grey eyes edged with gold in the last rays of the evening sun. What was he doing here? A wave of uncertainty accompanied the question, but a quick scan of the carpark confirmed we were alone. Because of course we bloody were. If Nick was feeling the need for a little one-on-one, I had nowhere to run.

Instead, Nick raised his hands. “I come in peace, I promise. I just—” His expression turned sheepish, and he rubbed a hand over his scruff. “I guess I want to apologise—” He practically choked on the word. “—at least for my part in what happened.”

His part? Jesus Christ. The guy really was a piece of work.

Making no attempt to hide my eye-roll, I pocketed my phone and walked past Nick to the driver’s door of my Toyota. “Save your apology for someone who actually gives a shit.” I unlocked the door and threw my coat and book across the centre console into the passenger seat. “And just for the record, there was really only one part in what happened that was deliberately rude— yours . My part was an accident, which I apologised for the second it happened. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to be on my way.” I was halfway into my seat when Nick’s hand wrapped around my trailing arm.

“Madigan, wait, please.”

I stared pointedly at his grip, and he instantly let go. “Sorry... again .” He gave a rueful smile. “Guess it’s my day for being a prick.”

I met his gaze. “Practice makes perfect, they tell me?”

His eyes widened and then he laughed, the booming sound making me want to smile but I kept the impulse in check.

“Come on.” Nick stepped back, waving me out of the car. “Please. Two minutes of your time?”

I studied his handsome features for a moment longer, then sighed and got out of the car. Who was I kidding? The guy was intriguing if nothing else. I folded my arms and leaned back against the rear door. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Nick’s gaze locked on mine. “First off, I deserved all of that.” He paused, and when I didn’t respond, he chuckled. “Tough crowd.”

I made a point of glancing at my watch while at the same time wondering where the hell the Madigan, who didn’t usually do conflict if he could avoid it and who might be blunt but certainly not rude, had disappeared to.

“So, I might’ve just happened to catch your aunt’s comment before we collided—” He chose the word carefully. “Something about getting yourself a boyfriend, I believe.” His brows pitched up in amusement.

“Oh, dear God,” I groaned. “You and most of Golden Oaks, I think.” Then a thought occurred to me. “Please don’t tell me you’re a homophobe as well as a bit of a jerk?”

He snorted. “Definitely not a homophobe, but the jerk thing is a work in progress. But your aunt’s comment makes me feel comfortable explaining my behaviour a little bit.” He glanced toward Golden Oaks, then back at me. “My husband is a resident here.”

I blinked. Firstly, not straight. Wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. And secondly, a resident? Exactly how much older was the husband?

Nick let out a long sigh and then clarified, “I know what you’re thinking, but Davis is actually younger than me.” His gaze dipped down as he scuffed the soles of his trainers on the asphalt. “He had a car accident eighteen months ago. There were massive head injuries and he never recovered. A little over six months after it happened, the hospital discharged him to Golden Oaks for long-term care.” Pain flashed behind Nick’s eyes and my heart plummeted, those stupid heated words coming back to me.

I’m sure that Nick never has bad days ...

Well, shit.

“Don’t do that.” Nick narrowed his gaze. “Don’t excuse my bad behaviour because you pity me.”

“I wasn’t excu—” I stopped. “Okay, maybe a little, but it’s a better-than-average excuse, don’t you think?”

A smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “It is, isn’t it? But it’s also about time I stopped using it to justify being rude. At first, it was a useful shield. Now, it’s just a bad habit.”

I watched him closely, appreciating how hard it must be to admit. “I’ll take your word for it.”

His gaze tracked my face. “You’re not wrong about me, you know. I can be a real prick. Some would even say a consummate arsehole. Davis would for sure.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m liking this man more and more.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “God knows why he persevered with me, but he did. The man is a sucker for punishment. Over time, he has civilised me, somewhat, at least enough to let me loose in polite company—most days.” He grinned. “But it would be fair to say that without his daily attention, I’ve regressed somewhat to old habits. Not something I’m proud of. Anyway, my visit turned out rather... emotional, which led to you catching me on one of those bad days you mentioned. I’m sorry for biting your head off. It wasn’t about you at all.”

Oh, Jesus. “No. It’s me who should apologise for jumping to conclusions when I should know better. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was tactless and completely untrue.”

“No, I’m glad you called me out.” Nick glanced sideways to where Jerry was sneakily keeping an eye on us from the reception desk. “He’d be disappointed in me, you know. Davis.” He swallowed hard before facing me again, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “I need to do better for his sake at least.”

“Can he talk?” I winced, immediately regretting the ill-mannered question. “Sorry, that was rude.”

Nick didn’t seem perturbed. He simply shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Davis doesn’t do much of anything, nothing conscious at least. He’s in what they call a persistent vegetative state.”

I was only vaguely familiar with the term, something about a US court case. “A coma?”

Nick gave another sad shake of his head. “No. In a coma, a person is unconscious and can’t be woken. In Davis’s case, he actually woke from the induced coma they put him in, but that was as far as it went. His eyes opened and he breathed on his own when they extubated him. In a vegetative state, a person has some level of consciousness, although just how much varies a lot. Davis has sleep-wake cycles. He occasionally tracks movement with his eyes, which is super creepy even when you know it’s not indicative of anything at all. He can cough, grunt, grind his teeth, and sometimes even appear to laugh or cry. But none of it is conscious or voluntary or related to what is going on around him. It’s part of what they call non-cognitive upper brainstem function.”

I frowned. “Non-cognitive—what?”

Nick huffed, “Yeah, you learn a lot in eighteen months. Google wasn’t always my friend, but it did help me understand what I was seeing and stop the emotional rollercoaster. Non-cortical is a fancy way of saying that none of those things require any actual thinking on Davis’s part. They’re just the bare essentials of the brain doing their thing. Davis has no communication, thinking, or purposeful movement. Those are all cognitive functions, and expert medical opinion is that after eighteen months, there’s pretty much zero chance anything will change in that arena. It’s doubtful he even knows that I’m there, although we never assume that and talk to him all the time.”

Jesus.

Nick shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped back, the lengthening shadows hiding his expression. “And just why I’m telling you all this, I have no idea. I’m sorry—” He gave another of those wry smiles that made him look much younger than his fifty-something years. “—again. Seems it’s my day for apologies. So now that’s done, I’ll let you get on your way.” He walked backward a couple of steps, then turned to leave.

“Wait.” I pushed off the car and crossed the distance between us.

Nick turned, his expression hard to read. Curious, maybe, but also hollow, like I’d caught him before he’d secured that tough-guy mask back into place.

“Thank you,” I began, “for the apology and for the explanation, which was really none of my business. I’m really sorry for what you’re both going through. I can’t imagine how hard it is. I wish I had something more insightful to say, but I don’t, and the usual platitudes seem pretty ignorant.”

Nick nodded. “Tell me about it. Honestly, some of the things people say—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Let’s just say there are times it’s all I can do not to lose my shit completely.” He sucked in a deep breath. “And thank you for including Davis in what you said. I have no idea what he’s capable of understanding inside or what’s left of his brain. Mostly, I pray it’s not too much. That sounds horrible, I know, but it’s a fucking awful way to live... for all of us.”

We locked eyes for a long minute, then I held out my hand. “Hi, I’m Madigan Church. Book conservator, introverted social disaster, bibliophile, and reasonably nice guy, I’m told, all things considered.”

Nick snorted and wrapped my hand in his. “Nice to meet you, Madigan Church. I’m Nick Fisher. Forensic accountant, ditto the social-disaster part but for very different reasons, current emotional mess, and according to the few friends—who for reasons known only to themselves have stuck around my cranky arse— not a reasonably nice guy and definitely a work in progress.”

My turn to laugh. “It’s a pleasure, Nick.”

He stood for a second with our hands clasped and we stared into each other’s eyes. Then Nick dropped my hand and stepped away. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again, although hopefully not in a literal sense next time.”

I chuckled. “Good night, Nick.”

He raised his hand in a short wave. “Nite, Madigan. Drive safely, please.”

I watched him jog toward the far corner of the car park, his parting words echoing in my head. Drive safely, please . I wasn’t sure if he even realised what he’d said, but I knew I’d never say those words again without remembering Davis Fisher.