Page 18 of Tribute Act

I grinned. “Yeah, it is a bit like that. Sorry.”

Mack shrugged, though this time with a hint of smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“What do you fancy?” I asked as I hooked my jacket over the back of the wooden chair. “Pint of the local brew?”

“What’s that, then?”

“Chough’s Nest.”

He looked dubious. “I think I’ll just take a pint of lager, thanks.”

“Coward,” I chuckled. “Okay, gimme a minute.”

Jago was already pulling my pint when I reached the bar. “Who’s your friend then?” he asked darkly, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Evening, Nathan, what can I get you?” I replied cheerfully.

“I’m already getting yours,” Jago pointed out. “So who is he?”

“Um . . . family friend,” I improvised. “And he’s having a pint of lager, thanks.”

Jago huffed, a sound that somehow managed to convey agreement and contempt in one. “Is he from round here then?”

I shook my head. The accent would give Mack away soon enough, so I added briefly, “Scotland.”

“Oh right. One of Derek’s side, is he?”

“Yeah,” I said, my tone vague. “You got anyone playing tonight?”

The Sea Bell held a proper folk night once a week but a lot of musicians hung out here who might play a few songs ad hoc, if they were in the mood.

“Andy’s in,” Jago said tipping his head at a scruffy bloke at the end of the bar, greying hair held back in a ponytail. “He might get his guitar out later, I s’pose.”

I didn’t much care, but it seemed to have worked as a change of subject. Jago put the two pints up on the bar, and I paid, then headed back to the table where Mack waited.

As I approached him, I wondered what it was about Mack that struck me as odd. It was only as I reached the table that I realised—he wasn’t fiddling with a phone like most people did when they were left on their own in a pub. He was just sitting there quiet, thinking.

“One pint of pissy, generic lager,” I said, setting his glass down in front of him. I sat down opposite, lifting my own glass to my lips to take a swig, giving an appreciative sigh after. “And one pint of fine, locally brewed Cornish ale.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll stick with the pissy lager, thanks,” Mack replied dryly. “At least I’ve got a fair idea what’s in it.”

He took a drink, and I watched him, reminded, inevitably, of the night before when he’d stood opposite me in Club Indigo, tipping up his beer bottle, slim throat bobbing as he swallowed, dark gaze full of promise.

It wasn’t full of promise now. More wary.

“So,” I said. “It’s been quite a day for you.”

He gave a short laugh. “You could say that.” Then he sighed. “I should have called first. It wasn’t cool, turning up without warning.”

I felt oddly aggrieved on his behalf. “Hey, he’s your dad. You get to turn up whenever you like.”

“Yeah? Try telling him that. He was horrified.” He shook his head and even offered a lopsided smile, but I could sense he was hurt, and I hated it.

I remembered Derek’s expression earlier as he’d berated Mack for not calling first and honestly, right then, I could cheerfully have punched my stepdad. But surely he hadn’t really been horrified to see Mack? Surely it was shock that made him react like that?

I let a moment pass, then said gently, “He was surprised, for sure, but of course he wants to see you—he wrote to you, didn’t he?”

Mack’s look was wry. “He wrote to me because he wants me to donate my liver to my little sister.” He lifted his lager and took another swig. Set it down. “And that’s fine. It’s not like I’d’ve come for any other reason. Like I said back there, I’m not interested in some big reunion. It’s way too late for that.”