AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Reading Shakespeare is like watching paint dry,” Ambrose said. “But watching it be performed, like it was meant to be? It’s fucking killer. Like, dude knew how to write, you know? But it doesn’t translate to the page, and it sure as shit doesn’t translate to silent reading material.”
“Done some of the Bard, have you?” asked Grandad Billy from where he was leaning against the door. “Give us a bit, then.”
Ambrose swallowed around his mouthful of lasagne. “What?”
“A bit of a turn. Show us if you’ve inherited your mother’s talent. Lord, that woman was a delight to watch. A true star.”
Every single bit of Shakespeare Ambrose had ever learned chose that moment to leave his head, except that line from the poem Venus and Adonis that was definitely about oral.
Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
“Um,” he said. Whole fucking monologues out there, and all he could think of was that line. He blamed the distraction of Liam sitting across the table from him with sauce-stained lips. And possibly the wine.
“Maybe later,” Liam said, rescuing him.
“Performance anxiety?” Grandad asked with a wink. Ambrose wasn’t sure how to answer that, but he was saved by Liam’s parents bustling through the door, followed by Neve.
“Marcus will be right here. He’s getting the bags,” she announced, even though nobody had asked. “God, the traffic was terrible. I think there was an accident on the highway. I hope everyone was okay.” Her face lit up. “Ambrose! It’s great to see you again! You look a bit peaky. Did Grandad give you the tour already?”
Ambrose laughed. “Yeah. I’m still recovering.”
“I was out of action for two days,” Orhan said, shifting Balian from Bridget’s lap onto his.
“Ah well, give it time,” Grandad said, laughing. “We haven’t tackled the whites yet.”
Ambrose’s stomach rumbled in warning, and it had nothing to do with the lasagne.
“Grandad,” Liam said, and rolled his eyes. “Go easy.”
“Fine. I suppose I can wait till tomorrow, and Marcus can join us.” Grandad heaved a heavy sigh, sounding for all the world like all the joy had been sucked from his life. John Phillip warbled his agreement and leaned on Grandad’s leg.
Ambrose was glad that at least there was another newbie here now who could take some of the heat off him. He looked up as Neve’s fiancé, Marcus, stepped into the room. He was tall and blond, as handsome as a David Jones menswear model, and he was brushing droplets of water off the shoulders of his linen shirt as he entered the room. He gave everyone a blinding Colgate smile, and Ambrose felt his world shift a little as a flash of memory came to him.
It had only been last week. The night before his date with Kelly, Ambrose had been on a date with Lucy at some swanky place at Circular Quay. And Marcus had been sitting at a nearby table with a girl—a girl who definitely hadn’t been Neve, because she’d been as blonde as Neve was dark. Ambrose remembered it vividly, because Marcus had been an absolute nightmare, first complaining that his al dente pasta wasn’t truly al dente, then banging his fist on the table and demanding to see the chef. Ambrose had found it unbelievable that someone could be a bigger arsehole than him when they weren’t even getting paid for it.
“It’s so lovely to meet you at last, Marcus,” Fi said, taking him by the arm, and running through the introductions. “This is everyone. Grandad Billy, and you just met Will. This is Bridget, our oldest, and her husband, Orhan. And their little one, Balian. And our son, Liam, and our youngest, Riley. And Liam’s boyfriend, Ambrose.”
“How long have you guys been dating?” Ambrose blurted out, and every face turned to him. “Just, um, you know, trying to get a ballpark figure for when Liam will pop the question.”
Marcus laughed. “Oh, it’s been pretty whirlwind, right, Neve?”
“Yeah,” Neve said. “We met eight months ago, didn’t we? At Sally’s party.”
Ambrose’s heart fell.
“Pull up a seat,” Grandad Billy said. “I’ll pour you a drink.”
Marcus smiled again and plopped himself in a kitchen chair, legs spread wide. “I’ll have one of whatever you’re offering,” he said. “The bigger the better.”
“That’s what she said.” The words slipped out of Ambrose’s mouth on autopilot.
Marcus looked startled, but Grandad Billy laughed loudly.
The Connelly inquisition began, and Ambrose hated to admit it, but Marcus weathered it a lot more smoothly than he had. He didn’t seem bothered by the volume, or the sheer number of questions being peppered at him from all different directions. He was thirty-one. He was an investment banker. He’d never been married before and had no kids. His family was all in Melbourne. He didn’t get as much time off as he would have liked—or Neve would have liked—but he loved his job. His dream was to work in Hong Kong for a few years, but he definitely wanted to raise his future kids in Sydney.
Ambrose stabbed his fork into his lasagne and rolled his eyes at Mr. Perfect. Then he wondered if anyone had seen him do it and glanced around the table. Grandad Billy caught his gaze and gave him a nod. For a moment it felt like they were allies, united in their ‘Who does this fuckhead think he is?’ stance, but then Ambrose remembered that Marcus wasn’t the only liar at the table, and he felt a rush of guilt.
