Bachelor Boys by Kate Saunders

was smiling and shining, and effortlessly beautiful. I checked my pulse, and was amazed that I still didn’t fancy him.
    He had found a pleasant Italian restaurant, tucked away into an obscure
side street, far from the ruinously posh haunts of Piccadilly. We sat at a table in the window, watching the occasional passersby and drinking light, sharp white wine.
    â€œIt really is fantastic about your job,” I said, feeling I hadn’t lavished quite enough praise. “It sounds as if you might even enjoy it, too.”
    Ben, whose ethereal and supposedly ailing form contained a stomach like an incinerator, snatched yet another slice of bread.
    â€œI know I said I wanted to be a soloist,” he said, “but I’m not competitive enough. And it’s lonely up there, anyway.”
    â€œTell me about your tenor,” I said. “Is he single?”
    â€œI think so,” Ben said. “But he’s rather fat and he has red hair, so don’t get your hopes up. Neil’s beauty is in his voice.”
    â€œIs he good?”
    Ben nodded seriously. “He’s got what they call a ‘silver’ voice—very flexible and sweet. His agent’s trying to push him into opera, but I don’t think his heart’s in it. He prefers recitals.”
    â€œWhat’s the money like?”
    He laughed. “I knew you’d ask that. The rehearsal rate isn’t great—but there’s a chance of a lot more if I do the concerts.”
    â€œWow, you’ll be on a concert platform. Do you realize, you just made yourself about a hundred times more eligible.”
    Our food arrived at the table, and Ben muffled himself in lasagne.
    I picked at a risotto. It was sticky, and I never felt hungry when worrying about Matthew. “Fritz sent me an e-mail this morning,” I said. “Is it true? Has he really disentangled himself from Madeleine?”
    â€œYes,” Ben said, through a mouthful of pasta. He put down his fork and looked at me seriously. “Look, when you come round tonight, don’t mention the bruise on his face.”
    â€œBloody hell, are you saying Madeleine hit him?” I was partly horrified, partly intrigued. Why on earth had Fritz involved himself with this harpy?
    â€œShe threw a brass candlestick at him. It could have killed him, so we decided not to tell Mum.”
    â€œShe thinks he walked into a door,” I guessed.
    Ben smiled ruefully. “That’s the sort of thing.”
    â€œShe dented his head because she couldn’t dent his heart.”

    â€œHe’s not good at showing emotion, that’s all.” Ben, who had endured a lifetime of teasing and bullying from his firecracker brother, always had to defend him. “He buries it, and you have to guess how he feels.”
    â€œHis e-mail seemed quite jaunty.”
    â€œDon’t be too hard on him. He’s not as tough as he makes out. He doesn’t show it, but he’s having a rough time at the moment. What with Mum.”
    â€œSo are you,” I said.
    â€œYes, but I think it’s harder for Fritz. He takes on all the responsibility, you know—he doesn’t let me do nearly enough for her. It’s as if he has to take Dad’s place.”
    I put down my fork. My throat had closed. “How is she?” It was time for the question that always had to be asked.
    â€œVery cheerful,” Ben said. “Very busy pretending not to be ill. But she’s started the new course of chemo, and even she has to admit she’s exhausted. She doesn’t even argue when Fritz orders her to lie down.”
    â€œOh God, that’s a bad sign.”
    â€œFritz says we have to let her do it her way,” Ben said. “She has to rest every afternoon—but I go upstairs to play for her, and we all have to pretend she’s just listening to me practicing.”
    I swallowed several times and took a sip of water, wondering at that