Educating Simon by Robin Reardon Page A

Is this the category you’d recommend?”
    His smile was cryptic. “Maybe I led you to the one most people would choose. Doesn’t mean it’s the best choice. Sometimes it pays to take a risk. Let me ask you this: If the salmon were given a heavier treatment”—he waved a hand in the air—“something less summery, what would you drink?”
    â€œProbably a pinot noir, maybe a white burgundy. Depends.”
    â€œSo, for a lighter treatment, would you go red at all?”
    â€œMaybe a rosé?”
    He made a slight face. “Not bad in concept, but would it hold up to the horseradish?”
    As soon as he said horseradish, I headed for the sparkling wine case, looked for a pink foil over a large cork, opened the door, and pulled out a bottle at random. It was a rosé prosecco.
    Ned laughed and clapped his hands. “I love it!” He bowed obsequiously and imitated a pretentious waiter by saying, “Excellent choice, sir.”
    I moved over to the sweet wines. I was looking for a sauterne my father used to love, but I didn’t see it. There were sauternes here, but nothing I recognised.
    Ned said, “Another excellent idea—fabulous with fool. Do you want a recommendation?”
    â€œPlease.”
    He moved to stand beside me, and in the cool cellar the warmth of his body was almost like a wave, or a gentle pulse. In a trance, I watched him, not the bottles. He pulled one out and handed it to me. “This one, I think.” He didn’t move away. “You know, I think it’s great that we’re celebrating tonight. And I think we’re celebrating not just your day, but also your mom’s coming out of her shell.” He closed the case and stepped back.
    â€œShell.”
    He laughed and headed towards the stairs. “Don’t tell me I gave you too much credit. I know teenagers mostly don’t even know their parents are people, let alone sympathise with their difficulties, but—yes, shell. She’s seemed so wound up, so tight, since she got here. But not this afternoon. Did she teach you to love wine?”
    â€œNo. My father.”
    â€œWell, you could learn a few things about cooking from her. She’s no slouch.” He took the stairs two at a time. I followed, watching him from behind, watching his behind, and once again thought that things could be worse.
    Back in the kitchen, I picked up the plate of tea balls. “Thanks, Mum. Haven’t had these in a while.” The relatively friendly comment was more for Ned, so maybe he’d give me back a little credit, but Mum beamed like I’d given her an unsolicited hug. To Ned, I said, “Any reason I can’t take these into the music room?”
    He feigned a scolding tone. “If Miss Persie finds one tiny smudge of dusty sugar on that piano, you’ll hear about it for the rest of your life. Here.” He handed me a glass of San Pell, two-thirds full, with a submerged lime wedge. “Don’t spill one drop!”
    There was a table with coasters in the music room, so I set my water and plate down, ate two biscuits, wiped sugar from my fingers, and perused the CD collection. It was massive. Everything from Tantric Buddhist monks to Tippett. There was also an area devoted to less erudite recordings. It seems BM—and perhaps Miranda? —enjoyed the popular music of the 1980s. Plus The Beatles, of course. Too soon, I’d finished the plate of biscuits. If it hadn’t been for the dinner Ned and Mum had planned, I’d have gone looking for more. I turned away from the CD rack I’d been browsing—and nearly dropped the plate.
    Persie had come in, very quietly, and she was sitting on the piano bench, facing me with her side towards the keyboard. I did my best to hide my fright. “No Anna?”
    â€œShe has today off. It’s not the right schedule.” Probably compensation for the tantrums she had to deal with