The Summer Theatre by the Sea. Tracy Corbett

not about money,’ his dad interjected. ‘It’s about wanting you to succeed in life.’

      ‘And what about being happy, Dad? Doesn’t that count for anything?’

      ‘Happiness is overrated,’ his mother said, and then caught the look on her husband’s face and stopped stirring her coffee. ‘What I mean is, happiness will come later. You need to put in the hard work first, build your career. Once you’re established, you can meet a nice girl, settle down and have a family, content in the knowledge that you can provide for them. Trust me, we know.’ She forced a smile at Henry, who smiled back … once he realised what was required of him.

      The idea of meeting a nice girl conjured up another image of Charlotte Saunders. Why, he wasn’t sure. ‘Nice’ wasn’t a word that immediately sprang to mind when thinking about her. And why was he thinking about her? ‘I wish more than anything I shared your commitment to medicine, really I do. But I don’t think it’s for me.’

      ‘Then work harder,’ his mother barked. ‘You don’t just give up on seven years of medical training.’ She lowered her voice when she realised people were looking. ‘I blame your mother,’ she said, directing her comment at Henry. ‘I knew encouraging him to play around with non-academic interests was a bad idea. But would you listen? Now look where it’s led!’ She pointed at her son. ‘A wasted talent. Letting everybody down.’

      A mist of red fog descended. He knew his mother didn’t mean it. She was just worried he’d go off the rails like his cousin had done, ending up unemployed and alcohol dependent. But he wasn’t about to make the same mistake. They just needed to get off his case. He was twenty-seven, for fuck’s sake. He could make his own decisions. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You don’t need to tell me I’m letting you down, I see it on your faces every time I look at you.’

      ‘Your mother doesn’t mean—’

      ‘Yes, she does. She means every bloody word, and she’s right. I am a let-down. But you couldn’t be more disappointed in me than I am in myself.’ He dug out ten quid from his wallet and threw it on the table. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my shift starts in half an hour. Have a safe journey back to London. I’m sorry you didn’t get the outcome you were hoping for.’

      He stormed off, ignoring his parents’ protests and curious glances from the other punters. He didn’t need anyone telling him he was inadequate. Not some snooty designer from London, or his mum and dad. He was perfectly aware he was a screw-up.