Hurrying through to the living room, I wince at the torn strips of wallpaper. We were in the middle of redecorating when Craig moved out, and I didn’t have the heart—or the money—to continue. We bought this house together, as a project. It’s full of Edwardian character but hadn’t been touched in decades. Our plan was to transform it into the perfect family home, only we’re not a family anymore. Every bare, creaking floorboard is a stark reminder of that.
I bat away the depressing thought and reach for the phone. “Hello? Hello?” A faint click is followed by the buzz of the dial tone, and my fingers tremble a little as I dial the number for voice mail. Nick still gets nasty messages every now and then; usually I manage to delete them without him knowing. Steeling myself to hear more childish name-calling, it takes me a moment to recognize the bubbly voice in the recording.
Hi, Izzy. Sorry, I’ve just realized you’re probably at work. I meant to catch you at drop-off. Just to say Samir’s still coming for a sleepover tonight. Nick’s more than welcome, too. Adrian would love him to be there. Just get him to drop a text if he’s up for it. Nick, I mean. Oh, it’s Beth, by the way. Sorry, I hate talking to machines. Anyway, bye!
I smile at Beth’s rambling message. She seems nice; her son Adrian does, too, I ponder, feeling even guiltier about the sleepover. Slinging my parka over the arm of the sofa, I head into the kitchen, deciding to steal some of Nick’s favorite hot chocolate in lieu of working radiators. Maybe I’ll just stay at home with Marzipan, a binge-fest of sugar and Netflix for company . . .
I’m spooning the rich powder into a mug when the phone rings again, the shrill noise startling me so much that cocoa flies up, dusting my cream sweater. I brush irritably at it as I dash once more into the living room, wondering if it’s Beth calling back, mentally debating whether I should change my mind and agree to the sleepover after all.
“Surely lightning can’t strike twice, hey?” I appeal to Marzipan, who follows at my heels, mewing imperiously for food. “Like Nick said, everyone has sleepovers. It’s really no big deal. I should be more worried that I’m talking to a cat.” I dive for the phone before it can click to voice mail again, frowning now as I picture Nick’s downcast face this morning. I miss his smile; I wish I knew what had made it disappear.
“Hello? Beth?” I say breathlessly. “Sorry I missed—”
“Isobel. It’s me.”
“Oh. Hi.” A confusing mixture of resentment and loneliness rolls through me at the familiar voice. Craig hasn’t been gone long enough to feel like a stranger; every time we speak I have to mentally readjust once again to our separation.
“Everything OK?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“No reason. Just checking. Nick all right?”
“Yes. Look, Craig, I don’t mean to be rude, but did you want something? I, um . . . I’m on my way out.”
“Who with? Sorry, I shouldn’t ask. None of my business. You’re a free woman now,” he quips, attempting a chuckle.
“I always was,” I snip. “Anyway, I’m going to—”
“Honestly, it’s fine. I really don’t want to pry,” he cuts in. “I was only phoning to check you got the letter.”
“Letter?” I glance at my coat on the sofa.
“It should have arrived today. I was wondering what you thought about it. What Nick thinks. Have you had a chance to talk him through my proposal?”
Proposal? Even as my curiosity is piqued, I can feel myself bristling. I suspect Craig isn’t really asking if I’ve talked to Nick; he’s telling me I should have.
“Sorry, no idea what you’re talking about. The, er, postman hasn’t been yet.” Even though he can’t see me, I feel myself blush at my second lie of the day. But whatever is inside that envelope, I’ll open it when I decide, not my ex-husband.
“Right. The snow must be holding things up. It’s probably stuck at the sorting office. Maybe you could get Nick to call me later, then, once you’ve had a chance to chat. I should be home around eight. If you could ask him to—”
“No.” It’s my turn to cut him off, but my voice quavers a little: I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve contradicted Craig.
It’s a bitter irony that on the one occasion I put my foot down, Nick was the one to pay the price. Maybe if I’d asserted myself sooner, stopped allowing Craig to have the final say in parenting decisions . . . maybe if I’d given Nick more chances to tap into his inner strength, taste independence, figure out how to avoid the bullies—or stand up to them. Maybe then he wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital, and Craig wouldn’t have blamed me—left me.
I can see now that I was too eager to keep the peace; I so wanted my new husband to feel he had a role in our family that I got into a bad habit of deferring to him. If only I hadn’t chosen that day to finally make a stand. It broke my heart seeing my little boy sprawled on the pavement in a pool of blood and humiliation; I was crushed when Craig said I was to blame. And when Katie agreed with him, it wasn’t just my marriage that ended; it was also my closest friendship.
“Sorry?” His deep voice leaps up an octave; I can tell I’ve surprised him.
“That’s not really your role anymore,” I say, surprising myself more.
“I’m still Nick’s stepdad, aren’t I? That commitment didn’t end with our marriage. At least, as far as I’m concerned. Please, Isobel. Don’t punish our son for petty differences between us.”
“My son, and hardly petty.” I remember Craig calling me an unfit mother as he slammed out of the house. “And I’m not keeping Nick from seeing you,” I tell him honestly. “He just wants to concentrate on settling in to his new school, that’s all. His words, not mine.”
“You’ve turned him against me, you mean. You don’t want me in his life anymore. That’s why he isn’t returning my calls, isn’t it? Why he’s ignoring my texts.”
“No, honestly, it’s not. I don’t know anything about any texts.” I feel a jolt of surprise. I don’t check Nick’s phone; I wouldn’t dream of reading his messages. I set up every parental control I could when I bought him a laptop for his twelfth birthday, but Nick seems to spend most of his time either doing homework or watching gaming vloggers on YouTube.
“Maybe he’s scared to tell you. He probably knows you don’t want him to talk to me.”
“I’ve never said that to him. He’s just busy. And I—”
“Be careful, sweetheart. Breathe too hard down kids’ necks and you push them into keeping secrets. You know that as well as I do.”
“Nick tells me everything.” Immediately I want to bite back my words, cross with myself for feeling the need to defend my relationship with my son. I can hear the hurt in Craig’s voice, and I know that’s why he’s getting at me. I also get that he’s frustrated at losing contact with Nick. But it was his decision to end our marriage, not mine.
“Are you sure about that? Boys of his age don’t often confide in their mums.”
“And what would you know about that?” The taunt flies out of my mouth before I can stop it; he’s caught my Achilles’ heel now and it hurts.
“OK, look, I didn’t phone you to fight,” he backtracks swiftly.
“Then don’t.” I’m not going to let him off the hook that easily, but, in all honesty, I don’t want to fight, either. This situation is hard enough for both of us: separated yet with a child we each love to distraction—a boy who is my son and his stepson. Craig and I might have gone our different ways, but I don’t hate him; I miss him at some point almost every day, and I genuinely don’t want Nick to lose touch with the only father figure he’s ever known. But if Craig wants to stay in Nick’s life—in my life—it has to be on my terms now.
“Fine. I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll phone you tomorrow, yes? I guess I can always chat things through with Nick myself later.”
“I told you, no.” Sensing he’s about to put the phone down, I refuse to let the conversation end with Craig thinki
ng he still has a vote in what I do. “He’s, uh, going for a sleepover tonight,” I tell him, suddenly making up my mind.
“He . . . what? Seriously? Are you sure that’s a good idea? You—”
“Craig, stop.” The plea emerges more plaintively than I intended. “This isn’t your decision. And Nick’s twelve. Old enough to stay overnight with a friend.”
“Like he was old enough to walk to school by himself.” The sudden smallness of his voice somehow intensifies his anger. “And look how well that turned out.”
This time he hangs up before I can respond, and I take my irritation out on his letter, ripping it open in full expectation of finding a request to discuss divorce proceedings. But it’s a proposal for a joint-custody arrangement. I married Craig because I thought he’d be the perfect stepdad. Obviously, I picked too well: he not only still loves my son; he wants to take him from me.
CHAPTER THREE
“Hi, darling. How was your day?” I’ve left the heater running in the car, and the windows have steamed up. Over the last ten minutes I’ve used a whole packet of wipes, constantly clearing the windscreen so I wouldn’t miss Nick when he appeared at the school gate.
“Fine.” He dumps his bag in the back seat before climbing in the front next to me.
“Forgiven me yet?” I smile and lean over to give him a kiss.
“What for?”
“Oh, you know. Everything.” It hits me how many things I feel guilty about: not just for saying no to the sleepover, but also for not managing to give Nick the life I wanted for him; for his real father no longer being around; for the failure of my marriage . . .
“Yeah. Sure.” He sighs, then rests one hand tentatively on top of mine. “I’m sorry, too, Mum. About earlier. Can we still have takeout for dinner tonight?”
The simple apology, accompanied by the rare crooked smile and gentle touch I’ve so missed, almost stops my heart. “Well, the house is so cold, a family of polar bears wants to move in to the spare room,” I joke. “Stupid boiler’s chosen the coldest day of the year to die. The curse of Friday the thirteenth strikes again.”
“Yeah. And I thought it was my lucky day.”
Nick turns to stare out of the window, and I groan silently as it dawns on me that it’s exactly a year to the day since he was beaten up. I wonder if he’s remembering that, too. He never talks about it now; he’s stopped telling me about anything. Craig’s little digs earlier were closer to the truth even than he realized, and I hate that. Maybe the only way to win Nick back is to let him go—just a little. Just for one night.
“I think we make our own luck. All that Friday the thirteenth stuff . . . Silly superstition. Although I’m prepared to admit our boiler may be inhabited by an evil spirit put on this earth to torment me,” I add, desperate to see Nick smile again.
“Maybe we should go out,” he mumbles. “The café by the park does cheap pizza.”
He slants me a dubious look and I sigh at his consciousness of the frugality I try to hide from him. While Craig’s salary as a director at a banking firm used to pay the mortgage, my part-time job at a local travel agency mostly subsidized little extras. These days it has to cover everything. The one thing I won’t compromise on is Nick’s dance tuition; it takes every spare penny, and then some. But even though I can’t treat us to a fancy restaurant, I know Nick would rather hang out with his new friends anyway. And that’s one thing I can give him.
“Actually, I was thinking about what you said earlier. Tell me, is your new friend Samir really the best chess player at school?”
“Yeah. Wait . . . what?” His mouth forms a wobbly “O” as he turns to look at me.
I lean over again to press my cheek against his. It’s cool and smooth, but the roundness is beginning to disappear, and a hint of roughness at his jawline is yet another reminder that he’s growing up. I want to keep Nick safe; I don’t want to smother him. He needs to get out more, and so do I.
“Do you reckon he’d be up for a Friday-night chess tournament?” I smile, waiting for a sign that my meaning has sunk in.
“I can go? Really?” His eyes couldn’t get any wider.
“Just don’t go setting off any rockets in the backyard.” I feel my stomach flip as his face breaks into a grin; he looks happier than I’ve seen him in weeks.
“Thanks, Mum. You’re the best.”
* * *
“Have fun and be good! I’ll phone you at ten, OK?” I call out an hour later as Nick disappears inside the neat brick town house with pretty white window boxes. “Bye, darling. I love you,” I add under my breath.
“Thanks for bringing him over, Izzy.” Beth saunters to the doorstep with a smile, her two-year-old daughter Molly propped on her hip. “Adrian was buzzing when he got Nick’s text. Samir’s already upstairs. The Xbox is fully loaded. And no doubt that’s the last I’ll see of the three of them until they’re hungry.” She laughs, jiggling Molly.
“That’ll be in about five minutes, then. I’m sure Nick must be having a growth spurt. He seems to have his head permanently stuck in the fridge.”
“Adrian, too. I don’t know where they put it. They’re both string beans.”
I force a smile, but my feet are suddenly rooted to the spot. I stare past Beth, hoping for a last glimpse of Nick. For all the excitement while we packed his overnight things, now that I’m here a hundred worries flood my mind. But I don’t want to appear rude: Beth has two children; she doesn’t need safety instructions. “I’ve put Nick’s inhaler in his backpack,” I limit myself to saying. “He knows what to do, but if there are any problems—”
“I’ll call you.” Beth rests a gentle hand on my arm. “Go! Make the most of the peace. Have a bottle of wine. Watch a movie. I wish I could, but Mike’s not here, and this little madam is teething.” She kisses Molly, who offers a gap-toothed wail on cue. “Anyway, don’t let me keep you. It’s freezing.” She hugs Molly tighter. “See you tomorrow. Eleven-ish?”
“Perfect. Thanks, Beth.” I feel myself blush, noticing her puzzled frown as I still don’t turn away. From what Nick says, most of his class have sleepovers nearly every weekend. Drop and go is obviously the usual form, and I can tell Beth is surprised by my hesitation. “I know Adrian and Samir are used to sleepovers. But Nick . . .”
“Honestly, you don’t have to explain. I gather Nick had a rough time at his last school. He’s buddied up nicely with Adrian and Samir, though. They’re all in Mr. Newton’s book group. Books for Boys, he calls it. It’s like bloody Dead Poets Society revisited!” Beth chuckles. “At least it makes a change from Adrian staring at his blasted phone.”
“Nick’s the same.” My smile comes easier this time. “Well, more with his laptop than his phone. He’s glued to it. Spends hours in his bedroom doing goodness knows what.”
“I reckon I see more of Adrian on Instagram than I do in the flesh. He’s a total gadget geek. At least football lures him outside occasionally.”
“Nick hates sports,” I say quietly. Prissy dancing boy, I hear echoing in the back of my head. “And he doesn’t have a smartphone. I just got him a basic one. For emergencies, really. He, um, doesn’t walk to school by himself.”
“Sure. I get that.” Beth cocks her head, shifting Molly to the other hip. The glow of the streetlight opposite catches her eyes; they glint with kindness laced with a hint of curiosity. “Well, I suppose I’d better call those pizza delivery guys. They need to get cracking cooking our boys’ dinner.” Dark curls tumble around her pretty face as she laughs.
“Oh, of course.” I reach into my handbag, fumbling for my purse. “How much should I leave you for—”
“Don’t worry about it.” She waves away my offer. “Right, I’d best get on. See if I can shovel some food down her ladyship before bath time.”
“Sorry, yes.” I glance upward, hoping it won’t start snowing before I get home. Although it’s still early, not quite six, the sky is already black: a few stars peep dimly through inky drifts of cloud.
I shuffle awkwardly, knowing Beth is waiting for me to leave. “Could you just . . . tell Nick I said goodbye?”
“Laters, I think you mean.” She smiles. “Isn’t that what the cool kids say?”
* * *
The cool kids. Nick has never been one of those, I reflect, as Beth finally closes the door with another chuckle. Backing slowly down the short path, I look up at the front bedroom window. For a second, I think I see Nick’s face behind the glass; then a light goes out, the shadows shift, and the fleeting apparition disappears.
Stop imagining things, I tell myself, heading more purposefully along the pavement, forcing myself not to look back. Nick will be fine. Adrian seems like a sweet boy, and Beth is lovely. I’ve only recently gotten to know her, having discovered that parents don’t loiter at the secondary school gate in the same way as they did at primary school. I was thrilled when Beth approached me—doubly so when she introduced herself by saying that her son was my son’s new best friend. Nick has never had a best friend. And I lost mine a year ago.
Even chatting with Beth on the doorstep brings home to me how isolated I’ve let myself become. Work keeps me busy, and ferrying Nick to and from dance classes fills most evenings. But I still haven’t got around to picking up the gym classes and book group I gave up when I got married, after Craig insisted we had the best fun as a family, just the three of us. An only child himself, he loved the tightness of our little gang, and the peace and quiet of our new home, where we would make our own memories: us against the world.
For three years, I was thrilled to be able to immerse myself in the joys of family life, in the novelty of being a wife. After Craig left, I retreated behind my own four walls; it’s time to break out, start doing my own thing again, and encourage Nick to do the same. Hopefully the sleepover will be the start of new friendships—and the dark days will soon give way to light. But as I drive home, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve left something important behind.
The Sleepover Page 2
