‘Daddy lets me ring my friends,’ he said scornfully, pointing to a post-it on the kitchen pin board with the names of his three oddball mates and their phone numbers.
‘Yes, but it might not have been convenient.’
‘You would say no. And it is convenient.’
It was certainly very convenient for Liam’s mother, leaving her childfree and entirely at leisure for hours. Kenny had marched off triumphantly to tell Seb the news, and I could hear thumping and ear-piercing screams as they rough-housed together in his bedroom, followed by a sudden silence that I guessed – correctly – meant that one of the coke cans in the room had been knocked over and was making another brown circle on Seb’s already disgusting carpet.
The doorbell rang: Liam’s mother wasn’t wasting any time. ‘When shall I pick him up? I’m passing this way about six, would that be okay?’
Six o’clock. Nearly four hours. Passing this way? She only lived three minutes’ drive away for heaven’s sake. ‘Fine,’ I beamed, and watched her practically skip back to the car.
Kenny and Liam were jumping on and off the sofa, fighting with plastic swords that Liam had brought with him, their shrill screams clawing at my head. I bundled them into the car and headed for Bounceland, where I let them bound off while I sat down with my piano teaching book and fended off a sticky-nosed toddler, a couple of plastic balls and a confusing mixture of playbacks of Sarah’s smile and Alejandro squeezing me.
Jez rang to say they’d arrived and were about to go for lunch at a quayside restaurant.
‘We meaning?’
‘Elizabeth, Sarah, Yiorgos and his son Ioannis,’ he said, sounding slightly impatient. So she was there. I felt myself go cold all over.
‘What about Elizabeth’s husband?’
‘Robert’s in England. He isn’t involved with the business anymore. I told you that.’
‘You never told me they had a daughter.’
‘Didn’t I? I’m sure I did. Oh, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you on Tuesday evening. Oh yes – forgot to tell you – Dad and the new girlfriend said they’d have Kenny for Monday night and take him to school in the morning. Make it easier for you.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘So where are you now?’
‘Well... just about to go to –’
‘Yes, but where are you?’ I wanted to know whether he was in a hotel or staying with Elizabeth, something that hadn’t been made clear and suddenly seemed important.
He gave me a difficult Greek village name. This prompted some female laughter, which then became muffled.
‘Who’s that laughing?’ I asked.
‘Well we’re all just going off to the restaurant. I don’t know – probably Sarah. Got to go now, we’re starving and the food will take forever.’
I couldn’t hear any other voices. Would the two Greek men and Elizabeth just stand there in silence while he called? I didn’t know about the Greeks, but Elizabeth... Before I could ask anything else he was promising to call again the next day and was saying goodbye.
We got back to an empty, un-alarmed house. No note. I looked around the house for clues: air thickened with after-shave, his hair gel pot with the lid off, cupboard open, hangers on the floor together with a bundle of clothes. The mound of school bag contents looked untouched. On his desk there was an open history folder, a pencil and a half empty glass - but it looked a bit staged. The Dancia leaflet had moved to the bedside table.
He’d obviously walked to the station and gone to Brighton, in time to get tanked up on the beach before queuing outside Dancia. He must have got some money from Ollie’s bottomless wallet, or taken some from one of my bags. I would now have to pick him up at eleven on the seafront with Kenny in the car in his pyjamas – a Kenny initially grumpy and immovable, and then maddeningly fully awake for some hours afterwards.
I phoned. I texted. I phoned again. No reply, just his idiotic, drawling message.
Liam’s mum came and took him away, promising a ‘return match’ that I knew would be a long time coming. Then Kenny was showing me the television papers, pointing to a programme about a pig farmer.
‘You’ve got the wrong day. See? It says Thursday. It’s Saturday today,’ I said, taking the papers from him to look for something wholesome I could put him down in front of while I made his supper. Instead I noticed there was an hour long documentary about an English boy going to train with the Kirov Ballet. Ten o’clock: just before I’d have to be setting off to collect a hormone-infused, sweaty and ungrateful Seb.
I asked Kenny if he knew how to use the DVD recorder. He looked uncertain but flattered to be asked. We tried for ages, but there were just too many options on too many controllers. I asked him if the video still worked, but he said it was bust and by his anxious face I guessed that he’d had something to do with its demise. I rang Emma to see if she’d record the programme for me, but she was out. I tried Ollie’s parents – perhaps they could pick up Seb and drop him back. But Ollie wasn’t going to Dancia this time; he’d gone to Crawley to see a film with his new girlfriend, his mother proudly informed me. Implying, of course, that her son had grown out of the need to ‘grind’ with the thonged and tummy-baring girls of Brighton. And that’s when I decided.
‘Get train home after and walk from station,’ I texted.
‘D wd be cross,’ he replied.
‘D not here. Can’t get you. Should have asked before you buggered off.’
‘U r such bitch.’
‘U r such selfish idiot.’
Sorted. I was going to spend some quality time with Kenny before putting him to bed, enjoy the documentary, put some more music on my iPod. Seb’s grouchy arrival home at around midnight was a long way off, and until then I was going to relax. I opened a bottle of wine.
‘That’s Daddy’s wine bottle.’
‘Daddy’s not here, he told me to drink it for him. Shall we watch something after supper?’ He looked doubtful. He reminded me that I didn’t understand Star Wars and that he and Daddy were watching the films in order. I ran through the names of some other films, but he just stood there shaking his head. No, he didn’t want to play Top Trumps because he and Daddy were half way through a game. No, he didn’t want to do a picture, because he liked Daddy to help him, because he does pictures for-a-living. Not very often, I wanted to say. No, he didn’t want to play the piano again, because he wanted Daddy to listen next time. No, he didn’t want me to read to him, because I wouldn’t be able to do the voices as well as Daddy did. I objected to this, saying he hadn’t even let me try the voices, and anyway, it was me that bought him that series of books, after spending ages in the bookshop looking for stories about boys with magic powers. At that point he looked at me, and, showing the empathy that he’s not supposed to have, came over and hugged me before wandering off to play a complex and private game with his Dr Who figures.
I wondered, not for the first time, whether I was cut out for motherhood. I thought of Emma and her mixture of pride and sadness after the not-frequent-enough visits from her grown-up offspring. That happy state of affairs seemed a long way off or impossible; my boys were so complex that I reckoned I was probably committed to an indefinite sentence of anxiety.
The documentary was very interesting, but I couldn’t help feeling depressed by the self-discipline and optimism of the 16-year-old boy. When it was over I rang and texted my own dancing teenage boy, if you can call it dancing, reminding him to go straight to the station and not miss the last train. I wasn’t expecting a reply: he was good at making us worry when he felt we deserved it.
I drank too much wine and started feeling sorry for myself. It didn’t matter what I thought about, it made me miserable: the tedium of work, Jez having dinner and heaven knows what else with Sarah, Alejandro enjoying a relaxing evening with Jessie, Seb’s self- destructive and inconsiderate behaviour, Kenny’s exclusive admiration for Jez. I settled down to add some music to my iPod, but the internet was down. So I just sat there, half watching the Great
Pas De Deux DVD, half watching the clock come round to eleven fifteen. Eleven thirty. And then I must have nodded off, because I was woken with a start by the doorbell. The clock said just gone midnight.
I remember thinking the person I could see through the bobbly glass wasn’t tall enough and was too darkly dressed to be Seb. I opened the door, expecting to be thanking a harassed parent who’d brought him home. But it was a policeman.
‘Mrs Firth?’ I was too shocked to answer. ‘Sebastian’s mother?’
‘Yes... where is he?’ I asked, with the sensation of ice running through my veins.
‘He’s in the car with my colleague. He’s okay, but I wanted to have a word with you first. Can I come in?’
He followed me into the living room and sat down. I saw him take in the empty bottle next to my wine glass.
‘We found Seb and his two friends intoxicated on the beach. Are you aware of your son’s drinking?’
Was he aware, I wondered, of a 15-year-old boy that didn’t drink? ‘Well, yes, obviously we try to discourage it.’
‘Where does he obtain his alcohol?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, beginning to feel slightly irritated.
‘Have you asked him? Doesn’t it concern you?’
I would have liked to explain that we had to be selective over our concerns. Beers would go missing, he’d thrown up at a couple of friend’s parties, but, in the scale of things, drinking was a minor issue. The man probably had two little primary school kids tucked up in bed with their teddies at home, I thought. He has no idea.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, trying to read what he was writing on his pad.
‘Doesn’t it worry you that he was on the beach? Have you any idea what kind of people hang out there at this time of night?’
‘He was supposed to come straight home after Dancia.’
‘Yes, so I understand,’ he said, turning the page and rubbing his chin for a moment. He shifted in his chair. ‘Sebastian tells us that you’d refused to pick him up from the club, even though you knew that he didn’t have enough money for the train.’
‘What? I don’t know why he’d say that.’
‘Well, clearly you were not picking him up from there, and you’re in no state to pick him up from anywhere else either,’ he said, indicating the wine bottle. ‘How exactly was he supposed to get home?’
I was fighting hard not to lose my temper, seething with injustice. But I was also aware that what I’d done was wrong, and struggling to understand how it could have come about: we’d always been so careful with him – stair gates, bike training wheels, forbidden internet, assisted road crossing, you name it, had always gone on for far longer than his friends’ parents thought necessary.
‘He said he’d walk to the station with friends,’ I lied.
‘And from the station to here? It’s a hell of a way.’
‘He’s done it before, says he doesn’t mind.’ He didn’t argue with this, just waited for me to go on. ‘I never said he could go to Dancia tonight, he just went off this afternoon without asking. There’s no controlling him, no reasoning with him... it’s just impossible,’ I blurted out, my throat tightening and my eyes pricking with tears.
I put a hand to my face and waited for him to question me further, but he just sat there. And then he put his pad away and started to slowly nod his head.
‘I know. It can be hell. But... you remember that awful accident-prone, wilful toddler stage, when, really, you’re just hanging in there, waiting for the child you’re going to love to emerge? My wife and I used to think the worst of the teenage years were similar: you’re just waiting for them to re-emerge. Meanwhile, you just have to keep them safe. Concentrate on that.’ He stood up, and passed me the box of tissues from the bookshelf. ‘Let’s get him in. I’ve got a leaflet in the car if you think you need support – a lot of people do, you know.’
And there was Seb, looking, for all his six feet, as anxious as that time he got lost in Debenhams when he was five. We hugged each other for a long while, arguing about who was the most sorry, and then went off to raid the kitchen. Like we used to do when we came back from his performances. We were mates again.
We’ll be glad it happened, I thought before I dropped off to sleep; we needed something to clear the air and tomorrow will be a new start. But my tears-and-wine addled brain had forgotten about the short emotional memory that, while I reeled after every confrontation, allowed him such apparently instant recovery that it was as if nothing had happened. He was like that character in Groundhog Day who has to repeat the same day, over and over – until he gets it right. And Sunday was not going to be the day that Seb would get it right: exam revision still wasn’t happening, I was bombarded by more demands to go to Brighton, and I had to listen to him effectively swearing that black was white when he denied smoking in the bathroom.
And Jez wasn’t calling.
‘Seb being pain but Kenny missing you xx,’ I texted, confident that would get him phoning. But it didn’t. I waited half an hour and then called: the mobile was switched off.
So with the phone and my mobile in my gardening trousers I let Kenny tell me what Daddy would want me to be doing in the garden and we set to work. And then, when it was nearly time to take Seb back to school and I was in the bath, the phone rang.
‘Seb, can you get that?’ I called out. No reply. ‘Seb!’ Then it stopped ringing. I put a towel round me and ran to the kitchen, where I found Kenny with the phone to his ear.
‘Yes of course I am, but Seb isn’t... yes... yes... Yes, I showed her how,’ he was saying, grinning into the phone.
‘Can I –’
‘No! I’m talking to him,’ he said, pulling away from me.
‘Well... just until I get dressed okay?’ I said, but when I came back a couple of minutes later he was busy colouring in a sheep with a blue felt pen. ‘Why did you put the phone down? I told you –’
‘Daddy said it was time to take Seb back to school.’
‘Yes but I said to hang on! Why can’t you ever listen? Don’t do that, don’t answer the phone again, you understand? I needed to speak to Daddy.’
‘Too too shouty,’ he said, stamping off.
‘Come here,’ I said, following him, but found him in his room with his duck under his arm, wide-eyed and resentful. Poor little thing, it wasn’t his fault that his Daddy... I could feel tears coming and turned to go.
‘He said he’d call you later,’ said Kenny.
I looked back at his little puzzled face. ‘Okay. I’m sorry, Kens. It’s just that I miss Daddy too. Get some things to take in the car will you? He’s right, we need to take Seb back now.’ Once we’ve done that it’ll be your bedtime, and then I’m going to speak to your Daddy and ask him what the hell’s going on.
10.
But I didn’t. After all, if there was something to tell me, I didn’t want to hear it over the phone. And if I was wrong, which was likely, he would be hurt that I hadn’t – as I’d assured him – forgiven him for what happened before and managed to trust him again; all that mutual reassurance over the years would be undone.
So I was grateful for the distraction of the busy Monday morning clinic, and pleased to be able to put Seb and Jez from my mind – well almost – as I looked forward to the evening I would be having with Alejandro and Jessie. But as I left the clinic, planning to go and practise the piano in the boardroom in my lunch hour, my phone buzzed.
‘I’m sorry Rosi but we have to cancel lesson. Will call you. Ali.’
My heart thudded. I read it several times. Told myself that it was just that something had come up. But for both of them? I couldn’t help seeing it as don’t call us, we’ll call you.
I didn’t feel like practising any more. I just wanted to get my mac and purse and take a walk, think about how to reply. As I approached the office I could hear Damian in there running through his presentation for the meeting. So I took myself off to the loo and sat there with my head in my hands. What
had I done wrong? I needed to know. It occurred to me that I needed to ask Seb and Jez this too, and before long I was crying. But then I heard voices going past the door: Damian’s polished tones and Ricardo’s slightly accented English. They were going off to lunch; I could still go and get my things and go for that walk.
I opened my desk drawer to get my purse. Next to it was a small pink-wrapped box with a tag saying ‘Thank you Rosie. Open on the train. R.’ Why on the train? Weird. Perhaps it was some luxurious chocolates that he didn’t want me to have to share with Damian. The Bach book was making my work bag very heavy. Pointlessly. So I took it out and put it next to the present, closed the drawer. But the sight of it had set me off again; I sat down at my desk and pulled the tissue box over.
‘Ah, Rosie! Did you find your present?’ Ricardo had come in and was moving pieces of paper around Damian’s desk.
‘Oh, yes thanks, you shouldn’t have...’ I blew my nose and tried to look cheerful, as if I just had a cold. Started fiddling with some folders.
‘Left my... ah,’ he said, picking up a notepad. ‘Not having any lunch? I thought you... Rosie?’ He came over to my desk and looked at me with concern. ‘Are you okay?’
I nodded.
‘You’re not. What’s the matter?’
‘Oh... I’ll survive,’ I said, quickly smiling at him and grabbing another tissue.
‘You don’t want to talk about it?’ I shrugged, took an intake of juddering breath. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk.’
‘That’s what I was going to do,’ I said, as if cross with him for not letting me sort myself out.
‘This yours?’ he asked, pulling my mac off the door and opening it for me to get into. ‘Well,’ he said, leaving his arm round my shoulder for a moment, ‘we’ll do it together. What are old friends for?’
So we took a drizzly stroll through the backstreets, bought some sandwiches and sat down in a park designed for skate boarders from the surrounding council estate. My disappointment about the piano teaching might not have been understood without explaining my feelings about Alejandro. I wasn’t ready to share my suspicions about Jez: it was just too depressing that the last time Ricardo and I had had a heart to heart – all those years ago – I was worrying about exactly the same thing. So I told him about Seb, including a more detailed account of Saturday night’s drama than I would eventually give Jez.
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