her, standing there in our hallway, taken aback by how normal she seems. But then, what was I expecting? That she’d blunder in with swollen eyes and smeared mascara, swigging a bottle of Jacob’s Creek?
While I wonder whether or not to hug her, she bobs down to fuss over Scout. ‘Hello, little man! You’ll soon be on your own again, ruling the roost.’ She looks up at me. ‘Is it Sunday your mum’s picking up Bella?’
‘Yeah that’s right,’ I mutter, as if it matters.
She straightens up, strides into the living room and arranges herself at one end of the sofa, where Scout jumps up and snuggles close, and Bella settles at her feet. My wife is a magnet to dogs. Larry, our lurcher who died last year, was the same with her. She’d only have to pop out to the shops and he’d sit at the front door, alternately whining and licking his genitals until she came home. At least I haven’t descended to that …
I perch next to her. For a few moments, neither of us says anything. The mood is so awful, so tense and awkward, we could be strangers sitting side by side in an STI clinic waiting room.
So, what are you in for?
‘So, how was work today?’ I ask stiffly, showing an interest in her job.
‘Okay, I suppose,’ she replies flatly.
Well, I’m not okay, I want to shout. I’m not fucking okay at all. I rake back my hair from my clammy forehead.
‘Where’s Flynn?’ she asks.
‘Upstairs. I thought maybe we could have a chat first, just so we can work out what we’re going to say—’
‘Nate, I told you already, I really want him to be here too. I think that’s fairer. Don’t you?’
‘Yes, all right.’ Just agree to everything she says and maybe this’ll blow over.
She turns towards the living room door. ‘Flynn?’ she calls out pleasantly. ‘Could you come downstairs please, love?’
‘Darling, I just want to say, we don’t have to do this,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry for, well, whatever it is, but—’ I break off. Flynn’s footsteps are audible on the stairs, and he appears, hair rumpled, eyes rather sore-looking and pink. Oh, God, he’s been crying. No one likes seeing a small child upset – but it’s worse when they’re older, as it’s generally rarer and suggests something more serious.
Flynn and his mum fling their arms around each other and hold each other tightly. ‘Oh, darling,’ she murmurs.
‘Mum,’ he croaks. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, sweetheart, as long as you are …’ There’s no awkward ironing-board hug this time.
After what feels like a week they peel apart, and both settle on the sofa, jammed together, while I perch on the far end and stare at my shoes. And out it all comes:
‘The thing is, Flynn, love, I’ve decided me and Dad aren’t right together anymore. I know this is so hard for you to hear, but I want you to understand that it’s nothing to do with you. It’s about me and Dad …’
Flynn nods mutely. He is actually letting her hold his hand. I haven’t been allowed to do that since he was about eight years old.
‘We’ve, I don’t know – grown apart over the years, I suppose,’ she continues, with only the slightest tremor in her voice, ‘and I haven’t been happy for quite a long time. I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I could stay, pretending everything’s fine, until you leave home and have your own independent adult life.’ She stops, blinking rapidly, and clears her throat. ‘But that would be dishonest, wouldn’t it? To you, me and Dad?’
She addresses Flynn throughout all of this. I might as well not be here. I am just a passive observer.
‘Yeah,’ Flynn murmurs, ‘I s’pose it would.’
‘So I need to be true to myself,’ she goes on, ‘which means I’ll be staying at Abby’s for a while, then I’ll probably look around for a flat of my own …’
Oh, Jesus God. My heart is banging so hard it feels as if it could burst out of my chest.
‘… which of course you’ll be welcome to stay at any time. You’ll have your own room there, it’ll be your home too …’
Our son nods, lips pressed together, as Sinead continues: ‘I hope you understand why I’m doing this, honey. I’m sorry I won’t be here with you all the time, but this is your home, it’s where you belong – with Dad and Scout.’
‘Yeah,’ Flynn says in a gravelly voice. He’s being brave, so bloody brave it rips at my insides. Even braver than when he went for surgery when he was nine, to improve his gait, and lay there with one hand tightly clutching mine (maybe that’s the last time we held hands?), the other stuffed into his beloved Mr Fox glove puppet, just before he was given the general anaesthetic. Although he’d long since given up on taking Mr Fox everywhere, on this occasion I’d suggested the puppet might like to come along too. Flynn had agreed that that was an excellent idea. I knew he was scared about ‘going to sleep’, although he was determined not to show it. His jaw was set firm, the small hand gripping mine slick with sweat. Sinead had waited outside the operating theatre as she couldn’t face seeing him go under.
‘Nothing’s going to change, Flynn,’ she explains now. ‘You can still phone or text me any time, and come over every day if you like – after school, maybe? Or pop into the shop and we’ll get a milkshake from that cafe across the road?’
‘That’d be nice,’ he mumbles.
A milkshake! If I’d suggested that, he’d have laughed in my face. I try to rub at my eyes surreptitiously. Actually, the two of them are so locked in their exchange, his tousled head resting on her shoulder now, I could probably have a cardiac arrest without worrying either of them unduly.
Then before I know it she is gathering herself up to leave, and Flynn has given her one last hug and shot off back to his room. I have said virtually nothing to her, and, quite rightly, she addressed her entire spiel to our son.
‘What about your stuff?’ I ask as I see her out.
‘Erm, I took some clothes and a few other bits and pieces when I came over at lunchtime,’ she replies, ‘and I’ll deal with the rest some other time, probably when you’re both out.’ I catch her swallowing hard. ‘It might be easier that way.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I reply dully.
‘You’re okay with me hanging onto a key for now?’
‘Of course, yes.’
She looks around for Scout, who trots towards her. ‘I’ll need one anyway, while I’m still walking Scout …’
‘Yeah, I guess so …’
‘Okay, then …’ A sense of awkwardness hangs between us.
‘Um, I could get a dog walker,’ I suggest, ‘if it’s easier
