are you going to St Jude’s?’
Another head shake, causing his mop of black hair to flop into his dark, guarded eyes. ‘I’m not at school.’
‘He left last year,’ Sabrina explains. ‘Wants to pursue music …’
‘Are you going to music college?’ I ask, sensing Will shooting me a sharp look.
‘He’s doing his own thing,’ his mother explains with a resigned smile.
‘Meaning sod all, basically,’ Tommy chortles. ‘He’s studying at the college of fuck-all, then possibly graduating to the university of sitting-on-his-arse. Bloody exhausting, isn’t it, Zach?’
We laugh again, and Zach gazes at us as if we’re a collection of random strangers waiting for a bus. ‘Well,’ Will says, growing impatient now, ‘if there’s anything you need …’
‘Great, thanks,’ Sabrina says warmly.
‘There is something,’ Tommy adds. ‘Don’t suppose you know if there are any good cycling trails around here? Trail biking, I mean.’
I pause for Will to answer this time, thinking that perhaps he might like to contribute, seeing as he’s the one who zooms around parks and marshlands on his foraging expeditions. But he just stands there, mute, as if Tommy had enquired about some obscure local facility – an accordion supplier, perhaps, or a breeder of guinea pigs. ‘Er, you cycle a lot, don’t you?’ I prompt Will, widening my eyes.
‘Um, yeah, just round and about really,’ he says vaguely. Oh, for Christ’s sake. I know he’s eager to get away, but he doesn’t have to be so uncommunicative. It’s like having another teenager in tow.
‘Would you say the marshes are the best place?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah.’ Will nods. ‘Depends what you’re looking for really …’
‘Well, I guess we’d better let you get on.’ I smile brightly, realising I’m trying to compensate for Will’s standoffishness, and feel decidedly out of sorts as we troop back to our house.
‘Did you have to do that?’ Will hisses as we cross the road.
‘Do what?’
‘Interrogate the boy …’
I gawp at him as we reach our house. ‘I didn’t interrogate him. I just asked a few questions. At least I was interested. It’s better than being rude, like you were, pretending you couldn’t quite remember what a bicycle is …’
Will emits a gasp of irritation.
‘Charlotte! Just a minute …’ I turn to see Sabrina, her ravishing hair shining like copper as she hurries towards us. ‘Sorry,’ she adds, ‘I should’ve said. We’re having a few friends around for a barbecue next Saturday. A sort of christen-the-house thing. It’d be great if you and your family could come … we’d love to meet you all properly.’
Clearly, she wasn’t appalled by me ‘interrogating’ her son. ‘That’s kind of you,’ I reply. ‘We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Will?’
‘Uh … yeah,’ he says, in an overly bright voice, unable to disguise the fact that he’d rather clean our tiling grout than fraternise with the new neighbours.
*
Will’s mood has lifted by the time we’re all installed in our favourite local Malaysian restaurant for his birthday dinner (well, it’s everyone’s favourite apart from Ollie’s – he nagged to go to the Harvester and is beyond thrilled that Rosie’s best friend Nina started working there recently). ‘You should have heard Mum, grilling the poor boy,’ Will chuckles.
‘I only asked a few polite questions,’ I correct him, not minding a bit of light ribbing as long as we have a fun evening out.
Will laughs, tucking into fiery prawns. ‘You didn’t ask questions. You fired them at him like a machine gun. He was virtually ducking for cover.’ He shields his head with his hands and grins at Ollie. ‘She wanted to know all about his future career plans, what he intends to do with the rest of his life …’
Rosie sniggers. ‘Yeah. You were out there for ages, Mum. And they were obviously dead busy …’
‘… And the boy—’ Will starts.
‘Zach,’ I cut in. ‘His name’s Zach.’
‘… he was smoking in front of his parents,’ Will goes on, ‘and it wasn’t just a roll-up either.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ I ask.
‘What was it then?’ Ollie demands, eyes wide.
‘D’you mean it was pot?’ I blurt out, at which Rosie snorts with laughter.
‘Pot? Who calls it pot?’
Everyone is sniggering now as the waiter clears our table. ‘Mum does, obviously,’ Will says with a grin. ‘She thinks it’s still 1972.’
‘I wasn’t even born in 1972, Will. And what am I meant to call it?’
‘Pot!’ Ollie mimics me. ‘Look, we’re having a groovy night out! Would anyone like some pot?’
The waiter glances back and smirks.
‘Hash, then?’ I suggest with a shrug. ‘Ganja? Whacky baccy? Assassin of youth?’
Ollie and Rosie convulse with laughter. ‘Where d’you hear that?’ she exclaims.
‘In a film,’ I reply, in mock indignation, to which Ollie enquires – of course, I should have sensed the question hurtling towards me, like the thundering rock in Raiders of the Lost Ark – ‘Have you ever smoked pot, Mum?’
I sip my wine while formulating an appropriate response. Outright lying doesn’t feel right – but then, do my children need a full inventory of every misdemeanour from my distant past? Anyway, as far as they’re concerned I was never a young person. I was born a middle-aged woman forever stuffing sweaty pants into the washing machine and moaning about the loo being left unflushed. ‘I, uh … had a nibble of a space cake once,’ I say, hoping that’ll satisfy them.
‘What’s a space cake?’ Ollie asks eagerly.
‘It’s a little bun with, er, stuff baked into it.’
‘Like pot?’ Rosie giggles.
‘That’s right,’ I say in a small, regretful voice. ‘I thought it was an ordinary cake actually.’
‘Like from Starbucks?’ Will smirks.
‘Yes. A sort of … herbal muffin.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Ollie teases. ‘You knew it was drugs, Mum. You wanted that cake, I can tell …’
‘She only had a little
