I’m stressed to the point of collapse.
‘Are you all right?’
My head jerks up, and I see Tessa lingering in the doorway.
I feel embarrassed and pat my cheeks. ‘Fine. I thought you’d gone.’
‘You’re not all right, are you?’ Tessa backtracks, perching her large behind on my desk. ‘You’re killing yourself. Staying late every night. This can’t be doing your love life any good. What does your boyfriend think about all this?’
‘Husband.’
‘Oh, that’s right. I can never get my head around that. At your age.’
‘Col’s getting used to my working habits. I used to text him if I’d be home late. Now I text if I’ll be home on time.’
Tessa guffaws. ‘Sounds about right. But how long will he be understanding for? A lot of relationships break down here. Partners get fed up of being second best.’
‘Col and I are solid. We support each other.’
‘Listen, with a caseload like yours, you’ve got to put some of them on the back burner.’
‘Tell me, Tessa – how can I put a vulnerable child on the back burner?’
Mum is visiting today. She wants to talk about Tom’s first week at school. Make sure he’s settling in okay.
Two things will happen.
She will be late.
She will criticise me incessantly.
I’ve made vegetable soup with organic parsnips and carrots, and just a little bit of crème fraîche, plus (I won’t tell my mum this) a squirt of tomato ketchup. Pumpkin seed and olive oil bread warms in the oven.
I have been up early, cleaning, scrubbing, dusting. The house looks great, actually. A real step forward. I’ve laid the breakfast bar in the big, beautiful conservatory using freshly laundered napkins and antique wine glasses.
But I know it won’t be enough. Nothing ever is for my mother.
It’s 1 p.m., and Tom waits in a clean shirt, face scrubbed, hair shiny. He tried to get out of brushing his teeth (‘I’ll do it later, Mum’), but I managed to bribe him with a fruit Yoyo and the promise that he doesn’t have to give Grandma a kiss.
Now we’re sat on the sofa, listening for the click click of my mother’s high heels.
A car slows outside. I hear footsteps, then a hard knock at the door.
This is her.
I open the door to a cloud of rose perfume and Mum’s glossy, denture-perfect smile. She looks like a Fifties movie star – red lipstick, bright green pashmina and Jane Mansfield coiffed black hair.
‘Hello, darling.’ Mum kisses me on both cheeks, leaving traces of lipstick, which I surreptitiously rub off. She glides into the house, sharp, green eyes inspecting. ‘How is my little grandson?’
‘He’s much better now,’ I say. ‘They didn’t keep him overnight in the end. They think the seizure could have been a one-off. Just some unexplained childhood thing. Tom, say hello to your grandma.’
‘Hello, Grandma,’ says Tom, back straight, knees together. ‘That’s a very nice red bag.’
‘Have they put him on any medication?’ Mum asks.
I hesitate. ‘Yes. Yes, they have. Blood-thinning meds, just in case. He’s going to be on them for the next few months and then they’ll reassess.’
‘So he’s on prescription medication?’ Mum qualifies. ‘It must be serious, then.’
‘I … yes. He’s still not quite himself.’
‘How are you settling into school?’ Mum asks. ‘Are you keeping up with your school work?’
‘Yes,’ says Tom. ‘It’s harder than London, but it’s all right.’
‘Did I mention, Thomas – I met your new headmaster?’ Mum slides leather gloves from her hands and pats his head. ‘I liked him very much. Behave well for him, won’t you? We don’t want people thinking you’re from a bad family. How are you doing in class? Still at the top?’
‘No,’ says Tom. ‘Not here. But I don’t mind.’
‘You need to work hard, Tom,’ says Mum. ‘Don’t be lazy. You were top of the class before. The headmaster is such a nice man. Very high standards. He’ll be disappointed in you.’
‘Tom has never been lazy,’ I say. ‘He’s just not competitive. He doesn’t care about being the best. That’s just not who he is.’
‘Not like his father then.’ Mum raises an eyebrow. She walks through the living room and into the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. ‘So this is where you’re hiding the mess.’
It’s true – there’s a raggle-taggle heap of objects stuffed inside the lower cupboards. Things I didn’t have time to sort through and stuffed out of the way to look tidy.
‘You’re not coping, Elizabeth,’ Mum says. ‘I knew you’d struggle alone.’
‘I’m doing my best. We’ve only just moved. You should have seen the house yesterday.’
‘You shouldn’t have left your husband. And now it’s too late.’
That last remark cuts like a knife.
‘You’re saying I should have stayed with Olly?’ I glance to check Tom isn’t listening, then whisper, ‘You know what he did.’
‘Oh, Elizabeth, children don’t always tell the truth. You hardly ever did.’
‘You should have come to court, Mum,’ I say, teeth gritted. ‘And heard the full story.’
‘This is too much for you, Elizabeth. The house. A young child. Why won’t you come and live with me?’
I hold back a shudder. ‘I’m not sure we’d get along as adults,’ I say. ‘We didn’t get on well when I was a teenager, did we?’
‘You were difficult,’ says Mum. ‘Always criticising. Trying to start arguments. And so solemn.’
‘I looked after you much more than any thirteen-year-old ever should,’ I say, meeting her eye.
Mum turns to open kitchen cupboards.
Deflect.
Ignore.
Put it in a box and let it explode another time.
That’s
