‘Sit down and finish your dinner,’ I say, but he takes no notice.
‘You know, your mum and I were saying the other day that this would happen.’
My dad stares at me, over the top of his mug. This is something that really irritates me about my family. Whenever anything happens in my life, they have a good gossip about it between themselves, and then they often involve the rest of their associates as well. One time I told them that Tom had got into a fight at school, and my dad’s cousin phoned me that night to ask me all about it. I bet she’s been kept well informed about the latest goings-on, though after the reception she got the last time she phoned, I doubt she’ll contact me again.
‘I wish you’d stop gossiping about me,’ I say, and my mum tuts.
‘For goodness’ sake, we’re not gossiping, we’re just having a conversation. But your dad is right, we did think it would happen, and now that it has, you should think about letting the boy see his dad. It was one thing not having contact with Simon while he didn’t know about Tom, but now it’s different.’
‘Yes!’ shouts Tom. ‘Now he wants to see me, and he wants to do all of the things that other dads do. So, I’m going to see him!’
I guess it’s hard for an almost ten-year-old to see what a sleazeball his dad is, but I’m not about to explain. I gaze around the table, and everyone stares at me. Ugh! This is terrifying, and I don’t want any part of it. But as much as I hate to admit it, maybe my mum is right. Now that they know about each other, I can only keep Tom away from Simon for so long. It is a painful truth that Tom will probably find out for himself just how much of a scumbag his dad was and is, but I will just have to hug him close and look after him if that happens. Until then, I’ve been forced into a corner, and I can be bad cop no longer.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You win. You can see your dad.’
‘Yay!’ cries Tom, and stuffs an entire mini-Yorkshire pudding into his mouth.
A week later and Simon arrives at my door to take me and Tom out for lunch. My son wasn’t in the least bit happy when I told him that I’d be coming too – apparently Charlie the parenting guru says that Tom should have alone time with his dad – but tough luck. The only time Simon has seen his son is in assembly and on our driveway, and I can’t imagine he has any knowledge of how kids work. So, for now – and maybe forever – they’re both stuck with me.
Simon hovers in my hallway, shuffling from one foot to the other. Is he nervous? Is that even a thing in his world? Seems it is.
‘Tom is just brushing his teeth,’ I say. ‘He’ll be down in a minute.’
‘That’s fine,’ Simon says. ‘The table is booked for one, so we have plenty of time.’
My ex-lover has a George Michael stubble thing going on, smells of Kouros aftershave, and wears a shirt and tie. Who dresses that way for a Sunday lunch with a child? He does apparently.
‘Where are we going?’ I push my hair behind my ears, as if I don’t care, but deep down I’m intrigued in spite of myself.
‘I thought we could go to La Petite,’ he says, and I laugh a little too loud.
‘La Petite? That posh place next to The King’s Head in Boughley?’
‘Yes. Do you think that’s too much? I’m not used to eating Sunday lunch with a kid.’
You don’t say. The fact that La Petite sells nothing but pretentious seafood and posh pastries, is lost on my ex-lover. Tom would throw up as soon as he saw the starters, and I’d do the same when I saw the bill.
‘It’s a little too much,’ I say, and Simon’s shoulders sag. In spite of everything that has happened in the past, he’s trying his best to make today perfect. And it would be if Tom was a twenty-five-year-old, easily-impressed bimbo. But he’s not.
‘Doesn’t Tom like fish?’
‘Well, yes, if it’s dipped in batter and wrapped in newspaper.’
‘Got it.’
I can hear Tom clomping around in his bedroom. He’ll be sorting out the Minecraft characters that he wants to show his dad – so he can be just like Charlie. I can imagine the raised eyebrows if he pulls those out of his backpack in La Petite.
‘Look, why don’t we just go to the Mistletoe Inn. He likes the chicken kiev and the pasta in there, and he’ll appreciate that they’ve got their Christmas tree up so early.’
Simon runs his fingers through his hair, and then admires himself in the mirror.
‘Okay, I’ll see if I can book us in.’ He reaches for his phone, but I wave him away.
‘Don’t worry. They don’t take reservations in there. It’s first come, first served.’
Simon stares over my shoulder, and I can hear the thud of Tom’s shoes, clumping down the stairs.
‘Hey, Scamp.’
I turn to see how my son reacts to Simon’s attempts at being familiar, and as predicted, he’s scowling. He thrusts his backpack into my arms, and unhooks his coat from the peg.
‘Word of advice,’ he says in his best big boy voice. ‘If you want to be my dad, you’ll need to work on your nicknames. I don’t like Scamp, and I don’t like Sport, and I don’t like Tommy.’
Simon laughs, and scratches his shoulder.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll work on my lines.’
He winks at me. Tom’s funny attempt at being bossy has relaxed Simon, and I’m not sure if that makes me feel good or not.
‘Come on,’ Tom says, and then pushes past us, and out onto the driveway. ‘Are we going in your posh car? Charlie’s dad doesn’t have a big car like this. His is old and a horrible green colour.’ He leans on Simon’s BMW and pulls out his phone. ‘I’ll just send Charlie a photo of me next to this car. He can show his dad and make him jealous.’ My son sticks his tongue out and takes the pic. He’s enjoying today already, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The Mistletoe Inn is busier than it was when I met Simon the other week, but not so busy that we’re turned away.
‘Just grab a table anywhere,’ the waitress says. ‘I’ll bring the menus over when you’re settled.’
We find a table next to the window, and Tom throws his backpack onto the windowsill.
‘Do you want to see my Minecraft figures,’ he asks. ‘I’ve got loads and I’ll be getting more for Christmas.’
‘Minecraft? Is that a pop band or something?’
Simon hangs his jacket on the back of his chair, while Tom looks at him as though he were nuts. He’s about to tell Simon off for getting it all wrong, when the waitress comes over with the menus. My ex-lover looks relieved. Menus he is an expert with. Almost ten-year-old Minecraft fans? Not so much.
Still, in spite of the awkward start, the afternoon goes well. Simon and Tom bond over a love of watching golf of all things, and Simon promises my son – our son – that one day he’ll take him to the golf course out by the country park, and they’ll give it a go. Tom loves the idea of this, because Charlie has never been to the golf course with his dad.
Spending time with my son and the man who ran away from us was never going to be the most relaxing day of my life, but the smile on Tom’s face makes it somehow bearable. Still, I can’t help but worry that it will end in tears, and I’m already planning my revenge if it all goes wrong. Which it will, let’s face it. This is Simon we’re talking about.
My ex-lover drops us off outside the house, and Tom bounds out of the car with the words, ‘Bye, Market-Man Dad. I’ll see you again next Sunday.’
Simon opens his mouth – I’m sure to tell my son that there’s no way he can see him two weekends in a row – but Tom is already heading for the house, his head full of dad dreams and possibilities.
‘Don’t worry about next Sunday,’ I say, as I slide out of the car. ‘We’ll see you whenever.’
‘I’ll be here if I can, I promise. It’s just… difficult.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine.’
I slam the door, and head into the house before he can say anything else.
I pull the duvet up past Tom’s shoulder, and tuck it i
n around him.
‘Did you have a good day?’ I ask. He hasn’t said much about it since he got in, but I did hear snippets of his conversation with Charlie, and it sounded positive. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Mixed feelings.
Mixed feelings indeed.
Tom stares up at me with those huge green eyes of his, and his thick eyelashes whisk up and down.
He’s got such beautiful eyes.
He has his dad’s eyes.
‘It was okay,’ he says.
‘Just okay?’
‘Well, the spaghetti was nice, but the sticky toffee pudding was a bit dry. I needed more custard.’
He smiles and my heart melts.
‘We’ll make sure you get more custard next time.’ I kiss his forehead and then turn off the light.
‘I love you, Mum,’ he says.
‘And I love you right back.’
As I close the door, my mobile vibrates in my pocket. I stare at it as I go downstairs, and I’m more than surprised to see that the name staring back at me is Simon’s.
‘Hello?’
I reach the living room and close the door. If he’s about to say something awful, I don’t want his son to hear it.
‘Hey, Charlotte, it’s me.’
I refrain from telling him that I know already and instead, plonk myself onto the sofa and take a swig of wine.
I need it.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I had a good time today. Did you? Did Tom? Did he like meeting me? Did he say anything about me?’
So many questions, and I suspect that Simon isn’t interested in any of the answers.
‘He said he enjoyed the pasta, but there wasn’t enough custard.’
‘What?’
I rub my forehead. I’ve got the start of a headache, but I’m not sure we have any Ibuprofen left in the cupboard.
‘Yes, he had a great time. Thanks for paying by the way.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Silence. What now? What does he want?
‘Charlotte, there’s something you should know.’
Here we go. This is where he tells me that he’s got to move to Yemen, or fly to the moon, or leave for a year of deep-sea fishing. Anything to get away from his responsibilities. The responsibilities that he wanted just days ago.
‘I know that Tom would like to see me every week, but… but…’
‘Don’t tell me, you can’t see him again. Is that it?’
‘It’s not that. It’s… It’s Monica.’
Monica? I’m confused. What has his absent wife got to do with anything?
‘She’s back, you see. She was back when I came home this afternoon.’
A freezing chill whips its way up my spine, and lands on top of my shoulders. Why would I ever doubt that she’d slither back into our lives. If Simon notices my silent discomfort, he doesn’t mention it.
‘We had a good talk this evening,’ he says. ‘Our argument was stupid anyway – she totally overreacted by walking out and accepts that. So yeah… That’s what I was ringing to tell you.’
‘So where does that leave your son? The one you insisted on having access to. Remember?’
Simon sighs, and when he speaks again, his voice is lowered to almost a whisper. She’s there. She’s in his house and he doesn’t want her to hear him.
‘It doesn’t change anything between us, I promise. I won’t abandon Tom, and I’ll do all I can to see him and help you to raise him. I want to be part of his life, and so does Monica.’
The words stick in my ears. Once again, he says he wants to help me raise my son. The thought of Simon sticking his nose into anything I do with Tom fills me with horror, but to have Monica involved as well, is off the chart. There are many things I could say to him right now, but I’m too emotionally exhausted to get involved. All I want to do is dive into a bubble bath, and then slip into a pair of clean, fluffy pyjamas.
I ignore Simon’s comments about being involved in Tom’s life; wish him a good night, and pray I never hear from him again.
15
Monday morning is always the worst time for working in a school reception. You can guarantee that even before the gate is opened, there will be parents queued outside my office, telling me how little Harry has got nits, or Maisy hasn’t received her letter for the trip to Twycross or whatever. Then there are the phone calls, reporting absences or lateness. The calls wouldn’t be so bad if I could just concentrate on them instead of talking to parents in person as well, but no, Margaret thinks I should be able to do both things at once, and who am I to argue?
‘I don’t think it’s fair that Giuseppe should miss out on his yoga class, just because the teacher lost his slip, do you?’ A stern-faced mother with pink spiky hair stares at me from behind the glass, and I want to tell her that I couldn’t care less about his slip, or his classes. All I can think about is yesterday, and how I let Simon into my son’s life, and now him and his awful wife are going to try and take over. But instead of boring the yoga-mum with my problems, I just smile, write down her name and promise I’ll sort it out before home time. She nods and pushes her way past the hordes of parents, all waiting to speak to me.
‘Can I help you?’
A small brunette woman steps forward and smiles. She looks far too young to be a mother, but who am I to judge?
‘I’m here for the assembly,’ she says. ‘I’m Loretta, the children’s author?’
‘Oh right. Yes, okay. Just fill in the visitors’ book and I’ll get you a badge.’
I reach behind me to find a lanyard, but before I can hand it to her, I see Margaret heading out of her office, and straight towards me.
‘Charlotte, can I have a word?’
I sigh. Can she have a word? Can she bloody wait until this queue has gone down? Probably not.
‘Yes. I’ll just finish dealing with these parents, and I’ll be with you.’
‘I need to speak with you now!’ Her mouth turns downwards, showing off the jowls on either side of her face. ‘Ask one of the teaching assistants to fill in for you.’ And with that, she stomps back to her office.
Shit.
I pick up the phone and call Janet from Year One. Straight away she is pissed off that I would suggest she help on reception, as though the very idea is beneath her.
‘I’ve got work to do as well, you know,’ she says, and then hangs up the phone. The attitude on her, just because she is a TA and I’m ‘only’ a part-time receptionist. If the whole reception could be manned by robots, I’m sure that would please most of the staff in this place. Then they’d never have to speak to me again.
And talking of speaking, why on earth does Margaret want to have a word with me? I pray it’s not some kind of parents’ questionnaire that will involve hours of my time for little to no response. We haven’t had one of those since we came back from the summer holidays, so we’re probably overdue. Oh God, I hope it isn’t a questionnaire. I don’t think I could cope with that on a Monday morning.
‘Can I have my visitor’s badge please?’ The visiting author motions towards the lanyard in my hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Here you go.’
I hand it over, and the next parent steps forward, just in time for Janet to appear in reception. Her long red hair flops into her eyes, and she pushes it back.
‘I’m here,’ she says. ‘Please don’t be too long. I’ve got a parents’ reading session to organise, and a play to rehearse.’
‘Believe me, I don’t intend to be,’ I say, as I open the door and head towards Margaret’s office.
‘There’s been a complaint. A serious one actually.’
Margaret sits behind her desk, examining a piece of paper in her hand.
‘A complaint? I don’t understand. What kind of complaint? And by whom?’
Margaret places the paper face down onto the desk, and stares me straight in the eye. It’s disconcerting, but I refuse to look away. I can feel sweat behi
nd my knees, and my heels jump up and down, but I can’t let the principal see how nervous I am. I’ve done nothing wrong, after all.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you who has complained about you, but the insinuation is that you have been stealing from the school trip fund.’
My heart falls into my stomach, and I gasp. I’m aware that my mouth is hanging open, but the muscles in my face refuse to keep it closed. I’m in shock.
‘Stealing? I’ve never stolen from anyone in my life.’
Margaret reaches into her desk drawer and brings out a bundle of envelopes, full of money for the students’ cinema and burger trip. It’s the same bundle that I was counting up on Friday morning, ready for banking this morning.
‘There should be six hundred pounds in these envelopes. Broken down, that is fifty children at twelve pounds per head.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s how much there was on Friday. I remember because I thought it was funny that it should come out at exactly six hundred. For the most part, these things tend to add up to odd numbers. Y’know, with all the twenty-pence pieces and stuff. I was quite surprised…’
I’m rambling, I know I’m rambling, but I can’t help it. I can’t believe Margaret is questioning my counting skills. Is that what she’s doing? It seems that way.
‘The money in these envelopes adds up to five hundred and fifty pounds, which means that somebody has filtered off fifty – probably from the loose coins that were in the envelopes.’
‘When you say somebody – do you mean me?’
Am I being accused of stealing money from children? Yes, yes, I think I am. Bile rises in my throat, and I can hardly breathe.
‘You were the one who first opened the envelopes.’
‘I know I was, but that doesn’t mean I stole anything. No, that’s not right. I would never do that. Perhaps… perhaps some of the parents didn’t put the correct money in. Maybe they put ten pounds instead of twelve.’
Margaret shakes her head.
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