‘Christ, Mum.’ He, too, is laughing now. ‘Funny that no one’s driving up your backside any more.’
‘This is the stinkiest car in the world,’ Alfie announces. ‘I hate it!’
‘So do I,’ Hamish declares.
‘You can’t moan about it,’ Alfie counters, ‘when it came out of
your
mouth.’
‘Just throw the bag out, Logan,’ Fergus instructs.
‘No, don’t do that,’ Hamish exclaims. ‘That would be
litter
.’
‘Yeah, it takes a carrier bag two hundred years to break down,’ Alfie adds gravely.
‘He’s right, Fergus,’ I say. ‘You were saying we should be greener …’
Although the car does smell disgusting – worse, even, than the rancid milkshake carton – I can’t help sniggering every time I glimpse Logan in the rear-view mirror with his arm outstretched, still gamely gripping on to the dribbling carrier bag.
‘You’re a hero, Logan,’ I say, finally indicating to pull into a lay-by where, miraculously, there happens to be a picnic table and a bin.
‘You owe me one, Mum,’ he says gruffly, flinging the bag into it.
Later still, after we’ve dropped off Hamish and Alfie at their place and arrived home beach-tired, I land beside Logan on the sofa and hug him. Incredibly, he doesn’t shrug me off.
‘Thanks so much for today,’ I say.
He gives me a baffled look. ‘What for?’
‘For coming when you didn’t really want to, and for being so lovely with Kirsty’s kids.’
‘That’s okay.’ He smiles awkwardly.
‘And for holding that sick bag out of the window,’ I add. ‘You were a real trouper, love.’ We fall into silence for a moment, broken only by the tinny murmur of music from Fergus’s room.
‘Didn’t have much choice, did I?’ he says.
‘Well, you did actually. You could have just chucked it out into the road.’ I look at him, trying to make eye contact, but he’s focused on his lap and twisting his fingers together awkwardly. ‘Are you okay, darling?’ I ask.
He presses his lips together and nods.
‘Tired?’
‘No, not really.’
I frown, wondering why his mood has changed yet again when he turns to face me, his eyes large and fearful, his face chalk-white. ‘Mum … I need to talk to you about something.’
My heart lurches. ‘What is it?’
‘Um … when I was away with Dad and Patsy …’ He tails off and clears his throat. ‘They said I could live at their place,’ he adds. ‘Mum … I really want to live with Dad.’
At first I think it’s some kind of joke. Or he’s only saying this because he’s still annoyed about something – Logan can’t half harbour a grudge – like me
accidentally
checking his brother’s browsing history, or our snappy exchange about falcons. Or is it my cooking? Is he sick of my tedious batch-cooked offerings, and all the omelettes and frittatas we have to force down in order to use up copious amounts of egg yolks after every meringue bake?
‘Logan,’ I say carefully, ‘you can’t live with Dad. That just wouldn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
Because you’re my boy, and I’m not ready to let you go.
‘It’s a crazy idea. You haven’t thought it through properly …’
Now he’s blurted it out, his gaze is unwavering. ‘Yeah, I have. We talked about it when we were away.’
It feels as if something cold and heavy is pressing down on to my chest. ‘But why would you want to?’
‘Because of space.’
‘What? You have your own bedroom here, what more d’you need? And I’ve just spruced it up and been to Ikea—’ I stop abruptly. How pathetic does that sound, expecting him to be excited by a new chest of drawers?
Logan frowns. ‘Yeah, I know. But, y’see, Dad and Patsy have the barn and they’re gonna do it up for me. So it’d be like my own place. It’ll be amazing.’
‘You want to live in a
barn
?’
‘Yeah, but it won’t be, like,
barn-ish
. It’ll be all done out like a kind of open-plan apartment. We planned it all on holiday.’
I blink at him, momentarily lost for words. This is my boy, who can barely make toast without incinerating it, and still fears crusts. ‘I … I still can’t understand why on earth you think this is a good idea.’
‘Oh, it’ll be great,’ he exclaims, brightening. ‘I mean, it’s a bit of a state, Dad says, and there’s a horse in it at the moment—’
‘They don’t have a horse!’
‘It’s Patsy’s friend’s but it’ll be gone by the time I move in.’
‘Well, that’s good to know,’ I snap, sensing my cheeks blazing. ‘At least you won’t be bedding down on hay with Dobbin, I suppose we should be thankful for
that—
’
‘Jeez, Mum.’ He tuts loudly, clearly amazed that I’m not wholly supportive of this startling development.
‘And you’d do your own cooking, would you?’ My voice is shrill but I can’t help it. ‘I mean, what would be the set-up in this
barn
?’
Logan shrugs, clearly not having considered this. ‘S’pose I could do my own thing when I wanted to and have dinner with them when I couldn’t be bothered.’
‘I’m sure that’d go down well,’ I snap. ‘Anyway, never mind that. I can’t believe Dad didn’t mention this when he brought you home. Why hasn’t he spoken to me about it? Doesn’t he think I should know what’s being planned here? It seems crazy, Logan, that he’s going to be solely responsible for you when he could barely get it together to go to a bloody parents’ evening, and even then it’d be all about being charming and matey with the teachers instead of actually finding out how you were getting on with—’
‘Why are you so mad at Dad?’ he blasts out.
‘I’m not! Well, yes, I am, Logan, because of this. A plan concocted without anyone thinking I might possibly need to know about it.’ My heart is pounding, my chest juddering visibly with every beat.
‘He knew you’d be mad,’ Logan murmurs. ‘That’s why he didn’t say anything.’
‘Mad? Of course I’m mad! I’m your mum, Logan. For Christ’s sake – you can’t just casually say you’re moving out on a whim …’ To my horror, my voice is wobbling and my eyes are filling with tears.
‘It’s not a whim,’ he says firmly.
‘So, you’re prepared to move hundreds of miles away and leave Blake and all your friends and your school for, for …’
‘Dad can enrol me in Thornbank High.’
‘Where the hell’s that?’
‘Near them, just down the road. It’s a really good school – I’ve checked.’
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. ‘You mean you’ve studied the Ofsted reports?’
‘Um, no, but I’m sure it’s fine.’
‘Your father will have, obviously.’
He shoots me a look of disdain. ‘
Stop
getting on at Dad.’
‘I’m not,’ I say firmly. ‘What I’m saying is, you deciding it’s fine isn’t the same as finding out if it’s any good or not. Anyway, it’s completely the wrong time to change schools. It’s a different system from the Scottish one – you do know that? And you’re just about to sit your exams. It’d be far too disruptive to move now.’ I reach for his hand but he pulls it away. ‘I know I’m a pain sometimes,’ I rant on, ‘but everyone gets sick of their parents, especially at your age when you’re desperate to get out in the world …’
‘I just want to live with Dad,’ he mutters.
‘But
why
?’
Logan shrugs, remaining silent.
‘I know you’ve just been away with him,’ I go on, ‘whereas with me, it’s just the tedious day-to-day stuff – but we can go away too. I’ve got a bit of money saved, and I’ll go all out to promote the meringues more, and any spare cash can be put aside for a summer holiday.’ No, no, don’t try to bribe him …
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ he says quietly. Pink patches have sprung up on his cheeks, and I so want to wrap my arms around him and say,
What’s got into you? What is this all about really?
But he’d hate that, and anyway, I know what it’s about: quite simply, Logan adores his dad. ‘I’ll go after my exams,’ he adds, ‘so I can get settled in at my new school before the summer holidays. Dad says he can have the barn ready for me by then.’
‘You’re seriously going to live in a horse house?’
‘I told you – the pony’s moving out …’
‘Right. So what are we talking – the end of May?’ A tear rolls down my cheek, and I swipe at it with the back of my hand.
‘Yeah,’ he murmurs.
‘Are you sure Patsy’s okay about this?’
Logan nods. ‘Yeah, it’s cool.’
Fine! Go then, go and live with a woman who freaks out if her own child ingests so much as a
crumb
of meringue …
‘Dad says I can help with the business,’ he adds, ‘packing stuff up. Orders and all that. So that could be my summer job.’
‘But they already have people to do that. It’s not just Patsy and Dad putting pyjamas in boxes, you know. They have a warehouse, they employ people, it’s a major operation these days …’
‘Well, I’m sure I’ll be able to do
something
.’
‘Right,’ I say, and we fall into silence as Fergus wanders in, clutching an ancient Game Boy he picked up at a charity shop in the Highlands.
He glances at both of us sitting hunched and sullen on the sofa. ‘What’s up?’
I look up at him. ‘Logan says he wants to go and live with Dad,’ I say flatly.
‘Oh. Yeah. I kinda heard them talking about that.’
I meet his gaze, incredibly stung that this secret has hung in the air between them. Fergus perches on the sofa arm, and the three of us sit there for a few moments with the TV on mute. From outside comes the distant hum of traffic, and someone laughs in the street below.
‘How would you feel about Logan moving out?’ I ask tentatively.
Fergus pauses for a moment, as if he hasn’t really considered this. Then his face brightens as he says, ‘It’d be fine, Mum, ’cause then I’d get the biggest room.’
*
I spend the rest of the evening attempting to contact Tom, to no avail. My voicemail messages to his mobile and landline are at first restrained – ‘Could you call me, please?’ then virtually spat out: ‘Tom, I really need to talk to you NOW.’ He doesn’t phone back. He’s either torturing me deliberately, or dead.
Next morning – Monday, first day of the new term – I somehow manage to get through the whole breakfast-and-getting-ready routine without mentioning the move at all. I know it would only result in Logan and I stomping off to our respective schools in filthy moods. Instead, I try to affect a calm manner, pleased with myself for having bought mini variety boxes of cereals, as if that might possibly persuade him that it’s not so terrible here after all. Bet Patsy doesn’t have those, all coated in sugar and honey to attack tooth enamel. At her place it’ll be gravelly muesli all the way, or a dense lump of pumpernickel bread if he’s lucky.
‘Have a nice day, boys,’ I say lightly as they gather up their bags to leave. ‘D’you both have your lunch money?’
They nod. ‘Take a bit extra from the jar for a snack on your way home.’ I realise I’m trying to bribe Logan again,
paying
him to stay. As if a quid for a Kit Kat will swing it. More sugar, too. Is that why he wants to break up our little gang of three – as a last-ditch attempt to hang on to his own teeth?
Once they’re gone, I take a moment to sip the remains of my coffee before grabbing my handbag and checking my reflection in the mirror in the hall. God, I look old. Two grey hairs have appeared at the front – in fact, not so much hairs but
wires
. I yank them out and, with my scalp still smarting, try to maintain my calm demeanour as I hurry off to school.
In the office, it’s tempting to blurt it all out to Jacqui, the classroom assistant with whom I get on especially well. But she has a headstrong sixteen-year-old of her own – a stunning, red-haired daughter called Kayla – and I know she’d be so sympathetic and understanding, I’d end up weeping all over the boxes of newly delivered school photographs. And one thing you can’t do at school is cry – at least, not when you’re a grown-up. It’s a sign of weakness and children never forget that. A bunch of them once spotted Jacqui having a sly ciggie on her way home, and it’s still mentioned three years on:
‘That Time We Saw Mrs Harrington Smoking Outside the Co-Op
.’ You’d think it had been a spliff. Anyway, Tom is the person I need to speak to, damn him. How dare he avoid my texts and calls when he must know precisely why I need to talk to him? The spineless arse, hatching plans with Logan – then being too cowardly to discuss them with me.
‘His mobile must be broken,’ Viv suggests as I march home, phone clamped to my ear. ‘There’s got to be some explanation.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘maybe it fell out of his pocket when he was furrowing the land.’
She sniggers dryly. ‘I can’t actually believe Logan would rather live with them than you. Patsy sounds like such a
priss
.’
‘She’s okay. She’s just, you know – everything has to be right. She’s very particular.’
‘You’ve called their landline, obviously?’ Viv says.
‘Yes, but I’ll try again.’
‘It’ll just be a whim,’ Viv says. ‘He’ll soon change his mind.’
‘That’s what I said – what I’m
hoping
– but it doesn’t sound like it. I mean, I know he can be fickle, but he has always loved being with Tom because he’s fun and spontaneous and not an uptight old fart …’ My voice splinters.
‘Alice, you’re so not,’ Viv declares. ‘You’re a brilliant mum. God, I don’t know how you manage sometimes …’
‘… But he’s never mentioned living with Tom before,’ I cut in. ‘I think maybe it all spiralled from Blake getting his own annexe …’
‘His
what
?’
‘Oh, Clemmie had the whole top floor converted for his sole use and now Logan feels horribly hard done by.’
‘Is that what teenagers expect these days?’ she gasps, and I can sense her thanking her lucky stars that she’s never produced a child of her own.
‘Seems to be,’ I say gruffly.
Viv sighs. ‘Cheer yourself up,’ she says in a softer tone. ‘Give Giles a call, I know he’d love to hear from you …’
‘He texted actually,’ I say dully, ‘but I haven’t got around to replying.’
‘You will do, though, yeah?’
‘I might,’ I mutter, not certain that going out drinking with a twenty-nine-year-old will help matters right now.