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Authors: Amanda Brookfield
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En route to Theresa’s, she stopped at the off-licence in the high street. Emerging with a bottle of rioja, she caught sight of a familiar figure in a bright red bobble hat on the pavement opposite. A tall skinny girl with frizzy orange hair walked at his heels, shoulders hunched inside a school blazer that was several sizes too large. Edging back into the traffic a few minutes later, Charlotte spotted the pair again, getting into a silver Mercedes. They were laughing about something this time, with such gusto that she found herself pondering what it would have been like if Martin had died instead ofbeing unfaithful, whether the end of a marriage was easier to accept with death as its instigator instead of human failing.
There was a full moon that night, large and melon-yellow, hanging so low over the skyline that George, studying it through the upper pane of the bathroom window, imagined it cartwheeling across the treetops like a giant Frisbee. He had been commanded to wash by his mother, who had an uncanny knack of keeping track of such things even when she appeared to be paying no attention. Not a shower, a bath , she had said, as if she knew about his secret trick of running taps and splashing water on his hair when time was short or he wasn’t in the mood. He hadn’t been in the mood that night, but she had bustled into the bathroom before he had had time to lock the door, set the taps running and tipped in so much of her special bubble bath that when he got in a great shelf of foam spilled over the end on to the floor.
It was nice now, though, George had to admit, lying among the suds, safe from the annoyance of his younger siblings and the awful hubbub of his mother’s dinner-party preparations. Pattie’s mum, Naomi, had already arrived and was sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, which George had been instructed to pour for her while his mother frisked his little brothers for mah-jong tiles. They were in bed now upstairs, on pain of death not to wake Matty, who had bawled so loudly during her nit-check that she had actually puked up some of her tea. Alfie had squatted down in fascination to point out the undigested baked beans to his brothers (Matty hadn’t liked the curry), which had been gross but also sort of interesting until their mother had said if they liked peering at it so much they could jolly well clear it up.
George had sought refuge in trumpet practice, working at it far longer than he really wanted to out of fear that his mother might carry out the threat. When she had slipped into the room he pretended not to notice and restarted his piece even though it had gone really well the first time. But instead of talking about the puke, or his wrong notes, she had said, in her softest, nicest voice, that she was sorry if she had been on his case about the music exam and would he like her to organize a sleepover for the following Friday to celebrate it being over and what about Sam?
It had gone a bit wrong after that because George had said no – not to the idea of having a friend over but to Sam. At which point the motherly niceness had turned into a lecture on what Sam was going through and supporting friends in times of need, to the point at which George had wanted to say that if she was so keen on Sam Turner why didn’t she invite him over herself? He hadn’t, of course – answering back was never a good idea with his mother – and then he had been let off the hook by the doorbell and the business of helping with the wine.
It wasn’t fair, though, George mused now, sucking the sodden flannel noisily through his braced teeth, that his mum should try to make him feel bad about whom he chose as a friend. Sam had been okay once – way back – during the days when anybody played with anybody. But nobody liked him much any more. He had become a sad show-off, all the more annoying because he had nothing to show off about: how much his dad earned, what phone he was going to get,
En route to Theresa’s, she stopped at the off-licence in the high street. Emerging with a bottle of rioja, she caught sight of a familiar figure in a bright red bobble hat on the pavement opposite. A tall skinny girl with frizzy orange hair walked at his heels, shoulders hunched inside a school blazer that was several sizes too large. Edging back into the traffic a few minutes later, Charlotte spotted the pair again, getting into a silver Mercedes. They were laughing about something this time, with such gusto that she found herself pondering what it would have been like if Martin had died instead ofbeing unfaithful, whether the end of a marriage was easier to accept with death as its instigator instead of human failing.
There was a full moon that night, large and melon-yellow, hanging so low over the skyline that George, studying it through the upper pane of the bathroom window, imagined it cartwheeling across the treetops like a giant Frisbee. He had been commanded to wash by his mother, who had an uncanny knack of keeping track of such things even when she appeared to be paying no attention. Not a shower, a bath , she had said, as if she knew about his secret trick of running taps and splashing water on his hair when time was short or he wasn’t in the mood. He hadn’t been in the mood that night, but she had bustled into the bathroom before he had had time to lock the door, set the taps running and tipped in so much of her special bubble bath that when he got in a great shelf of foam spilled over the end on to the floor.
It was nice now, though, George had to admit, lying among the suds, safe from the annoyance of his younger siblings and the awful hubbub of his mother’s dinner-party preparations. Pattie’s mum, Naomi, had already arrived and was sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, which George had been instructed to pour for her while his mother frisked his little brothers for mah-jong tiles. They were in bed now upstairs, on pain of death not to wake Matty, who had bawled so loudly during her nit-check that she had actually puked up some of her tea. Alfie had squatted down in fascination to point out the undigested baked beans to his brothers (Matty hadn’t liked the curry), which had been gross but also sort of interesting until their mother had said if they liked peering at it so much they could jolly well clear it up.
George had sought refuge in trumpet practice, working at it far longer than he really wanted to out of fear that his mother might carry out the threat. When she had slipped into the room he pretended not to notice and restarted his piece even though it had gone really well the first time. But instead of talking about the puke, or his wrong notes, she had said, in her softest, nicest voice, that she was sorry if she had been on his case about the music exam and would he like her to organize a sleepover for the following Friday to celebrate it being over and what about Sam?
It had gone a bit wrong after that because George had said no – not to the idea of having a friend over but to Sam. At which point the motherly niceness had turned into a lecture on what Sam was going through and supporting friends in times of need, to the point at which George had wanted to say that if she was so keen on Sam Turner why didn’t she invite him over herself? He hadn’t, of course – answering back was never a good idea with his mother – and then he had been let off the hook by the doorbell and the business of helping with the wine.
It wasn’t fair, though, George mused now, sucking the sodden flannel noisily through his braced teeth, that his mum should try to make him feel bad about whom he chose as a friend. Sam had been okay once – way back – during the days when anybody played with anybody. But nobody liked him much any more. He had become a sad show-off, all the more annoying because he had nothing to show off about: how much his dad earned, what phone he was going to get,
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