‘I can drop you at Noah’s,’ I tell Ewan.
He’s tempted by the air conditioning in the car and it’s an opportunity for me to talk with him, in the kind of way teenagers feel safe: looking straight ahead, and not into my eyes.
‘You didn’t drive me around when I was fifteen, Mum,’ James says.
‘Stop with the driving-a-wedge-between-the-siblings crap, James.’
He laughs. He takes it well. He’s right. I spoil Ewan. I know. James looks tanned and this is his last summer of freedom before he has to decide if he’ll go to university or turn into a bum, to use his dad’s phrase. For what it’s worth, I don’t think university is what it was. All that debt, to call yourself an academic. James doesn’t even know what he wants to do with his life, but what he won’t do is follow the rats around the wheel and feed into the system. I can see him on a research vessel in the South China Sea, diving with whales and meeting a nubile Antipodean girl with blond hair and a penchant for tattoos. Oh, to have those choices again.
‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask. As if I want to know.
They both shrug at me.
I grab the keys and Ewan follows me out to the car.
‘Does Noah know what happened to your bike?’
Ewan nods. ‘I don’t want any more new bikes. I hate them.’
‘Hate is a strong word.’
He glares at me.
‘Sorry, I’ll stop analysing.’
We get in the car and set off to Noah’s, which is a ten-minute drive, but worth the effort to spend time with my youngest son.
‘Why doesn’t Dad like Noah?’
‘Huh?’
‘James told me.’
‘Oh. I don’t know.’
‘Is it because his dad got made redundant and now they haven’t got as much money as us?’
Jesus.
‘Erm. I didn’t know Noah’s dad was made redundant. When was this?’
‘Last week, by some bitch at work.’
‘Nice.’
‘Dad thinks he’s easy-going, doesn’t he? But he’s actually judgemental, especially when he’s drunk.’
I grip the steering wheel. Oh, Jeremy, I always knew there’d come a time when you could no longer hide it. That day is here, and our kids are paying the price.
‘I’m sorry.’ It’s the second time I’ve had to apologise to my children today.
‘It’s not your fault, Mum.’
‘Is Noah’s family struggling?’
‘Yeah. His mum and dad argue all the time. I told him that’s normal.’
I look at his side profile and wonder at his perception. ‘Do me and Dad argue a lot?’
‘Only when he’s drunk.’
‘It’s a mask,’ I say quietly.
He looks at me. I want to drive slower to keep him in the car forever.
‘What? Like a cover?’
I nod. ‘Your dad feels a lot of pressure and some people, well, they look for ways to escape.’
‘Run away, more like. If he wants to escape, why doesn’t he just leave?’
It stings. But it’s true.
‘It’s okay, Mum, everybody’s parents split up. Noah’s are going to, I think. At least that’s what he thinks.’
We’re there but I don’t want him to leave. He opens the door and we both hear shouting from inside Noah’s house. He looks at me.
Noah appears from behind the house and smiles at his friend. I don’t mind the kid. He gets high, I know that, but so does James. Maybe Ewan does too, but I haven’t seen the tell-tale signs like I did with my eldest.
Noah takes his headphones out of his ears and his face changes as he hears his parents from behind the privacy of their family walls. I wave.
‘Hi, Noah.’
‘Hi, Mrs M.’
‘Bye, Mum.’
They walk away. I sit in the car for a few seconds listening to the wasteland of another marriage before driving back to my own.
At home I begin mopping up water on the kitchen floor, presumably from the boys going in and out of the pool. I’ve checked on Lydia; she’s still asleep. She’s been in bed all day. I spoke to the doctor at length.
I lean over the sink and am reminded of Tony’s touch, when I stood next to his sink, in his kitchen, today. It was a brief affair, but intense. Jeremy still doesn’t know. Guilt stinks on me and I suddenly need a shower.
On my way upstairs I hear a noise in the study. I peek around the door and Jeremy is working on my Mac computer.
‘You working?’ I regret it instantly, but to my surprise, he nods his head.
‘Can I see?’
His fingers work quickly, and he hides whatever he’s been doing, just like he’s been hiding himself away in here all the time I’ve been home.
‘You don’t want me to see?’
‘Let’s have a drink, it’s Friday. How was your day?’
I’m puzzled by his mood. I follow him to the kitchen, where he gets wine out of the fridge. I bristle.
‘I spoke to a doctor about Lydia today.’ I whisper because I’m not sure if Lydia is eavesdropping. I let it hang. He either ignores me or doesn’t want to talk about the fact that if his daughter loses much more weight, she’ll be hospitalised. ‘Did you book an appointment for yourself?’ I ask, looking at the wine he’s just poured. He keeps saying he’ll get a check-up, though I know he never will.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Alex, leave it off, there’s nothing wrong with me. So, I have the occasional glass of wine.’
‘The kids have started asking.’
‘What? You’re turning them on me now?’
He slams another roadblock between us. His eyes are glassy, and I know there’s no point pursuing it. I change the subject.
‘I went to see Tony today.’
‘Monika’s probably off shagging someone, we all know that, don’t we?’ he says. He’s a stranger to me.
‘And is that what you told the police?’
‘As a matter of fact, I did. I told them she had a string of affairs and had probably finally met someone who kept her interested. Somebody even richer than Tony.’ He laughs. His words drip with resentment and envy.
‘Nice.’
‘Are you telling me you don’t agree?’ he asks.
‘No, I just think you’re quick to judge, that’s all.’
He laughs again.
‘That’s rich, coming from you.’ He points his finger at me as he speaks and I find him repulsive.
I want to hit him, but I steady my hands and go to the fridge to get some cranberry juice. I’m not drinking with him. I take it outside. Ewan’s crumpled bike is laying on the grass. In the garage there are six more and I throw the mangled one on top of the others. Alongside them are the discarded possessions of my life with Jeremy. A baby walker, a small boat with an outboard motor, an exercise machine, skis, a basketball hoop…
I sit in the garage, on an unopened case of wine, sipping my juice. It’s stuffy and the air isn’t fresh in here but it’s better than the lethal atmospheric circulation in my kitchen.