FIONA GIBSON
The Mum Who’d Had Enough

Copyright

Published by Avon, an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock

Cover design © Emma Rogers 2018

Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008157043

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008157050

Version 2018-10-02

Dedication

To the wonderful carers at McClymont House

‘Your partner may not be the best person to teach you how to drive. It can be hard to take criticism from someone you love’

From How to be a Confident Driver by Dawn Campion, Motoring Books

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One: Nate

Chapter Two

Chapter Three: Sinead

Chapter Four: Nate

Chapter Five

Chapter Six: Sinead

Chapter Seven: Nate

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten: Sinead

Chapter Eleven: Nate

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen: Sinead

Chapter Fourteen: Nate

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen: Tanzie

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty: Sinead

Chapter Twenty-One: Nate

Chapter Twenty-Two: Sinead

Chapter Twenty-Three: Nate

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six: Sinead

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Nate

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty: Tanzie

Chapter Thirty-One: Sinead

Chapter Thirty-Two: Nate

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five: Tanzie

Chapter Thirty-Six: Nate

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Tanzie

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Sinead

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Flynn

Chapter Forty: Nate

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Nate

It’s Scout who wakes me by licking my face. Scout, the fox terrier we would only adopt as long as he wasn’t allowed on the furniture, and who is now luxuriating, sultan-like, on the king-sized bed.

‘Christ, boy, get off me …’ I flip over to joke with Sinead about waking up being snogged.

The joke will have to wait. Sinead isn’t lying beside me.

Strange; it’s unusual for me to not hear my wife getting up, and these days she’s been getting up all times of the night. She is easily disturbed by nocturnal noises – I really should have set those mousetraps last night – and has been suffering from, I don’t know … anxiety, I guess. Often, I wake up at some ungodly hour and she’s lying there with her eyes wide open, looking tense and afraid. Perhaps it’s hormonal? At forty-three, I think she’s a bit young for the menopause – not that I’m any kind of expert.

I just try to help. Really, I do. I gently suggested she might try herbal supplements – I’d heard Liv at work enthusing about the soothing properties of sage – but Sinead just snapped, ‘I appreciate your handy hints, Nate, but I’m fine, thank-you-very-much!’ Even so, it had been pretty shocking when she announced, a few weeks ago, that she was planning to see a therapist. All I could think of were Woody Allen films and everyone talking about their emotionally abusive mothers, and by all accounts Sinead’s childhood was extremely happy.

Did that mean she wanted to see a therapist because of me?

Having manoeuvred Scout to one side, I check the time on my phone: 6.43 a.m. I climb out of bed and pad quietly out of our bedroom and across the landing, past Flynn’s room.

No need to wake him yet. Our son’s school is on the other side of town and most days Sinead drives him there, even though he can manage the bus no problem and thinks it’s ludicrous that we want to ferry him anywhere at sixteen years old. Flynn has cerebral palsy. While most kids think nothing of it, you get the odd little arsehole who wants to start something, and there were a few bullying incidents on the bus when he was younger. Understandably, his mum still likes to deliver him safely to the door (or at least, around the corner from school, which is the closest he’ll allow). He comes home with his mate Max, who lives two streets away, so that’s fine.

Of course it’s fine. Flynn is virtually an adult. I need to stop thinking of him as our little boy.

More urgently right now, I have a strong desire to find out where my wife is. I check the bathroom – no Sinead – and head downstairs with Scout trotting along at my side.

In the living room, last weekend’s newspapers are still strewn messily across the coffee table. ‘Honey?’ I call out. ‘Where are you?’

No reply. I go through to the kitchen, expecting to find her there, sipping coffee and explaining that she just woke up stupidly early and couldn’t get back to sleep. But there’s only Bella, my mother’s sleek and regal collie, whom we are dog-sitting while Mum scales some Cumbrian mountains with her new bloke. Still dozing in her own basket, Bella wouldn’t dream of jumping onto anyone’s bed. Mum thinks it’s appalling that Scout is allowed onto ours. Judging by her reaction, you’d think we allowed him to sit on the table and lap at our soup.

‘Sinead?’ I call her more loudly this time, then place a hand on the kettle. It’s cold. Detective Nate Turner surmises that his wife has not yet made coffee. I fill it and, as I switch it on, I spot a sheet of lined A4 paper lying on the worktop.

It is entirely covered with my wife’s rather charming, elegant handwriting – albeit a little scrawlier than usual – and looks like some sort of list. A to-do list, I assume, giving it a cursory glance. Sinead is fanatical about writing things down; she reckons it’s the only way she can ‘keep on top of this family’.

I look at the list again, properly this time. At the top of the sheet, she’s written a heading and underlined it several times:

Everything That’s Wrong With You

I frown and stare at it. She can’t mean me. As far as I know, she sat up pretty late last night, probably working her way through that second bottle of Blossom Hill, judging by the empty sitting by the bin. It must be some kind of stream-of-consciousness thing, maybe triggered by yesterday’s session with Rachel, her therapist. Although Sinead is loath to tell me what goes on between them, I’d imagine Rachel gives her various mental exercises to do. She probably told Sinead to list all the things she thinks are wrong with herself.

I look down at Scout, who is staring up at me with unblinking brown eyes. ‘Is that what she pays all that money for?’ I ask him, at which he tilts his head. As far as I’m concerned, Sinead is pretty much all-round-brilliant just as she is. I have always believed this, from the night I first spotted her at the All Saints gig in Leeds (we often joke that we wish we could say it was Oasis or Blur) and she was dancing in her vest top and combats, long blonde hair swooshing around her finely boned face. My belief in her wondrousness has only increased over the years.

I look back at the list, suspecting now that I probably shouldn’t even read it, if it’s meant to be part of her therapy …

Unable to resist, I start to read:

You don’t listen to me.

You take me for granted.

You don’t consider my needs …

I frown. Who is this ‘you’ she’s talking about? Surely, it’s not me. Could it be Flynn? No, of course not. The most she ever complains about is the state of his room and his lackadaisical attitude towards homework. So who else could she mean?

I continue to read:

No effort made re us as a couple …

Christ, so it is me! I glance around, half-expecting her to be standing there in the doorway with her arms folded and a bemused look on her face. It’s just a joke, Nate! Can’t you take a joke? Of course she’s not there. I can’t even start to wonder where she is right now. On a walk, probably, although that would be weird at this time in the morning – and doubly weird that she hasn’t taken the dogs with her. She probably just needed to clear her head, I decide. Maybe she had a restless night.

Okay, so this is far from ideal, this list of my apparent shortcomings – but perhaps there’s a positive side to it. At least now I can start to understand why she’s been unhappy lately, and what made her start seeing that Rachel woman in the first place. If it’s about me making more of an effort – well, that’s something I can easily put right.

Trying to ignore the tight ball of anxiety that’s growing inside me, I read on:

You leave too much to me.

You belittle my job and show no interest in it.

No spontaneity in our lives …

Well, this seems a pretty spontaneous gesture, this summary of my crapness, but perhaps she’s been planning to write it for weeks?

Your bloody record collection …

What the hell!? Okay, I have a lot, probably something like a thousand or more, I don’t know – I haven’t counted them since about 1992 – with a definite bias towards Bruce Springsteen, his influencers and contemporaries. However, they are neatly stored in alphabetical order. Is that it? Is she sick of being married to ‘the kind of man who alphabetises his albums’ (as I once heard her remark to her friend Michelle in a somewhat scathing tone, followed by gales of derisive laughter)? No – it can’t be that. No one could object to a superb collection housed on custom-built shelves …

Your terrible attempts at DIY …

… If I say so myself, I’m pretty handy with my Black and Decker Combi cordless drill!

… and your blank refusal to get the professionals in.

Yes, to save us a fortune!

Handing me a wodge of tenners to buy my own Christmas present …

… I had no idea she was mad about that. I’d just assumed it was the most practical solution, given that I’d apparently ballsed it up on her last birthday with what she termed ‘that terrible skirt’ (i.e., the leopard print one I’d thought she’d look wonderful in).

Woolly boundaries re Flynn …

Ah, so now we’re getting to the nub of things: my ineffectiveness as a father. Clearly, I am a disaster as a human being—

‘Dad.’

I mean, what kind of boundaries is she talking about?

‘DAD!’

My head flicks round. ‘Flynn! Hi.’ I scrunch the note in my fist, like a teenager caught in class with an obscene drawing of his naked French teacher.

‘What’s that?’ Flynn peers at me through uncombed, wavy light brown hair. He is wearing the baggy grey T-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms he insists on for bed (proper PJs having long been deemed unacceptable).

‘What’s what?’ I ask in a weirdly high voice.

‘That thing there.’

‘Oh, just a bit of scrap paper …’ I sense myself sweating and tighten my grip.

‘Can I see it?’ His gaze seems to bore into my skull.

‘No!’ I shout, cheeks blazing.

‘All right! God, Dad …’ He blows out air and shakes his head in bafflement.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘Sorry, Flynn. I’m just a bit, um …’ I tail off as he opens the fridge.

‘Something smells bad in here,’ he observes, taking out the orange juice carton and swigging from it.

I clear my throat, deciding I must dispose of Sinead’s note while our son’s back is turned, which probably gives me about three seconds. My immediate options appear to be a) eat it or b) conceal it. I opt for stuffing it into my pyjama pocket.

‘Dad, I said something smells.’ He bangs the fridge door shut and glowers at me, as if I might be the source.

‘I think it’s Scout,’ I say quickly. ‘If that’s the smell you mean, it’s been happening more often since we bought the liver-flavoured food. I think we should go back to chicken …’

Flynn nods, and for a brief moment I think, well, I can’t be a complete disaster as, somehow, I have managed to resume an air of relative normality despite Sinead’s note and apparent disappearance.

‘Where’s Mum?’ he asks, pulling the lid off the cookie jar and grabbing a fistful of biscuits.

‘Er …’ I look around, as if it has only just occurred to me to ponder her whereabouts. ‘She must’ve popped out.’

‘Popped out? Popped out where?’

‘Er, to the shop, probably. Maybe for bread.’

Flynn eyes me suspiciously. I have always been a terribly unconvincing liar. ‘So, is she taking me to school?’

‘Erm, I’m not sure, but don’t worry. If she’s not back in time, I’ll do it.’

He frowns. ‘Aren’t you going to work?’

‘It doesn’t matter if I’m a bit late,’ I fib. In fact, I’m due to start at 8.30 a.m., and my timekeeping is normally impeccable – because no one wants to be kept waiting for their driving test. That’s my job. I am a driving examiner, possibly one of the most derided professions on earth, which requires me to be on high alert for the minor and major faults of the general public. Right now, my alleged faults are causing a curious bulge in the breast pocket of my pyjamas.

‘I’ll just get the bus,’ Flynn remarks, posting an entire Oreo into his mouth.

‘No, no, I’ll drive you.’

He munches his substandard breakfast, his attention caught by my lumpy pocket. I clamp a hand over it. ‘Dad … are you … all right?’

‘Of course I am. Why?’

‘Have you got, like, a pain or something?’

‘No …’

‘It’s just, you’re clutching at your heart like that …’

I whip my hand away. ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Anyway, we’d better get ready,’ I add briskly, establishing a firm boundary right there, ‘or we’re going to be late. You have a shower first …’

‘Yeah, okay, Dad,’ Flynn says carefully, addressing me now as if I am a confused and vulnerable adult he’s found wandering about in his nightwear.

With Sinead missing, and her bizarre note stuffed in my pocket, it feels like a pretty accurate description right now.

Chapter Two

The trouble with being left a note like that is that you need time to figure out what the hell’s going on. Ideally, you also want access to the person who wrote it to see if they really meant it, or just lost their mind temporarily.

I mean, my record collection! Is it Springsteen that’s tipped her over the edge? One too many playings of Born to Run? I need to know as a matter of urgency, but it seems that Sinead’s phone is turned off.

The other trouble with this whole list business is that real life must continue, which means putting on a great show of everything being normal. It’s 7.46 on a bleary Thursday morning, and our son must still go to school, even if he does have a selfish incompetent father, and I need to go to work – plus, obviously, track down my wife.

While Flynn showers, I try to keep calm and not overreact, and only call her mobile eleven times.

Hi, you’ve reached Sinead. Please leave your number and I’ll call you right back …

Such a warm, cheery voice, husky with a soft Yorkshire lilt; the voice of a woman who has always embraced life, who has reams of friends – from childhood and her art school days, and even more through being Flynn’s mum. Everyone knows her as being supremely capable, great fun, delightful company and, of course, a fantastic mother. We’d have had more babies – a whole gang – if we’d managed to conceive after having Flynn, but it only happened once. Sinead miscarried at ten weeks, when Flynn was three, and after that it just didn’t happen at all. We’re not really into ‘signs’, the two of us, but we consoled ourselves that this was probably nature’s way of urging us to count our blessings and focus fully on our son. So we didn’t go down the IVF route. Our friend Abby did, and she reckons the stress and disappointment killed off her marriage. Plus, with Flynn’s condition, Sinead and I spent enough time in clinics and hospitals as it was.

I hear Flynn emerging from the bathroom. Once he’s back in his room, I dive in, turn on the shower and take another look at the list, as apparently I hadn’t quite got to the end.

  You treat me like an idiot (i.e., always texting to remind me not to leave things on trains)

  Don’t make me feel special

  Keep referring to Rachel as ‘your shrink’ (i.e., making a joke of it and so belittling the issue)

  Constant untidiness

  Mouse issue (traps!!!)

  YOUR MOTHER!

  Refusal to pick up Scout’s poos in garden!!!

The exclamation marks are coming thick and fast now, pinging into my face like air rifle pellets.

‘Dad?’ Flynn raps on the bathroom door.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s ten past eight. I can just get the bus if it’s easier?’

‘No, it’s okay.’

‘Why are you insisting on driving me? I don’t get it …’

Because it’s imperative that you go to school under the impression that everything is normal, as indeed it will be by the time you come home this afternoon, because I fully intend to sort everything out.

‘I’m nearly ready, okay?’ I shout back. Through the door, I hear him muttering about my weirdness – the word ‘mental’ is clearly audible – then wandering back to his bedroom and firmly closing the door.

I drop the note on the floor, pull off my pyjamas and kick them, rebelliously, into the corner by the bin. In the shower I use Sinead’s posh Penhaligon’s ‘Juniper Sling’ shower gel rather than the cheap blue stuff – another devil-may-care gesture – and mentally run through as many of her complaints as I can remember whilst sluicing myself down.

The big ones – about being an uncaring, selfish arsehole – all swirl into one terrible, heady mess, and I find myself fixating instead on the more tangible matter of Scout’s poos. Okay, maybe I have missed the odd tiny deposit in our garden, down in the long grass by the shed. Or at least, they have been missed (clearly, and without my knowledge, this has become my responsibility). This matter can be easily rectified. From now on I will never again let Scout – or, specifically, Scout’s arse – out of my sight.

With a wave of petulance, I dry off briskly and check my phone in case Sinead called while I was showering. Nothing. I’m tempted to phone around her closest friends, but I don’t want to alarm anyone and, anyway, what would I say? ‘Hello, it’s Nate. Sinead seems to have gone missing’? No need for any of that.

It also occurs to me now that, because she’s gone AWOL, I’ll have to walk Scout and Bella before Flynn and I can set off. Sinead usually takes Scout around the block first thing, before driving Flynn to school, then she parks back by our house and walks to the gift shop a few streets away, where she works. On top of all that, she also pops home at lunchtime to let Scout into our back garden (naturally, she never fails to pick up his poos). Oh, God, the colossal amount of stuff she does! No wonder she’s hacked off. All this perpetual nipping back and forth, plus taking care of most of the shopping, cooking, laundry and homework supervision – and that’s just for starters. But then, she’s never complained about anything specifically before now … At least, I don’t think she has (admittedly, I find it hard to keep up with everything sometimes). Instead of harbouring all of these resentments, couldn’t she just have let me know?

In our bedroom now I pull on my white shirt and smart dark grey trousers: pretty standard driving examiners’ attire. I also text Liv, the manager at one of the three test centres I work from: Sorry Liv, running slightly late, bit of a family situation, be in asap. It sounds terrible to say this, but all three managers – and Liv in particular – are aware of the situation with Flynn, and are extremely understanding whenever something unexpected happens.

Suddenly remembering that Sinead’s thorough character assassination of me is still lying on our bathroom floor, I rush to retrieve it, shove it into my trouser pocket and call out to Flynn: ‘Just taking the dogs out. Make sure you’re ready for when I get back, okay?’

His bedroom door flies open. ‘I am ready.’ Indeed, he is kitted out in the faded sweatshirt and skinny black jeans he manages to pass off as school uniform. ‘It’s you who’s making us late,’ he adds, not incorrectly. ‘Where’s Mum?’

‘I told you, she must’ve nipped out …’ To escape his suspicious gaze, I head downstairs, and search the entire ground floor for my specs, eventually spotting them by the kettle, where I found the note. Jamming them onto my face, I summon my canine charges with a stern command – no woolly boundaries there! – and step out into our well-tended terraced street.

The sky is a clear pale blue and streaked with gauzy clouds, the air cool on this bright May morning. We live on the edge of Hesslevale, a thriving and popular West Yorkshire town nestling in a lush green valley. There are numerous charming restaurants, pubs and a cinema, and the former textile mills now house artists’ studios and craft workshops. We are lucky to live here … aren’t we? At least, I always believed we were pretty happy and sorted, and that my wife thought so too.

I peer hopefully up and down our street, willing an only slightly miffed (or perhaps even contrite) Sinead to be walking towards me. There’s just Howard from next door, striding out in baggy chinos and a faded peach rugby top with Monty, their enormous labradoodle, who has a tendency to try and hump everything in sight, hence my family’s nickname for him: Mounty. While he splatters Betty Ratcliffe’s wheelie bin in a seemingly never-ending arc of pee, Howard catches my eye and waves.

Clearly, he expects us to catch up with them for a circuit around the block. He and his wife Katrina are terribly cheery and gung-ho, and we often chat over the fence that divides our adjoining back gardens. I shouldn’t moan about having friendly neighbours. However, thankfully, there’s no time for neighbourly chit-chat now, not when there’s school and work to get to, not to mention about eighty-five personality defects for me to address. I raise a hand in greeting, noticing with relief that Sinead’s silver Skoda is parked on the corner – suggesting that she hasn’t gone far – and start walking briskly in the opposite direction to where Howard is waiting. Unfriendly, perhaps, but preferable to keeping up the everything-is-normal facade.

The dogs and I trudge on. As Bella stops to pee, I glance down at Scout. He keeps looking up at me, intently, as if he knows. ‘How can she stand being married to me if I’m so awful?’ I ask him, consumed by a wave of self-pity. Scout just hunches his back in that familiar way, and squats to do his business. I’ve snatched a bag from my pocket and bagged up his deposit before it’s barely hit the ground.

As we recommence our walk, I try Sinead’s number again. Still voicemail. Where are you? I text her. What’s going on? Right now, I don’t know what else to say. I just need to get home and cajole Flynn into having a proper breakfast (i.e., not just Oreos), but then, should we really be policing these things now? Of course, if Sinead had been there, he’d have had a bowl of cornflakes, some granary toast, fresh fruit salad and his orange juice in a glass and not just slugged straight from the carton.

In a driving test, you are allowed up to fifteen faults (what we call ‘minors’). One serious fault – a ‘major’ – and you’ll fail. I’d consider the woolly boundaries thing – in fact, most of the points on her list – to be minors, but who am I to know? The main thing, I decide as the dogs and I troop back to the house, is not to panic. Sinead probably just needs some space, in order to think things over, so I won’t call her again until her break. On the rare occasions I’ve popped into the gift shop where she works – Tawny Owl, or whatever it’s called – it’s been serene and peaceful, so hopefully she’ll be in a better mood by lunchtime. In the meantime, I’ll drive Flynn to school – he doesn’t need to know anything about this – and then onwards to work.

Once I’m there, I’ll act normal and be the conscientious examiner I am paid to be, just as I have for the past decade, after a couple of years of working as a driving instructor, when it had become apparent that my playing in bands, and teaching kids to play guitar, just wasn’t bringing in enough regular cash. That was okay; I’d given music a decent shot and prolonged my adolescence more than most people manage to get away with. Flynn was just four, and I was thirty-one, and it was high time I grew up. It had always made sense for Sinead to be at home full-time to give Flynn the time and attention he needed.

Plus, I’d enjoyed driving various bands around over the years. I’d loved the banter and camaraderie and, yes, even the farty vans and interminable all-night journeys punctuated with bleary service-station stops. Gallons of bad coffee and oily sausages and eggs: it had all been huge fun, but I was ready for a change, and Sinead had often commented about what a courteous, unruffleable driver I was (looking back, could that now be perceived as a fault? Would she have preferred a screaming maniac with scant respect for The Highway Code?).

It was her encouragement that had prompted me to sign up for driving examiner training. ‘You’d be perfect for it,’ she’d insisted. ‘You’re so polite, so well behaved and law-abiding.’

Is that what’s wrong, a vital point she omitted from her list – the fact that I’m a tedious bore, lacking the nerve to break speed limits or negotiate a junction without indicating at the appropriate time? Would I seem more desirable – sexier, I suppose – if I drastically reduced my mirror usage and constantly lambasted other road users with the horn?

I pause at the privet hedge a few doors down from our house. While Scout and Bella are tinkling in tandem, I pull that wretched note out of my pocket. I read it all again, every damn word, feeling sicker at every line. As I shove it back into my pocket, I reach for my phone for the umpteenth time. But there’s no reply to my text; no ‘Sorry, I just went a bit mad there but don’t worry – I’ll be back home very soon.’

Out of habit, I tap my email icon. As the messages roll in, I spot one from her, sent less than an hour ago at 7.40 a.m:

Nate, I assume you’ve found my note by now. At least, I hope it’s you who found it and not Flynn. I’m sorry if it’s shocking but I had to tell you how I felt. I didn’t know what else to do. It’s just got so bad and you’re not hearing me. I have tried to talk to you but you won’t listen. I’ll be in touch soon, and of course I’ll spend time with Flynn and talk things through with him. It’s important that he understands that none of this is his fault.

I know we’ll be okay eventually. We’ll still be Flynn’s parents together and do the job as well as we possibly can, just as we have always done. He knows we love him and that’s never going to change. In time, I’m sure the three of us can work out the practical issues. I know it might seem alarming right now, but when you look at Flynn’s friends, it’s hardly unusual to have divorced parents—

‘What the fuck?’ I blurt out loud.

So now you have read all my reasons, my wife concludes, I hope you’ll understand why I have been so unhappy lately, and why I am leaving you.

I’m sorry, Nate.

Sinead

Chapter Three
Sinead

I have done an unspeakable thing. I have left my child. It hadn’t been my plan to do this; at least not last night after a shitload of cheap white wine. But then, something had to happen.

Installed at my friend Abby’s across town now, I just wish I could erase the image in my mind of Nate’s horrified face when he discovered my list this morning. He had no idea how bad things were. The only person who really knew was Rachel, my therapist.

Yesterday, after work, I sat in her small, sparse room with its brown nylon carpet, trying to figure out whether my marriage was definitely over. Was it really that bad? Or, after nineteen years together, was this just what being married was like? Rachel – or ‘that Rachel woman’, as Nate tends to refer to her – tucked her shiny black hair behind her ears and clasped her hands primly. ‘You might find it helpful to write down all the aspects you’re unhappy with,’ she suggested, ‘and then all the good things too.’

‘The aspects of what?’ I asked.

‘Well, of Nate and you. Of your relationship.’

I’d first come to see her six weeks ago, having googled ‘therapist’ and booked an appointment simply because I was sort of unravelling and the voice on her answerphone sounded kind. I’d deliberately chosen someone based in Solworth, rather than Hesslevale – I didn’t want to keep running into her in our local Sainsbury’s. And so I went along, dry-mouthed and nervous, anticipating an older woman full of wisdom, with an instruction book for life. I hadn’t expected to be greeted by a chic young thing in red lipstick and a short black shift with a Peter Pan collar, who probably considered Britpop to be ‘history’.

‘Writing a list is like talking to a friend,’ she explained. ‘It can help to clarify your thoughts and work through complex emotions. It’s a way of distilling the very essence of your togetherness with Nate.’

‘I’m not sure there’s anything left to distil,’ I murmured.

‘Of course there is,’ she insisted, ‘and this exercise will help you to identify what’s still there, and worth saving, underneath the pressures and resentments that clutter up our lives.’

I nodded, trying to process this. I’d been feeling awful for the past year or so: lost and alone, as if I was just going through the motions of getting through each day. Friends had listened as I’d tried to explain how I felt – but there’s only so much you can go on before you start to imagine they’re glazing over. Anxiety, depression or whatever it was; these things happened to other people, I’d always thought. As a younger woman, I’d always been pretty happy and optimistic, the last person I’d have imagined to end up feeling this way. And so I’d seen my GP, a kindly woman who knew all about the stresses we’d been through with Flynn over the years, who said, ‘I think you need a helping hand, Sinead, just to ease you through this rough patch.’ She prescribed an antidepressant that had made me feel as if I was viewing the world through net curtains, and killed off my libido stone dead. I’d swapped pills for therapy – and so there I was, blinking back tears in front of a woman who probably has a Snapchat account.

‘So, what should I do with this list, once I’ve made it?’ I asked. ‘I mean, should I show it to Nate?’

Rachel tipped her head to one side. ‘What do you think?’

She often does this, batting a question straight back at me.

‘I don’t know,’ I murmured. Sixty pounds an hour, I paid her. Couldn’t she tell me what to think?

She cleared her throat; my time was nearly up. Age-wise, I’d put her at thirty tops. What could she possibly know about marriage and love? ‘The important part is putting it all down,’ she replied, ‘in writing.’

And that was that. As far as Rachel was concerned, as long as I’d written the darn thing, it didn’t matter what I did with it: I could use it to line a budgie’s cage – if we had one – or set it on fire. I handed her my debit card, which she popped into the slot of her little machine. In went my pin number, as if I’d just done a grocery shop. I almost expected her to ask if I had a Nectar card.

That was hard-earned money I’d just spent. A whole day’s earnings in the shop, come to think of it. It could have bought new trainers for Flynn, the ingredients for a week’s worth of dinners or – what the hell – several bottles of industrial cheap white wine from Londis, the kind Nate calls ‘lady petrol’. ‘Fancy a fine vintage from L’Ondice tonight, darling?’ he used to ask in a faux-plummy voice, in the days when we still joked around …

When we still laughed and had fun …

When I still loved him madly and regarded him as my best friend in the world. Nate Turner, my soulmate: the brightest, kindest, funniest – and sweetest – man I had ever met.

And now?

I know he’s a hardworking man, and a good dad; we function together, but that no longer feels like enough. How can I be expected to love him when he barely registers my feelings?

Rachel had turned to her laptop and tapped something quickly. ‘Gosh, I’m busy next week. Could you do Thursday, Sinead? Same time?’

‘That’d be great,’ I replied, flashing a smile as I trotted out of the therapy room in her warehouse flat, as if we’d just got together for our regular coffee and it was the highlight of my week.

It was Flynn I was thinking about on my drive home, and what he’d make of me seeing a therapist (I still can’t quite believe I have one. It feels as bizarre as if I were to say ‘my butler’). I’ve been vague about it, muttering about staying late at the shop to help out Vicky, my boss – not that he’s particularly interested in what I get up to. But I know he’d be shocked if he knew where I’d really been going.

I realise it’s indulgent, and that when I describe my life, it seems like I have everything I could possibly want. I am forty-three years old, with a husband, a son and a job that doesn’t stress me terribly – and of course people have it far worse than I do. Hesslevale is a popular, family-oriented town – the kind of place where people get together and create vegetable gardens on waste ground, for anyone to enjoy. You can barely move for artisan roasted coffee and poetry readings, and I’ve found myself being wrestled into screen-printing workshops and giant community knitting projects, virtually against my will. Thankfully, our town still retains a slightly shabby edge, which prevents it from toppling into unbearable tweeness; there’s a couple of burger joints, and a noodle bar (‘Canoodles’) that no one I know has ever ventured into. It’s been a wonderful, supportive and friendly place in which to raise our son.

The trouble is, somewhere along the way I have stopped loving his dad.

Write down all the aspects you’re unhappy with …

Did Rachel really mean all of them, or just the big stuff? I’d switched on the car radio in my temperamental Skoda, trying to decide whether the whole therapy business was a colossal waste of time and money. I’d spent £360 so far, and she’d basically told me to make a list. The whole drive home, I started to think of specific reasons why I was unhappy, and where on earth I’d start if it came to writing it all down.

As I’d parked up, another disturbing thought had hit me: my mother-in-law, Judy, was dropping by that evening. The realisation caused me to leap out of my car, hurry to L’Ondice at the end of our road, and virtually hurl myself at the wine fridge at the back.

‘Oh, you’re lucky to have caught me,’ Judy announced, eyeing my clinking carrier bag as I strode into our hallway five minutes later. ‘I’m just leaving, love. What a pity …’

‘Such a shame,’ I agreed. ‘I’m so sorry!’ We hugged briefly, and my gaze met Nate’s over her shoulder. He was wearing the nervy expression I’d become accustomed to seeing after I’d had a session with Rachel. I caught him scanning my face for clues. ‘I thought you were staying for dinner?’ I added, greeting Scout as he hurtled towards me.

Judy shook her head. She wears her silvery hair in a pixie crop, and was kitted out in her go-to attire of chambray shirt and navy chinos. As rangy as a racehorse, she exuded no-nonsense chic. ‘I’d love to, but I really don’t have the time. Still so much to do before the trip.’ She frowned. ‘Shame I’ve missed seeing Flynn …’

‘Yes, he’s out at the cinema with friends.’ I paused. ‘I hope you have a fantastic trip. Has Raymond been hill-walking before?’

‘No – but he’ll be fine,’ she said firmly. Having divorced Nate’s late father when Nate was a teenager, Judy is partial to setting tough physical tests whenever she starts seeing anyone new. You’d never guess she is seventy-two; her face is virtually unlined, her blue eyes bright, her figure enviable. ‘Anyway, how was your … appointment?’ she asked as she pulled on her jacket.

‘Appointment?’ I frowned, confused. Surely Nate hadn’t told her about Rachel?

‘Nate said you had an appointment after work.’ She studied me, unblinking. ‘Nothing … worrying, I hope?’

‘Oh, no, not at all!’ I felt the blush whoosh up my face.

‘Not … ill are you?’ She tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a glimmer of hope.

‘No, no – I’m absolutely fine.’

Her stare was piercing. Right up to retirement, Judy was a science teacher, and I bet no one lit their farts with a Bunsen burner in her classes.

‘I, er, just had a massage,’ I fibbed.

‘A massage?’ she gasped, as if I’d said ‘colonic irrigation’.

‘Yes, just a little treat for myself …’

‘Oh, I do admire you, Sinead. I really do …’

‘Why’s that?’ I asked, genuinely perplexed.

Her mouth flickered with amusement. ‘Putting yourself first like that. It’s very commendable, I have to say …’

‘Well, er, I—’

‘… Although I could never justify spending that sort of money on myself. I’d feel so guilty, so decadent, that it would cancel out any enjoyment I’d gained from the massage …’

What would she have thought if she knew I’ve been forking out – weekly – to have my head examined?

‘Er, Mum,’ Nate cut in belatedly, ‘a massage isn’t that big a deal, you know.’

‘Ha. Isn’t it? I wouldn’t know. Never gone in for those pampering scenarios myself – but each to their own.’ She flashed a bemused smile. ‘Anyway, I’d really better go. Bye, Bella, darling!’ But Bella was far too interested in gnawing Scout’s disgusting fluorescent rubber hamburger to even glance in her owner’s direction.

A stillness settled over us after Judy had gone.

‘Well, that was nice, as usual,’ I muttered.

‘Oh, you know what she’s like.’ Nate adjusted his wire-framed specs. At forty-three, with wavy caramel hair and intensely brown eyes, my husband still manages to fall into the ‘cute’ category. Due to his height and long, long legs – he’s six-foot-four – there’s something endearingly gangly about him. If he were in a film, he’d be the kindly teacher who helps a colleague carry her unruly heap of books and box files – and bingo, they’d fall in love.

While he started to make dinner, I went to investigate the bathroom, which I meant to tackle the previous night. As expected, it had still been strewn with socks, pants and several T-shirts belonging to Nate and Flynn. Both of them are phenomenally untidy. Nate’s music magazines were piled messily on the bathroom scales, and the washbasin was daubed with toothpaste and shaving gel. Of course, none of that needed to be dealt with there and then. What I should have been doing was hanging out with Nate, chopping parsley and chatting companionably, instead of moving on to hoover our bedroom and prickling over a massage I’d never had.

‘Ready, love!’ he called from the kitchen.

I trotted downstairs to see he’d poured our wine and set out our bowls of pasta very prettily, with salad in a glass bowl and a fresh loaf. Although I have always done the lion’s share of the cooking, Nate had started to make dinner on Rachel days. It was as if he was trying to make things right.

‘This looks great,’ I said, at which he muttered something I didn’t catch. We started to eat in silence. I heard the front door fly open; Flynn was home. I jumped up and bounded over to hug him as if he’d just traversed the Himalayas, rather than sat in the Odeon for two hours.

‘Hey, Mum.’ He laughed and bobbed down to greet Scout and our visiting hound. ‘Hi, Bella-baby. You always smell so good! No anchovy breath on you. Not like our stinky old Scout. You look blow-dried as well. Does Gran blow-dry you?’ Flynn adores animals and nagged for a dog until we finally gave in. Scout is our second, acquired to help us over the heartache when Larry, our beloved lurcher, died last year.

‘So, how was it?’ I asked eagerly.

Flynn’s lazy grin stretched across his face as he straightened up. He has inherited his dad’s features: the full, wide mouth and dark-chocolate eyes, plus the light brown hair with a defiant wave. ‘I was only at the cinema, Mum. Not sitting an exam.’

‘No, I know that. What was the film again?’

He mumbled the name of an action thriller I’d never heard of. Nate and I haven’t been to the cinema since something like 1926.

‘Was it good?’ I enquired.

‘Uh, yeah?’ He shrugged.

‘What was it about?’

He peered at me as I sat back down at the table. ‘You don’t want to know the whole plot, do you?’

I laughed. ‘No, of course not … so, have you eaten?’

‘Yeah, we got pizza …’

‘School okay today?’ Nate asked stiffly.

Flynn threw him a baffled look. ‘Have my real mum and dad been abducted?’

‘What d’you mean?’ Nate frowned.

‘The two of you, grilling me like you’re distant relatives instead of my parents. Shall we sit down and talk about what I’d like to be when I grow up?’

Nate and I laughed uncomfortably, and Flynn sniggered and escaped to his room, away from his weird, quizzing parents.

I tried to tuck into the pasta I’d barely touched. ‘You’re not upset about Mum, are you?’ Nate ventured.

‘No, it’s fine,’ I said quickly, gaze fixed on my bowl.

‘You know what she’s like. So bloody sanctimonious. God forbid anyone should enjoy themselves—’

‘It’s fine, Nate.’ I looked up. Tension flickered in his eyes.

‘You don’t mind having Bella to stay, do you?’

‘Of course not,’ I exclaimed. ‘Why would I?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘I just wish I knew what you and Rachel talked about, that’s all—’

‘It’s not about a well-behaved collie coming to stay!’ I blurted out.

‘What is it, then? Why can’t you just tell me what’s wrong?’

Pink patches had sprung up on his cheeks. What did he think was wrong? He knew about my visit to the GP, and the antidepressants – although he hadn’t taken the trouble to talk to me then, to try and find out why I was so down, so close to tears much of the time. Depression: a taboo word, as far as Nate’s concerned. Brush it under the carpet, that’s his stock response to anything remotely uncomfortable. Three-point turns, emergency stops: he’s fine with that kind of stuff. But emotions are messy and scary and he prefers not to have to deal with them. It was clearly bothering him that I’d been sharing my own feelings with someone else. It happened every week, this post-Rachel probing.

He still wouldn’t let it drop, even as we cleared up after dinner. ‘How long d’you think you’ll carry on with this?’ he asked, washing up with unnecessary vigour.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I mean, there’s no grand plan—’

‘And you won’t share any of it with me? The stuff you discuss with this stranger, I mean?’

‘Well, it’s kind of private.’ I was doing my best to remain calm.

‘So private you can’t even tell me?’

‘Nate, the whole point is that it’s not you …’

‘Whoah, great, thanks a lot!’

I stared at him, almost laughing in disbelief. ‘If it was you I needed to talk to I’d just, well – talk to you …’

‘At least that’d be free,’ he thundered. ‘You wouldn’t have to drive over Solworth either—’

‘Oh, right, so I’d save the petrol money as well!’

‘Yes, you would. Have you checked our bank balance lately?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake …’ I stared at the man I’d once loved to distraction, and who was now glaring at me, his face mottled red, his T-shirt splashed with dishwater. ‘You begrudge me the four pounds fifty or whatever it costs to get there and back?’

‘Of course I don’t—’

‘What’s wrong with you two tonight?’ We both swung around to see Flynn standing in the doorway.

‘Sorry, son,’ Nate blustered, looking away.

Flynn snorted. ‘What were you shouting about?’

‘We weren’t shouting, honey,’ I said quickly.

He blinked at us. ‘Yes, you were. And what’s four pounds fifty?’

‘Nothing,’ I exclaimed, looking at Nate for confirmation.

‘Nothing’s four pounds fifty,’ he said with an exaggerated shrug, while our son exhaled loudly and strode away, as if concluding that his parents really had lost it this time.

Nate and I fell into a sullen silence, and only much later, when we were watching TV, did he attempt to make conversation with me.

‘I meant to tell you, I got her again today,’ he remarked.

‘Which one?’ I asked.

‘You know. The one with a tiny fringe that stops above the eyebrows, like your old college mates used to have?’

Ah, the art-school-mini-fringe. ‘You mean Tanzie? The one who’s failed, what, ten times now?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. And it’s eleven, actually.’

‘Poor thing,’ I murmured. ‘I can’t believe she hasn’t given up by now. If I were her, I’d resign myself to a life of blagging lifts and using public transport—’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ he insisted. ‘Anyway, that would never happen to you. You passed first time! You’re so capable, nothing fazes you—’

‘That’s right,’ I said bitterly. ‘I just soldier on, never needing any care or looking after—’ Without warning, my eyes welled up. I turned away before Nate could see.

‘Tanzie usually just accepts that she’s failed,’ he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Nadira and Eric say the same – we’ve all had her, over and over. But this time there were floods of tears. Inconsolable, she was …’ He sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘Anyway, I’m shattered. Coming up to bed?’

‘In a little while,’ I replied. ‘Could you set the mousetraps before you go up? I saw another one this morning …’

‘That’ll be the same one as before,’ Nate remarked.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Well, what did it look like?’

I shrugged. ‘Small, furry, greyish-brown …’

‘Yeah, that’s the one I saw.’

I stared at him, aware of my anger starting to bubble up again. I suspect it’s permanently there, simmering just below the surface. ‘I didn’t spot any distinguishing features,’ I retorted, ‘and it wasn’t wearing a T-shirt with its name on. I think we must have quite a problem – an infestation, actually – seeing as they’re appearing pretty much every day …’

‘No, what I mean is, it’s probably just the same one that keeps reappearing,’ Nate declared, with a trace of smugness.

My chest was tightening, and I was aware of veering dangerously close towards what’s commonly known as ‘overreacting’. At least, that’s what it’s called when it’s a woman. When it’s a man, he is merely ‘making a point’. ‘I’d say it’s more likely that we have dozens,’ I went on, ‘and they’re all shagging away behind the fridge …’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ he snapped.

‘Am I? Shut up for a minute and listen.’ I put a finger to my lips.

‘I do not want to hear mouse-sex happening …’

‘Neither do I! And I’ve told you I can’t bear to deal with mousetraps. I know it’s silly, but I just can’t bring myself to do it—’

Nate stifled a yawn. ‘I’ll sort it tomorrow, all right, love? It’s been one hell of a day. Did I tell you my last candidate of the day called me a wanker?’

‘Really?’ I looked at him. ‘That’s terrible. I can’t imagine why anyone would do that. Now, could you please just set those traps?’

Chapter Four
Nate

Somehow, I manage to drive our son to school as if I am just a normal bloke, fully in charge of his faculties.

‘What are you doing?’ Flynn barks as I pull up outside the main school gate.

‘Dropping you off,’ I reply, affecting a cheery tone.

His eyes narrow, beaming displeasure. ‘Mum never stops here. She always parks round the corner, by the church.’

‘God, yes, of course – sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking—’

‘God …’ Swivelling only his eyes, Flynn scans the vicinity to assess whether any of his associates have spotted us. Luckily, we appear to be too late for that. Muttering something I don’t catch, he grabs his beloved but terribly shabby leather rucksack from by his feet and clambers out of the car, banging the door behind him.

With the engine still running I watch him loping up the wide stone steps. Skinny and tall – he’s well over six feet – he still walks with a slight twist to his hips. His left side is weaker than the right, although these days you can barely tell, as years of therapy have helped immeasurably. He tires easily, that’s the main thing – although he’d rather carry on regardless, out and about with his mates, than admit it.

He glances back, looking appalled that I am still sitting there, as if I am wearing a fluorescent green comedy wig. What would he make of that terrible email, which effectively signals the end of family life as we know it? Although I’m not quite sure why, I have brought his mother’s list out with me; I can sense it, glowing radioactively in my trouser pocket, virtually burning a hole in my hip. Perhaps it’s in the hope that I’ve merely imagined this morning’s events, and when I check it later it’ll read:

Ketchup

Loo roll

Milk

Outside school, a couple of other latecomers are shambling up the wide stone steps behind Flynn. It’s a proud and well-kept Victorian building, a state school with a broad cultural mix. Flynn has always gone to mainstream school, with extra support when needed, all closely monitored by Sinead; she’s fought his corner all the way. ‘She’s a powerhouse,’ her old college friend Michelle reminded me once, and of course I agreed. There was a pause, and Michelle added, rather belated, ‘And you are too, of course!’

I watch as the other boys scamper up the last few steps to catch up with my son. How carefree they look, how breezy and laid-back, unencumbered as they are by tax returns and remembering to put the bins out. Sure, they might have flunked the odd maths test – but they haven’t yet failed at anything terribly important, anything that might mark them out as poor excuses for human beings. The boys stop and laugh loudly at something (thank God Flynn can still laugh – for now) and disappear into the building together.

I should have been a better, more proactive and useful man, I realise now. Sinead has deserved more from me. No matter how challenging it’s been bringing up Flynn, she has never once moaned or expressed a jot of self-pity. She adores being his mother – considers it an absolute privilege – and has often said that, where our boy is concerned, she would not change a single thing—

Bang-bang!

My heart lurches.

‘Nate?’ A thin blonde woman, whom I vaguely recognise, is rapping sharply on the driver’s side window. ‘Nate,’ she repeats, leaning closer, ‘are you okay?’

I fumble to lower the window. ‘Erm, yes – I’m fine, thank you.’ I assume she is something to do with school, but I can’t remember her name. Sinead is so much better at that stuff than I am, efficiently filing the names of every teacher and medical practitioner, every cub leader and all the parents and their children and their pets that we have ever encountered in her colossal brain. A powerhouse.

‘It’s just … you shouldn’t really be parked here.’ The woman winces apologetically. ‘You know. The yellow zigzags …’

‘Oh God, yes. I’m so sorry!’

Still bending at the open window, she is smiling now. ‘I’d have thought, being the driving test guy …’

‘Yes, I should know better, shouldn’t I?’ I laugh stiffly.

‘I’ll forgive you. In fact, I should thank you really.’

‘For committing a parking offence?’ I gawp at her.

‘No,’ she laughs, exposing large, bright white teeth. ‘For finally passing my mum …’

I blink at her, uncomprehending for a moment.

‘Her driving test. Her third go, it was. She was lucky to get you—’

‘Oh, if she passed, then it was on her own merit,’ I say quickly.

‘No, seriously. You’re my mum’s hero—’

‘Ha, well, just doing my job,’ I say, aware of the tension in my jaw building to critical levels as I bid her goodbye and pull away, trying to focus on the road ahead and what the heck I am supposed to be doing next.

Oh, yes – going to work. Despite everything that’s happened this morning I need to conduct seven driving tests today, virtually back to back, because life must go on, and most of these candidates will be in a severely nervous state. Today, I am working in Solworth, a bigger and scruffier town than Hesslevale, a twenty-minute drive away over the hills. Liv has replied to my text: No worries hope all okay, take care, Lx. People are extraordinarily kind – yes, even driving examiners. We are not heroes, as that woman suggested, and nor are we mean-spirited arseholes, trying to ‘catch people out’. We are just decent people, doing our job. Passive observers, is the way I tend to describe our role. Maybe I’ve been too bloody passive in my marriage too?

I drive on through open countryside on this bright and sunny May morning, then into the outskirts of Solworth, where I pull up at the test centre car park.

Okay, here goes. I climb out of my car, adjust my specs and smooth down the front of my trousers as if that’ll make me appear in control of my life. The centre is an unprepossessing, single-storey modern block with a motorway-service-centre vibe, minus the delights of cinnamon lattes and slot machines. People show up, do what they need to do and leave, with no desire to hang around. Well, of course they do. It hardly has a party atmosphere.

I stride into the office and greet Liv, the manager, and Eric, one of the other examiners, who’s also a good friend.

‘Hey, Nate. Everything all right?’ He peers expectantly over a chipped Liverpool FC mug.

‘Yeah, fine, thanks,’ I say briskly and turn to Liv. ‘Sorry about this morning …’

Concern flickers in her green eyes. Liv is a glamorous Canadian with big, bouncy chocolate-coloured hair and a youthful face that belies the fact that her fiftieth birthday is approaching. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘We had a cancellation, so Nadira’s taken your first candidate. They should be back any minute now.’ As she studies my face, I am conscious of Eric going through the motions of organising paperwork at his desk, all the while wondering what the hell’s wrong because I am never late for anything. That’s one thing Sinead could never accuse me of.

‘Nothing serious, was it?’ Eric asks.

‘No, not at all.’ I sit down to prepare my own paperwork, aware that an explanation is required. ‘Just a bit of a situation at home,’ I add. Liv frowns in my direction and gets up to click on the kettle. They are behaving as if I have come to work minus my trousers, and no one quite knows how to bring it up.

‘Is Flynn okay?’ Liv asks.

‘Yeah, he’s great, thanks,’ I reply.

‘Did he get on all right with that assessment the other day?’ Eric wants to know.

‘Yeah, everyone was really pleased …’ I catch him studying me whilst sipping his coffee. ‘Just one of those mornings,’ I add. ‘Annoying domestic stuff, y’know …’ I clear my throat and turn my attention back to my forms, hoping they’ll assume I’ve been delayed due to heroically attending to a blocked drain, or a malfunctioning hairdryer, rather than marital disaster.

‘Okay, well, your 9.45’s here,’ Liv remarks brightly.

‘Great. I’ll get to it, then.’

I catch her giving me another worried look as I stride towards our office door. ‘You know, Nate, if you’re feeling a bit off colour—’

‘No, honestly, I’m good, thanks,’ I say with exaggerated chirpiness. Apart from being a shabby excuse for a husband and father, I’m just dandy!

I pause for a moment, trying to gather myself together in order to exude calmness and capability. Through the glass panel in the door between our office and the waiting room, I can see my candidate, whom I have tested before. The weaselly young man with straggly blond hair is sitting, deep in muttered conversation, with his instructor.

We know most of the instructors by name as we see them regularly. This one, Karl, looks as if he is trying to calm the lad down, but perhaps failing as, when I push open the door, my candidate barks, ‘Hope I’m not getting that lanky fucker with the glasses again. I know he’s got it in for me.’

*

In fact, he drives extremely competently this time, and remarks, ‘So, I did all right today, did I?’ with a distinct sneer as we part company (yes, and that’s why you damn well passed!). Somehow, I manage to cobble together a facade of normality and work my way through the rest of the morning’s tests. However, a particular point on Sinead’s list keeps pulsing away in my brain:

You don’t make me feel special.

Was she referring to a lack of meals out? I wonder, as my current candidate collides with the kerb whilst reversing around a corner. The way things appear at the moment, I suspect it’d take more than dinner for two on Steak Night at the Wheatsheaf to rectify my numerous shortcomings.

Having explained to my candidate why she failed, I make my way back to the office. At least Sinead has now texted – twice – which surely indicates that she still loves me? Okay, the first time was to say, Please stop bombarding me with calls, will phone when I can. The other one was equally devoid of sentiment: Don’t worry, will let dogs out at lunchtime as usual. But it did suggest she still cares, I decide, as I pace the shabby streets around the test centre in lieu of eating any lunch.

With just five minutes left of my break, I finally manage to get her on the phone.

‘Nate,’ she says distractedly, ‘I’m in the shop.’

‘I know, I know. But we need to talk—’

‘Excuse me,’ says a shrill voice in the background, ‘will you be stocking those pomegranate-scented candles again?’

‘I have a customer here,’ Sinead hisses, then clicks neatly into her shop lady voice: ‘Erm, they were just in for Christmas, but there’s a new bergamot and lime fragrance coming in next week. It’s lovely and fresh for early summer—’

‘Ah, yes, but I was really hoping for something fruitier …’

‘Sinead!’ I bark. ‘Could we please talk, just for a minute?’

‘I’m-at-work.’ There’s a pause, then the shop voice again: ‘Sorry about that. I could call our supplier, if you like?’

Sure – go ahead! Call the candle people and chat away to your customer as if you haven’t just pulled the plug on our marriage. I stomp past a car wash where two young men are hosing down a BMW, with tinny music blaring. Alarmingly, tears appear to be falling out of my eyes. I haven’t cried properly since I took Flynn to see Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, and that wasn’t because of the film; it was the fact that my dad had died a few days before.

‘Nate?’ Ah, she’s remembered I’m here, that I still exist.

‘Where are you staying?’ I ask, frowning. ‘I mean, where were you last night?’

‘At Abby’s …’

‘Cosy!’

‘Don’t be like that …’

‘Did that Rachel woman put you up to this?’

‘Nate, stop this, stop saying that-Rachel-woman …’

‘I need to see you,’ I exclaim. ‘You can’t just send me an email like that and then be unavailable—’

‘Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. But I can’t see you today, okay? I just need time—’

‘Why?’

‘Stop shouting—’

‘I’M NOT SHOUTING.’

‘You are! Look, I’ve got to go, okay?’ How can she sound so calm and neutral? How?

‘All right,’ I growl, stomping back towards the test centre now. ‘Can I just ask, what about Flynn? I mean, does he know anything about this?’

I hear her inhaling deeply. ‘No, I haven’t told him yet …’

‘Are you intending to?’

‘You’re shouting again. Yes, of course I am. Look, I’m going now …’

‘I’m demented here! Can you imagine what it was like for me to find that note? I mean, a bloody note! Why couldn’t we just talk, like normal people?’

‘Hang on,’ she murmurs.

‘It really is the pomegranate fragrance I’d like,’ her customer explains, as if her world will crumble if she doesn’t get one.

‘Yes, it is a lovely homely scent,’ Sinead agrees. Then, back to me: ‘I’ll come over tomorrow evening, okay? But I want the three of us to sit down together and talk – not just you and me—’

‘But we need to talk things through on our own,’ I protest, despite being aware that arguing is futile right now.

‘Not tomorrow,’ she murmurs. ‘You’ll try to persuade me to come back, Nate, and I can’t handle that right now. I want Flynn to be there …’

‘But he’s only sixteen!’

‘Yes, and he’s a smart boy. He deserves to know everything. There’s nothing I’m going to say to you that I can’t say in front of him. So, I’ll see you at the house about eightish, okay?’ And with that, she’s gone.

So it’s already ‘the house’. Not our house anymore. But at least she’s agreed to see me, I remind myself over and over as the afternoon crawls on. Not today, but tomorrow – and I’ll just have to make do with that.

And now, as I drive home, I picture her sitting next to me on our sofa and explaining that she just lost her mind temporarily and, okay, I have been a bit crap, but I’ll try much harder and everything will be all right. In my vision of her, she is wearing one of her vintage frocks covered in spriggy patterns (‘you’re the only man I’ve ever known who calls them frocks,’ she once remarked with a smile), with a snug-fitting cardigan in perhaps light blue or pink. She is quirky, I suppose: delightfully unique. Sinead knows her own style, favouring flat shoes with a strap across the front – Mary Janes, I think they’re called – and wears her fair hair quite long and not especially groomed, just flowing and natural and soft to the touch. In short, she is a ravishing natural beauty – a blue-eyed blonde, with a strong nose, a wide, sensuous mouth and an absolutely knockout body.

God, I love her so much.

I park up and let myself into the house.

‘Dad?’ Flynn calls through from the living room. I stride in, fearing the worst: i.e., he knows already. His mum did call him after all – or he’s simply figured it out for himself.

‘Hi, son. How was your day?’ My heart is pounding as I take in the sight of him lying flat out on the sofa, phone in hand, schoolbag spewing books and crumpled papers all over the floor. His brown eyes fix on mine. He is growing up into such a handsome young man, his jaw more defined now, his boyish softness remoulding into sharper angles.

‘All right, I s’pose. Miss Beazley said to remind you not to park on the zigzags again?’

‘Oh!’ I almost laugh. ‘God, yes. I definitely won’t—’

‘So, when’s Mum coming home?’

Instinctively, I check my watch. It seems so old-fashioned to wear one, but I’m terribly attached to mine. It was left to me when my father died.

‘Erm, she won’t be around till tomorrow, actually,’ I mumble.

Flynn scowls. ‘Why not? What’s going on? She’s not answering her phone—’

‘She’s, um, staying at Abby’s,’ I reply quickly.

I fiddle awkwardly with my watch as he stares at me. Dad wore it for as long as I can remember: dependable and unflashy, like its owner. I always suspected that was why Mum divorced him when I reached my teens – because Dad was just too quiet, too normal, working for an accountancy firm and tinkering away in his shed. Perhaps he was ultimately disappointing to her. I’d never found him disappointing. As a shy kid, with a brother five years younger who was the apple of Mum’s eye, I could have been bored out of my brains in our bleak suburb of Huddersfield. However, while Joe commanded our mother’s attentions, I could always find plenty to discover in Dad’s shed. It was a grotto to me where dreams could be made from a few screws, some offcuts of timber and a tin of Humbrol enamel paint. I’d always assumed I inherited at least some of my father’s DIY talents – but Sinead clearly thinks otherwise.

‘Dad, are you listening to me?’

I flinch and look at Flynn. ‘Sorry? What were you saying?’

He sits up and regards me with the penetrating stare of a particularly astute lawyer. ‘Can you please just tell me what’s going on with you and Mum?’

I sense the blood surging to my cheeks, and feel rather sick as I perch gingerly on the sofa beside him. Both dogs are standing in the living room doorway and gazing at me, as if blocking my escape.

I clear my throat. ‘She, erm … wants some time away from me,’ I murmur. ‘She hasn’t been very happy, so we’re trying to sort things out. I’m sorry, Flynn, I really am. I don’t know what else to tell you …’

His expression is unreadable. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘I am. I’m saying now.’

‘Yeah, ’cause I asked,’ he says sharply. ‘’Cause I forced it out of you—’

I exhale slowly. ‘Look, I didn’t say anything this morning because, well, I didn’t know what was going to happen. I still don’t, really. Mum’s staying at Abby’s – that’s all I know. It’s all come as a total shock …’

Flynn gets up from the sofa, which I take as a signal that it’s okay to hug him – that he wants to be held. However, I must have misread the signs as, when I scramble up and try to pull him towards me, he stands there, rigid as an ironing board, arms jammed to his sides.

‘So, what’s going to happen now?’ He disentangles himself and peers at me as if I have gone quite mad.

‘I have no idea. All I know is, she’s coming over tomorrow evening so we can all have a chat.’

‘A chat?’ he repeats bitterly.

‘Well, yeah.’ I shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t really know what else to call it.’

‘Huh,’ he grunts. We look at each other in silence. As I can’t fathom out what to say next, I call Scout to me, and ruffle his head. It’s almost a relief when Flynn slopes off to his room.

Normally, during any kind of tense situation involving our son, I have always tried to be resolutely – possibly irritatingly – cheerful:

Don’t worry, Flynn. It’s school policy to report any bullying, so I really have to go in …

There are loads of ways to play every chord. If that inversion of the G seventh is tricky, we can easily find another one …

It’s okay, son. Hopefully it’ll be Margot again, that nice physio lady with the sticker sheets …

Only he’s sixteen now, and this isn’t something that can be sorted with a Superman sticker or a Freddo bar. There’s no point in following him upstairs, as anything I say will be deemed patronising. These days I seem to patronise him simply by inhabiting the same room. It’s a miracle he still allows me to teach him anything on guitar.

Should I be the one moving out?

Ridiculously, my brain fast-forwards to the weekend, when Mum is due back from her climbing expedition and is coming round to pick up Bella.

‘Has everything gone okay?’

‘Apart from Sinead leaving me, yes, it’s all been absolutely tickety-boo!’

Only, that’s not going to happen. This is just a blip, and somehow I’ll convince Sinead that I’m not the selfish, uncaring arsehole that she seems to think I am.

I simply love my wife too much to just let her go.

Chapter Five

Never before have I been so grateful to reach the end of a Friday afternoon. Although this has been one of the shittiest weeks of my life – up there along with Sinead’s miscarriage and Dad dying – I have somehow managed to muster a smudge of optimism, because tonight is my opportunity to put everything right.

‘Bye, then,’ I say, pulling on my jacket and already propelling myself towards the door.

‘See you, Nate,’ says Liv, still emitting an air of concern. ‘Try and rest up this weekend, love, will you?’

‘Yeah – you look awfully tired and pale,’ Nadira remarks.

‘Just been a bit of a week …’

‘Sarah was saying we hadn’t seen you and Sinead for ages,’ remarks Eric. ‘You should come over for dinner sometime soon.’

‘Sounds great!’ My hand is clamped on the door handle now.

‘This weekend? Or maybe next?’

‘Um, this weekend’s not so good,’ I mutter. Something of an understatement …

‘And next Saturday’s my barbecue,’ Liv reminds us. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten that!’

‘Oh, yeah, the big half-century!’ Eric beams at her, then turns back to me. ‘So you’ll check with the boss, will you?’

‘Huh?’

He frowns bemusedly. ‘Sinead. Your wife. So we can arrange a night?’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ I reply as I leave the building, flanked by Nadira, who’s by far the youngest examiner in our team.

‘Well, have a good weekend, Nate,’ she says with a smile.

‘Thanks. You too.’

‘Got much on?’

‘Just playing it by ear,’ I mutter, then turn and make straight for my car and climb straight in. When I glance back, Nadira is standing next to her own car, and giving me a worried look. We’re a friendly team, and usually there’s a bit of chat about our plans for the weekend ahead. Sometimes we even socialise together – Eric and I especially. We often go for a few beers, just the two of us, or get together as couples over dinner.

How am I going to explain that Sinead’s left me?

I won’t need to, I decide as I drive through the gently undulating hills. Somehow, I’ll convince her to give me – and our marriage – another chance. Hell, she has to, really. She can’t just throw in the towel on almost two decades together because she’s suddenly taken exception to my DIY efforts and I didn’t set the bloody mousetraps.

As I near Hesslevale, I make a few firm decisions. Whatever happens tonight, no matter how upset and defensive I feel, I must not let any of that out. I’ll listen to my wife, and show that I don’t intend to take her for granted ever again – not that I ever have! Why does she even think this when I love her madly? WHY? Maybe it’s sex: i.e., we’ve not been having enough lately. Perhaps she thinks I don’t fancy her anymore, which patently isn’t true. In fact, we actually did it a few nights ago, which seemed to surprise us both – and it was lovely, as it always is. But all too often, we’re too knackered to do anything other than fall asleep when we climb into bed. Should we just forget our ‘meeting’ this evening and go straight upstairs, tell Flynn we’re tired? Would that fix everything?

Stopping at red lights on the edge of town, I try to disentangle my racing thoughts. A new restaurant has opened, called Elliot’s. I know it’s eye-wateringly expensive, but Eric and his wife Sarah have raved about how lovely it is. Maybe I should suggest dinner here sometime?

By the time I pull up in our street, I’ve almost managed to convince myself that Sinead just needs a damn good rant – then she’ll feel much better. However, the very fact that she is coming around at a specified time – 8 p.m. – makes it feel less like a ‘chat’ and more like court.

Your honour, I only decided to build the shelves myself because the quote that joiner gave was frankly astronomical …

I find Flynn in his room, emitting distinct ‘do not disturb’ vibes. We eat dinner together at the kitchen table, in a rather stilted atmosphere, my slimy noodles and ageing babycorn clearly failing to delight him, even with a liberal dousing of oyster sauce. In fact, Flynn seems to be merely combing his noodles with his fork. Given the circumstances – and the fact that he is virtually a fully grown man – it doesn’t feel right to tell him to stop playing with his food.

We clear up together, although it hardly seems worth the effort with just two bowls and one wok. As Flynn disappears back to his room, I try to occupy myself in our Sinead-less home by shining up the cooker hob and emptying the kitchen bin and then, when I can think of no other tasks to attend to, pacing randomly around the ground floor.

Finally – FINALLY! – here she comes, knocking lightly on the door (why is she knocking? This is her house too!). ‘Hi?’ she calls out, stepping into the hallway now, as if she were a neighbour popping in to ask to borrow a cup of sugar. No one borrows sugar anymore, I realise as I hurry through to greet her. Everyone has plenty of sugar of their own … ‘Hi, Nate,’ she says as Scout scrambles past me in order to throw himself at her. You can’t move out. Look how much he loves you!

‘Hi, love,’ I say. I look at her, standing there in our hallway, taken aback by how normal she seems. But then, what was I expecting? That she’d blunder in with swollen eyes and smeared mascara, swigging a bottle of Jacob’s Creek?

While I wonder whether or not to hug her, she bobs down to fuss over Scout. ‘Hello, little man! You’ll soon be on your own again, ruling the roost.’ She looks up at me. ‘Is it Sunday your mum’s picking up Bella?’

‘Yeah that’s right,’ I mutter, as if it matters.

She straightens up, strides into the living room and arranges herself at one end of the sofa, where Scout jumps up and snuggles close, and Bella settles at her feet. My wife is a magnet to dogs. Larry, our lurcher who died last year, was the same with her. She’d only have to pop out to the shops and he’d sit at the front door, alternately whining and licking his genitals until she came home. At least I haven’t descended to that …

I perch next to her. For a few moments, neither of us says anything. The mood is so awful, so tense and awkward, we could be strangers sitting side by side in an STI clinic waiting room.

So, what are you in for?

‘So, how was work today?’ I ask stiffly, showing an interest in her job.

‘Okay, I suppose,’ she replies flatly.

Well, I’m not okay, I want to shout. I’m not fucking okay at all. I rake back my hair from my clammy forehead.

‘Where’s Flynn?’ she asks.

‘Upstairs. I thought maybe we could have a chat first, just so we can work out what we’re going to say—’

‘Nate, I told you already, I really want him to be here too. I think that’s fairer. Don’t you?’

‘Yes, all right.’ Just agree to everything she says and maybe this’ll blow over.

She turns towards the living room door. ‘Flynn?’ she calls out pleasantly. ‘Could you come downstairs please, love?’

‘Darling, I just want to say, we don’t have to do this,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry for, well, whatever it is, but—’ I break off. Flynn’s footsteps are audible on the stairs, and he appears, hair rumpled, eyes rather sore-looking and pink. Oh, God, he’s been crying. No one likes seeing a small child upset – but it’s worse when they’re older, as it’s generally rarer and suggests something more serious.

Flynn and his mum fling their arms around each other and hold each other tightly. ‘Oh, darling,’ she murmurs.

‘Mum,’ he croaks. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, sweetheart, as long as you are …’ There’s no awkward ironing-board hug this time.

After what feels like a week they peel apart, and both settle on the sofa, jammed together, while I perch on the far end and stare at my shoes. And out it all comes:

‘The thing is, Flynn, love, I’ve decided me and Dad aren’t right together anymore. I know this is so hard for you to hear, but I want you to understand that it’s nothing to do with you. It’s about me and Dad …’

Flynn nods mutely. He is actually letting her hold his hand. I haven’t been allowed to do that since he was about eight years old.

‘We’ve, I don’t know – grown apart over the years, I suppose,’ she continues, with only the slightest tremor in her voice, ‘and I haven’t been happy for quite a long time. I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I could stay, pretending everything’s fine, until you leave home and have your own independent adult life.’ She stops, blinking rapidly, and clears her throat. ‘But that would be dishonest, wouldn’t it? To you, me and Dad?’

She addresses Flynn throughout all of this. I might as well not be here. I am just a passive observer.

‘Yeah,’ Flynn murmurs, ‘I s’pose it would.’

‘So I need to be true to myself,’ she goes on, ‘which means I’ll be staying at Abby’s for a while, then I’ll probably look around for a flat of my own …’

Oh, Jesus God. My heart is banging so hard it feels as if it could burst out of my chest.

‘… which of course you’ll be welcome to stay at any time. You’ll have your own room there, it’ll be your home too …’

Our son nods, lips pressed together, as Sinead continues: ‘I hope you understand why I’m doing this, honey. I’m sorry I won’t be here with you all the time, but this is your home, it’s where you belong – with Dad and Scout.’

‘Yeah,’ Flynn says in a gravelly voice. He’s being brave, so bloody brave it rips at my insides. Even braver than when he went for surgery when he was nine, to improve his gait, and lay there with one hand tightly clutching mine (maybe that’s the last time we held hands?), the other stuffed into his beloved Mr Fox glove puppet, just before he was given the general anaesthetic. Although he’d long since given up on taking Mr Fox everywhere, on this occasion I’d suggested the puppet might like to come along too. Flynn had agreed that that was an excellent idea. I knew he was scared about ‘going to sleep’, although he was determined not to show it. His jaw was set firm, the small hand gripping mine slick with sweat. Sinead had waited outside the operating theatre as she couldn’t face seeing him go under.

‘Nothing’s going to change, Flynn,’ she explains now. ‘You can still phone or text me any time, and come over every day if you like – after school, maybe? Or pop into the shop and we’ll get a milkshake from that cafe across the road?’

‘That’d be nice,’ he mumbles.

A milkshake! If I’d suggested that, he’d have laughed in my face. I try to rub at my eyes surreptitiously. Actually, the two of them are so locked in their exchange, his tousled head resting on her shoulder now, I could probably have a cardiac arrest without worrying either of them unduly.

Then before I know it she is gathering herself up to leave, and Flynn has given her one last hug and shot off back to his room. I have said virtually nothing to her, and, quite rightly, she addressed her entire spiel to our son.

‘What about your stuff?’ I ask as I see her out.

‘Erm, I took some clothes and a few other bits and pieces when I came over at lunchtime,’ she replies, ‘and I’ll deal with the rest some other time, probably when you’re both out.’ I catch her swallowing hard. ‘It might be easier that way.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I reply dully.

‘You’re okay with me hanging onto a key for now?’

‘Of course, yes.’

She looks around for Scout, who trots towards her. ‘I’ll need one anyway, while I’m still walking Scout …’

‘Yeah, I guess so …’

‘Okay, then …’ A sense of awkwardness hangs between us.

‘Um, I could get a dog walker,’ I suggest, ‘if it’s easier for you?’

She touches my arm in a way that is utterly devoid of affection. ‘Let’s say I’ll just do it for now, okay? Bye, Nate.’

‘Bye, love,’ I croak.

She opens the door and steps outside. I have to say, I’m almost impressed by the speed and efficiency of tonight’s proceedings, but then, that’s Sinead all over: a powerhouse. She neatly summed up my flaws on a sheet of A4 and is ready now to get on with the rest of her life, without me in it.

Incredibly, it seems that nineteen years of being together can all be undone in a little under twenty-five minutes. I stand at our front door, watching Sinead as she marches along our street, willing her to look back or, better still, to turn and run to me and throw herself into my arms, like she would if this were a film with any kind of decent end.

Instead, she climbs into her silver car, with a casualness that suggests she’s just nipping out to the supermarket, and drives away.

Chapter Six
Sinead

‘So, how did it go?’ Abby has arrived home from her shift as manager of the Lamb and Flag, one of Hesslevale’s most popular pubs.

‘Bloody awful.’ I pour a glass of wine from the bottle I picked up on my way home, and hand it to her. We settle on the sofa in her immaculate newly built home.

‘Oh, love,’ she murmurs. ‘It was never going to be easy, explaining it all face-to-face. But at least you’ve done it now, and he knows exactly how you feel. So maybe the worst part’s over.’

I grimace. Was that the worst part? I have no idea. All I know is that, two nights ago, it felt as if I had no choice but to leave him. With my heart rattling furiously, I’d glared at the packet of three wooden mousetraps I’d bought a week previously, knowing it would happen soon.

Flynn’s music had stopped upstairs, and all was quiet at 83 Allison Street. I poured myself a huge glass of wine and sat sipping it at the kitchen table, then refilled it. Drinking alone, on a Wednesday night – but no wonder. I sipped, and I waited, on high alert now – just like Nate must be every time he conducts a driving test. Then out one popped from under the microwave – a grey blur. I leapt up and screamed, knocking over my glass as the mouse darted across the worktop, skirting the packet of traps and disappearing behind the toaster.

Shaking, I snatched a ring-bound notebook from the cookbook shelf and hurried through to the living room. I’d bought the notebook for collecting recipes that both Nate and Flynn would appreciate because, God knows, it’s hard to please both of them. It even had divided sections for soups, mains, desserts. However, food was the last thing on my mind right then.

You might find it helpful to write down all the aspects you’re unhappy with …

I grabbed a pen, and opened the notebook which I’d bought with the intention of being a good wife and mother; a provider of wholesome fare.

Well, fuck that.

I started to write, and out it all poured, fuelled by L’Ondice lady petrol: all the minor faults, the major faults and everything in between. Of course, this wasn’t really about mousetraps, the occasional dog poo left on the lawn or any of that. It was years’ worth of stuff, tumbling out – about how Nate, who was supposed to love me, viewed me now. I used to be a person, supposedly with talent and an identity of my own, way back in some previous life. Jewellery was my passion; I was a silversmith. Things had taken off quickly after I’d graduated from art college; I’d been featured in glossy magazines and my pieces were being stocked by several major stores. I was, as one journalist put it, ‘a shining star of the jewellery world’. But not anymore. I was just there, keeping things going, invisible to the man I’d once loved.

‘How was Flynn, when you explained everything?’ Abby asks now.

‘On the surface, he took it pretty well,’ I reply. ‘I just sort of rattled it all out and he sat there in silence, taking it in. You know how he is, Abs. He puts a brave face on everything. And as for Nate …’

‘He’ll be okay eventually,’ she says gently, squeezing my hand. ‘But it’s going to take time. It’ll be tough on all of you, but you did what felt right.’

I nod. ‘Yes, but I’m a bloody idiot …’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘The way I tried to make things seem better for Flynn, you know? With promises of a room in the home I have yet to find—’

‘He’s always welcome here, you know that …’

‘Thank you. I do know, and I appreciate it so much.’ I pause and sip my wine. ‘I suggested we could get together over a milkshake. A milkshake!’ I repeat, sensing my cheeks burning. ‘What was I thinking? He’s sixteen years old!’

‘Hey,’ Abby says gently. ‘I bet he won’t mind what you do as long as you spend time together.’

‘That is, if he doesn’t hate me …’

‘Of course he won’t hate you,’ she exclaims. ‘Flynn adores you. Come on, this isn’t making you feel any better …’

‘I’m sorry, I just seem to offload to you all the time …’

‘Offload away,’ Abby says, smiling now. ‘You’ve done the same for me, plenty of times.’

I muster a smile too. ‘Well, I’m so grateful, Abs. You are brilliant, you know that?’

She shrugs off the compliment and pushes back her long blonde hair. Dressed in a simple black shift, with minimal make-up, her brand of pub manager is sleekly groomed rather than OTT glamour. Although she is very much my friend – the one she confided in during those failed rounds of IVF, and then her divorce – I first got to know her through Nate, when he and a big bunch of mates shared a house.

We channel-hop now, finally settling on a soothing nature documentary about seals. We share the rest of the bottle of wine and, by the time we say goodnight at around 1 a.m., I am slightly light-headed – yet again.

What kind of mother am I? I reflect as I climb into bed in Abby’s spare room. I drink too much. Worse still, I have abandoned my lovely boy who needs me. And I can’t even bring myself to set a mousetrap, for goodness’ sake! How can that be, when I’ve dealt with the numerous challenges of raising Flynn? But that’s just me. Recently, I seem to have become fearful of quite a few silly things. I don’t know whether it’s age, or hormones, or what. Maybe Rachel might have some ideas?

At our last session, I’d told her how I’d tried to keep my business going as a new mum. However, Flynn was a terrible sleeper and my determination to graft away into the night soon proved impossible. Even when he finally learnt to distinguish night from day, his early years were filled with medical and therapeutic appointments. Although Nate and I never discussed it, the person to take charge of such matters – and accompany him on virtually all of these – was me.

And so orders fell away, and Sinead Hogan, so-called shining star, was replaced by Sinead Turner in ratty old jeans and a faded sweatshirt, fringe home-cut, face devoid of make-up and frankly knackered. I once went to apply some mascara for a party and discovered that it had entirely solidified. My jewellery equipment and materials were either sold or packed away in boxes and stashed in the attic. My old filing cabinet, in which I’d stored years’ worth of magazine clippings, scribbled notes and designs, was shunted into what we have always referred to, optimistically, as our ‘guest room’, and which is now entirely filled with junk.

It wasn’t as if Nate pushed me into any of that. It was my choice to put my business on hold; I wanted to be a full-time mum, and no other job was as thrilling and rewarding – or downright terrifying when it was suggested that Flynn’s development wasn’t following the expected curves. Weren’t all babies different? I insisted, belligerently. What did health visitors and GPs know? What could paediatric neurologists and behavioural development specialists actually tell us, with their decades of study and experience in impaired muscle coordination and control?

‘They just want to label him,’ I protested to Nate – as if there was a ‘them’ and ‘us’. Like these kindly professionals were trying to put our baby into some kind of box, just to be difficult. There were numerous scans, examinations and tests. We joked, rather bleakly, that we should be issued with hospital loyalty cards.

Eventually, a grey-bearded consultant explained that Flynn – who was by then nine months old – had cerebral palsy. No, we didn’t ‘cause’ it, he insisted. It had nothing to do with the wine I’d drunk at our friends’ wedding, plus tequila shots, ill-advised gin jellies and God knows what else I’d tipped down my throat before we’d realised I was pregnant.

Eventually, Nate insisted that I had to stop beating myself up or I’d go mad. It took a long time for me to trust these unfailingly kind professionals and not assume everyone was lying to us. If someone had said, ‘Your son has this condition because you’ve worn thongs/took ecstasy – once, in 1992, and nothing actually happened’ – then they’re the ones I’d have believed. Our consultant suggested that I wanted someone, or something, to blame. As our baby’s carrier for forty weeks, it seemed that had to be me.

I tried to explain this to Nate, but he brushed me off, implying that I was being silly and even hysterical. Eventually I stopped talking about it as it just seemed to cause rows. Meanwhile, we threw everything into being Flynn’s parents. He was our little hero, and our entire life, and when one aspect of life is all-consuming, other things tend to be forgotten. Like paying parking fines on time and sending Nate’s mother a birthday present (somehow, since I’d let my business slide, attending to such matters had become my job). We forgot about wedding anniversaries, and rarely had nights out, despite numerous offers of babysitting. For the most part, we even forgot about having sex. Let’s just say our cars had oil changes more regularly than Nate and I were getting it together. And somewhere along the way, we lost ourselves.

For a while, I assumed the real problem was money, and it was certainly tight. I knew this was partially my fault. All through Flynn’s primary school years I was a non-working person, which sometimes seemed to tip into being a non-person. But I accepted that, because Flynn was surpassing all expectations and growing up into the sunniest, most determined and delightful boy. CP was just a part of him, like his love of dogs and fascination with his dad’s vast record collection.

By the time Flynn was twelve I had an overwhelming urge to return to work. Jewellery was far too precarious an option, and by then I was lamentably out of touch with trends and potential retail outlets. Plus, as Nate often pointed out – quite rightly – our debts were mounting and we needed another regular income. Pre-parenthood he’d scraped a living through teaching guitar, playing in bands and driving musicians, plus their gear, the length and breadth of Britain. He’d enjoyed the driving part so much, he’d eventually trained as a driving instructor, and then the examiner he is now.

Reliable, hard-grafting Nate: willing to swap his life in music for one of tests and minutiae, because he loves us and wanted to take care of us. Meanwhile, I took on some part-time admin work, until last year, when a card in a local shop window caught my eye: Full-time sales assistant required. Please enquire within.

‘Would it seem ridiculous,’ I asked Nate, ‘for me to apply for a shop job?’

‘What kind of shop?’ He started to rearrange the contents of our dishwasher, as he always reckons I stack it incorrectly.

‘A new gift shop called Little Owl. It’s by that bistro in Stoker Road. You probably haven’t noticed it …’

There was a clink of crockery as he repositioned the top shelf’s contents to ensure effective cleansing. As my friend Michelle once put it, ‘A man who criticises your dishwasher-loading technique risks being shoved into it with the intensive setting whacked on.’

‘So, what d’you think?’ I prompted him.

He removed the forks from the appliance’s holder and put them back properly, with prongs facing upwards.

I jammed my back teeth together. People have committed murder over less. ‘Nate? Did you actually hear what I said?’

‘Yeah, sorry, darling.’ He turned and smiled. ‘Yeah. I think a little shop job would be really good for you.’

Little shop job!

I was replaying all of this as I scribbled that list two nights ago. I hardly knew what I was doing as I placed it by the kettle, then called Abby in a state. Of course I could stay with her, she assured me. She would come and get me, and would I please stop apologising? She met me in her car at 1.40 a.m. at the end of our road.

So here I am now – trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep in her spare room. The plump pillow is wet with my tears, and although somehow it’s better than being with Nate, I can’t help thinking: What the hell have I done?

Chapter Seven
Nate

Weekends are usually an opportunity to kick back, read the papers, walk Scout, maybe meet up with Eric and Sarah. Or Sinead and I would just go out for a drink ourselves: all the ordinary (but now, I realise, intensely pleasurable) stuff I’ve taken for granted all these years. Without Sinead here on Saturday morning – and with no work to go to – I simply don’t know what to do with myself.

Still, I can’t fall apart. I’m still Flynn’s dad and, if nothing else, I’m going to prove that I can run this home, this family, by myself.

Things start off pretty well, considering. Flynn emerges from his room a little before 10 a.m. There are no visible signs of tears or anger; on the contrary, he utters a gruff, ‘Morning’ as we pass on the stairs. I even dish up a proper breakfast – not that I’m expecting some kind of World’s Best Dad accolade for scrambling some eggs. However, we are coping, in that we are dressed, and nourished, and I have only checked my phone a handful of times to see if Sinead has been trying to contact me.

Of course she hasn’t. Idiot, I chastise myself.

Aware of behaving a little manically – in order to prove just how fucking fine I am – I suggest to Flynn that he fetches his guitar and we have a go at some new techniques. ‘Okay,’ he says warily. Minutes later, we’re sitting together in the living room while I show him a new take on the traditional twelve-bar blues he knows already.

He’s strumming away, albeit rather mechanically, as if he’s keen to get on with something else.

‘Hang on,’ I say, motioning him to stop. ‘It’d be good to change your emphasis, give it some whack on the second and fourth beat …’

‘What?’ he asks crossly, brow furrowing.

‘Let me show you.’ On my own guitar, I start to play a riff, aware of Flynn’s gradually flattening expression, his mouth setting in a firm line. I stop and look at him. ‘That was Chuck Berry. You can hear how he played about with the timing, the emphasis – that’s what gave him that unique sound—’

‘Dad,’ Flynn interrupts, placing his own guitar carefully on the sofa beside him.

‘Hang on, Flynn …’ I start playing some more. It’s helping a little, focusing on the music. Helping me to not fixate on Sinead, just for a few moments …

‘Dad!’ he barks. I stop, taken aback by his abruptness. ‘Look, um …’ He shuffles uneasily. ‘D’you mind if we don’t do this?’

I look at him. ‘You mean, try out this Chuck Berry riff?’

Flynn’s eyes seem to harden. ‘Well, yeah. I mean, why would I want to play like Chuck Berry?’

‘Because he’s one of the greats,’ I reply with a frown. ‘A big influence on Springsteen, actually. He even covered some of his songs. Hang on a sec …’ I place my guitar to one side, and get up with the intention of fetching my laptop.

‘Dad, please,’ Flynn cries after me. ‘No YouTube clips of old dead guys!’

I swing round to face him. ‘He not just any old dead guy. He was a major innovator—’

‘Yeah, I know who he is. I mean, was. Max’s dad’s got a record of his, that awful song … what’s it called again?’

I shrug, genuinely confused.

Flynn smirks. ‘I remember. “My Ding-a-Ling” …’

‘Oh, that,’ I retort. ‘That was just a stupid comedy record—’

‘Yeah, about his dick—’

‘Flynn!’

My son’s gaze meets mine, challenging me. Was he ever so belligerent when Sinead was here? I’m sure there were occasions, but I can’t recall any right now.

‘What’s up with saying “dick”?’ he asks, clearly pushing boundaries.

‘Nothing, I suppose,’ I mutter. ‘But it’s a bit unnecessary. Okay, shall we try that Stones riff instead—’

‘Well, that’s what the song’s about, isn’t it?’ he rants on. ‘Max’s dad was playing it when he was drunk one night. He was a pervert. He put spy cameras in women’s loos—’

‘Max’s dad?’ I exclaim.

‘No, Chuck-fucking-Berry!’

‘Okay, okay,’ I exclaim, deciding not to tick him off about unnecessary language on this occasion, although it’s definitely out of order, coming straight after ‘dick’ a few seconds ago. I have a swearing limit and he’s definitely topped it. However, things are heated enough as it is. Pick your battles, I’ve always believed, and I know everyone swears these days. The c-word seems to be as commonly used as ‘hello’ or, ‘how are you?’, not that I’m a fan of it being tossed about like confetti. But I try to be easy-going and liberal, often thinking, Christ – hasn’t my son had enough to deal with in life without me lambasting him over trivialities?

‘C’mon,’ I add, ‘we can play something else. This is supposed to be fun, not an ordeal for you.’ He wrinkles his nose at me, as if I have suggested a game of Ludo. ‘How about trying that finger picking again?’ I soldier on. ‘You were doing really well with that …’ He was too, by which I mean no onlooker would even guess he had any issues with his fine motor movements.

Flynn gets up and grabs his guitar by the neck, and for one split-second I wonder if he is going to bash me on the head with it. ‘Look, Dad, what I’m trying to tell you is – if you’d listen – I don’t want to do this anymore.’

You don’t listen to me. Will I soon be presented with a list of my faults from my son, too? Well, why not? Might as well make it a family game.

‘What are you saying?’ I ask hollowly. ‘You can’t just give up, Flynn. You’re so good!’

‘No, I mean—’

‘I know it gets frustrating,’ I barge in, ‘and you can feel like you’re not making much progress. But honestly, you have real talent—’

‘Dad,’ he says firmly, shaking his head, ‘what I mean is, I want to stop playing guitar with you.’

I blink at Flynn. Something cold and hard seems to clamp itself around my heart. He stands there, glaring at me in disdain, as if he can hardly believe I was fifty per cent responsible for his existence. He is gripping his favourite instrument, the one that cost us a fortune for his fifteenth birthday, after I’d managed to persuade Sinead that it really was the best choice for him. But he only tried it out for ten minutes, she hissed, as the three of us left the music store in Leeds.

Sometimes, I told her, it’s instant. You just know.

Love at first sight? she said with a laugh.

I clear my throat and try to pull myself together. ‘So, you, uh, don’t want me to teach you anymore?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, with a tone that borders on the callous. ‘I mean, no. No, I don’t. Is that all right, Dad?’

‘Er, yes, of course it is,’ I reply, ‘if that’s what you’ve decided. So, er, d’you want to learn from someone else?’

‘No, I just want to play,’ Flynn says emphatically. ‘I just want to do my own thing with Max, Luke and Si and the others, know what I mean?’

‘But you do your own thing now … ’

Flynn’s nostrils seem to flare. ‘Yeah, but that’s all I want to do. I don’t want to sit here, learning your things …’

‘They’re not my things!’

‘Dad, you know what I mean. It’s not a big deal, is it? C’mon.’ He hoists a small smile, as if I am a child whose balloon has just slipped from his hand and floated away. Then he shrugs and saunters off to his room.

I know I should leave it at that. I should accept that, at sixteen years old – with his mother recently departed from our home – he is fully entitled to continue to progress, or not progress, however he pleases. He can never learn another damn thing, if that’s what he wants! But instead, I follow him upstairs and loom in his bedroom doorway.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

I clear my parched throat. ‘So, er, you really don’t want me to teach you anymore? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yeah. I explained that already, Dad.’

I shrug, feeling ridiculous. ‘But I mean … isn’t it quite handy that I’m here, and available, and we can just do stuff whenever you’re in the mood?’ And I can adapt techniques according to your abilities? I want to add, but of course, I don’t.

‘I don’t really want to anymore.’

‘But why not? I thought you enjoyed it. I thought, you know, it was our thing …’ My voice wavers. Oh, God. How needy do I sound now?

‘Just leave it, would you?’ Flynn mumbles, picking at his fingernails.

And then I must really lose it, as I snap at my beloved boy: ‘Suit your bloody self then. But don’t come running to me when you can’t figure out a G minor seventh!’

What a jerk.

Only a prize arsehole would flounce downstairs like a twelve-year-old, summon Scout and Bella for a walk, and march furiously down the street. The sky is drab grey, the colour of a white T-shirt that’s been washed with the darks. The dogs plod along at my side, seemingly picking up on my gloom. There’s no excitable pulling on the leads, no reaction whatsoever when a scrawny black cat crosses our path. On a positive note, there’s no sighting of our neighbour Howard with Monty either.

My phone rings, and I snatch it from my jacket pocket, willing it to be Sinead, or even Flynn, apologising – but it’s only my mate Paolo. He lives just outside town, and is happily married to Bea, with three impossibly cute children. He leaves a voicemail message, which I don’t play. I can’t face telling him what’s happened just yet.

Back home, I apologise to Flynn through his closed bedroom door.

‘S’all right,’ he growls. Instead of pestering him any further, I head downstairs and deal with the dishes I dumped in the sink last night – not because I’m some hapless male, unfamiliar with domestic cleansing rituals, but because I couldn’t even face stacking the dishwasher after Sinead had been here and delivered her speech. And now, as I sweep the kitchen floor unnecessarily, I am aware of being poised for a call, or the sound of her coming home; I don’t think the enormity of what’s happened has truly sunk in yet. I can only liken it to when Dad died. He and his friend, Nick, would often sit together, drinking tea and chatting, on the peeling bench in front of Dad’s rented cottage. It was Nick who found Dad; he’d died of a heart attack while gardening. The reality only really hit me when I cleared out his shed.

By the time lunchtime rolls around, I busy myself by making some hearty lentil soup. Never mind that Flynn only manages half a bowlful. So chuffed am I that it’s a) edible and b) ‘balanced’ (unlike its creator right now), I call Sinead to tell her all about it.

‘Look, Nate,’ she says as I pause for breath, ‘d’you mind if we leave any contact for a few days?’

‘Er, no, of course not,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘Whatever feels best for you, I’m happy with …’ Happy! Now there’s an interesting choice of word.

‘I really need some time to get my head around things. I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, I understand that …’

‘Are you all right?’ she asks, rather belatedly.

‘Getting there,’ I fib, in a silly jovial tone as I tip the remains of Flynn’s soup down the sink.

‘I spoke to Flynn this morning,’ she adds. ‘He seems okay, I think … don’t you?’

Oh, right, so they’ve been having cosy chats without my knowledge? ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I croak.

‘I’m relieved about that.’

‘Mmm, me too.’

‘Bye then, Nate. I’d better go. Abby’s just made us some lunch …’

‘Great. Bye, love.’ I sense the backs of my eyeballs tingling alarmingly as we finish the call.

Once I’ve cleared up our lunch stuff, I find myself wondering what to do next that doesn’t involve standing in the kitchen, staring into a vat of soup on the hob. So this is what the weekends will feel like now: endless, stretching to infinity.

I walk the dogs again, trudging from street to street for a whole two hours, wondering if Scout is exhibiting signs of weight loss from all this exercise, or if Flynn will start to worry that I’ve hurled myself into the canal. Probably not.

Shortly after I return home, Flynn announces that he’s off to Max’s, and will stay there for dinner. Later, I am spooning in another bowl of soup, without bothering to heat it up, when my phone rings. Paolo again. I let it ring out. Then a text: Answer your phone mate. Saw Sinead in town so I know what’s happened. U okay? Want a pint?

Oh Lord, so the news is out there. I try to formulate a reply in my mind, but it’s useless; anything I come up with sounds either overly breezy (‘Don’t worry about me!’), or patently untrue (‘am fine’).

Twenty minutes later there’s a sharp knock at the front door.

‘Hi,’ I say dully as I let Paolo in.

He blows out air and shakes his head, looking around the hallway as if the decorators have been and made a real arse job of painting. ‘Bloody hell, mate, I am sorry. Some fucking situation this is.’

I nod and shrug. ‘Yeah. Well, there it is. She’s gone.’

‘Jesus.’ He rakes at his hair. ‘How’s Flynn taking it?’

‘Better than me, probably, but it’s hard to tell. He’s in his room most of the time, or out. He’s at Max’s right now.’

We stand and look at each other, clearly unsure of what to say next. Paolo shoves his hands in his pockets and inhales deeply; I wonder now if Bea insisted he came over to check on my mental state. ‘No pub quiz for you tonight then,’ he adds in a lame attempt to lighten the mood.

‘Oh, God. I’d forgotten that’s tonight. The final as well …’

‘Ah, sod it,’ he says. ‘They’ll have to rope in a couple of substitutes – though God knows they’ll be stuffed without us two. You know what Bazza’s like with his obscure sixties music questions …’

I raise a smile, wishing Paulo would come to the conclusion that he really should go and leave me alone now.

‘So, that rules out the Lamb and Flag for us tonight,’ he continues, while I try to figure out how to break it to him that I’m not really in the mood for going anywhere. ‘We’ll go to the Wheatsheaf instead,’ he adds.

‘No thanks,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s great of you to come over – I appreciate that – but, really, I’m not up to—’

‘So you’d rather stay here,’ he interrupts, ‘on your own, feeling like shit?’

Well, yes.

‘C’mon, get your jacket,’ Paolo says firmly. ‘We’re going out.’

Chapter Eight

For a man who once tried to cook a potato waffle in a Corby trouser press, Paolo is actually pretty smart. He was right to drag me out of the house, to force me to drink beer and tell him exactly what had happened. And when I extract Sinead’s list from my pocket and hand it to him, it’s actually a relief to have it out there, and not just looping endlessly in my brain like some kind of torture technique.

‘Christ,’ he murmurs as he scans the lines. ‘So she actually gave this to you?’

‘Well, no – not exactly. She left it for me to find in the kitchen, after she’d gone.’

‘Bloody hell. What made her do that?’

I shrug. ‘So I’d know exactly why she’s been so unhappy, I guess. It must have all poured out. Look at her writing. It’s so messy. She’s usually much neater—’

‘Never mind the handwriting analysis,’ Paolo says brusquely. ‘You poor bugger. Jesus …’ He shakes his head and exhales.

Most of Sinead’s friends – and, I’ve always suspected, Sinead herself – fancy Paolo, and anyone can see why. He’s a tall, charming and handsome bastard, not to put too fine a point on it; of Italian parentage, which serves only to boost his appeal. We were friends in secondary school in Huddersfield, and he and his wife Bea settled here when they started their family.

‘So, where did you see her today?’ I ask.

‘Just on the high street. She’d been shopping. She didn’t say much. Just that she’d left, she was sure you’d tell me, and that she’s staying at Abby’s …’ Looking back at the list, he starts to read aloud: ‘“You don’t listen to me. You take me for granted”.’

‘Yes, okay,’ I say quickly, glancing around the pub. At just after 8 p.m., it’s already bustling; we were lucky to nab the quiet booth right at the back.

‘“You don’t consider my needs”,’ he continues. ‘“No effort made re us as a couple …”’

‘There’s no need to read it all out,’ I murmur. ‘I’ve read it so many times, I could probably recite it by heart.’

Paolo sips his beer and frowns. ‘Did you really give her the money to buy her own Christmas present?’

‘Well, yes,’ I reply hotly, ‘because I’d bought her a skirt for her birthday, which I thought she’d look sensational in. But she just gave it this withering look—’

‘So you thought it was more practical to just give her cash instead,’ Paolo concludes.

I nod. ‘Exactly.’

‘But she found it unromantic.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ I say, prickling with defensiveness now.

Paolo fixes me with a look across the table. ‘Right. So, you’re looking at this list as your P45? I mean, you reckon it really is over?’

‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘It’s not just that. There was an email as well, and then she came over last night and spelled it all out really.’

Paolo sighs. ‘Yeah, but I don’t think it’s like that at all. What I mean is, I don’t think she thought it all through, you know? I bet it just all came out in a splurge, after a few wines. She was probably feeling a bit pissed off, and then, before she knew it, she’d worked herself up into a right old froth about being unappreciated, about life being all drudge and no fun …’

‘Okay!’ I cut in.

‘… and convinced herself that she really had no option but to leave you,’ he concludes, stopping to sip his pint.

‘Right. Doesn’t really help, though, does it?’

‘It does, actually …’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘Well, look – first thing, stop panicking …’

‘I’d say it’s a pretty normal human reaction,’ I remark.

‘Yeah, but it won’t help you in this situation because you’re going to need a clear head.’

I frown at him. ‘A clear head for what?’

Paolo slides the list to me across the table. ‘Listen, mate – it seems to me like she’s written down your instructions right here.’

I pick it up and study it again. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Oh, come on. Can’t you see that’s exactly why she’s done this? What she wants you to do is work your way through all the points on the list and put them right.’ He pauses. ‘She’s giving you a chance, mate.’

I almost laugh. Paulo isn’t a therapist or a psychologist; he’s an electrician (‘Bea’s so lucky, having such a handy husband!’ Sinead has crooned more than once). However, as his own marriage seems to be extremely happy, perhaps he does know a thing or two about the workings of the female mind.

‘Rectify all my faults, you mean?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ he says brightly.

‘But …’ I stare down at it. ‘There’s a hell of a lot of points on here …’

‘Oh, come on,’ he exclaims, draining his glass. ‘You want her back, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, of course I do!’

‘Isn’t she worth it, then?’ he asks with a maddening glint in his eye.

I twiddle with my glass. ‘Yes, she is,’ I say quietly. ‘But some of them …’ I pause. ‘I mean, the DIY thing, that’s easy – I’ll just get a joiner in next time, not even bother trying to save us money …’ I catch Paolo’s warning look and try to erase the bitterness from my voice. ‘But what about where she’s just written, “YOUR MOTHER!!!”? I mean, I love Sinead – I’d do pretty much anything for her – but I’m not sure I’d have my mum assassinated.’

Paolo snorts. ‘I’m sure you can figure something out. It’s going to be a test of your ingenuity and, when you’ve got to the end, you won’t even recognise yourself …’

I chuckle dryly. ‘Is that supposed to be a good thing?’

He smiles and gets up to go to the bar, adding, ‘Just get to it, starting tonight. Look at it this way – you really don’t have anything to lose.’

He’s right, of course – and after another couple of beers I find myself heading home feeling, okay, a little pissed, but also in a far more positive frame of mind. My friend’s enthusiasm for life is infectious, I decide. Maybe I should try to be more like Paolo: charming, positive, Italian. I catch sight of Howard apparently swatting a fly at his living room window and wave quickly, then hurry into my house.

Flynn is home, and greets me with a rather subdued, ‘Hey, Dad.’ We sit together and watch some trash on the TV, which he enjoys from time to time: young people on their first dates. It all seems terribly contrived and awkward, and I start to feel as if I’m there on the dates with them, at least double their age, a sort of chaperone, stiff and uncomfortable with my hands bunched into tight fists.

‘Sorry about all that,’ I murmur, during an ad break. ‘The guitar thing, I mean. I was upset, but that was no reason to act that way. I just meant—’

‘It’s okay,’ he says lightly.

I glance at my son as he pops strong-smelling cheesy Doritos from a family packet into his mouth. If Sinead were here, the Doritos would be in a bowl. As the dating programme resumes, I find myself spinning off, thinking now of the little things she hates, mostly food-related: people licking their fingers and running them around the inside of a Doritos packet in order to collect the orangey powder residue; witnessing anyone piercing a fried egg yolk with a fork.

The programme ends, and Flynn and I say a companionable goodnight. Leaving him strumming his acoustic guitar on the sofa, I manage not to comment or even compliment his technique. Instead, I escape to our bedroom (no, my bedroom now – Christ!) where I change into pyjamas and sit up in bed with Sinead’s list to my side and my laptop in front of me.

The list is becoming rather raggedy now from being carted around in various pockets and re-folded numerous times. So I open a new document and start to type it out, line by line, each and every one of my heinous shortcomings.

Only now, bolstered by Paolo, the sight of it no longer triggers a great wave of panic and dismay. I glance up for a moment, my gaze resting upon Sinead’s red and white spotty dressing gown hanging from the hook on our bedroom door. I look back down quickly and resume typing, taking care to copy the list exactly, even her flamboyant usage of exclamation marks. And when I’ve finished, and it’s all there in a Word document, I can see that Paolo was right.

It’s not really a list. At least, that’s not all it is. It’s a challenge to be a better person; my instruction manual on how to be the sort of husband Sinead needs me to be. I will be that person – for her, for my family – and I will win her back.

Chapter Nine

‘She’s left you? You mean, she’s just walked out on you – and Flynn?’

‘No, not on Flynn, it’s not like that …’

‘She’s gone and left her own son, with everything he has to deal with in life?’

I jab a finger at the kitchen ceiling. ‘Shhh! He’s upstairs in bed. He’ll hear you …’

My mother shakes her head and looks pointedly around the room, as if it has fallen into terrible disrepair since Sinead’s departure. In fact, it is gleaming. I was up two hours ago, at 7 a.m., scrubbing and shining, eager to get started on working my way through the list.

You leave too much to me, she’d written. Perhaps I did. But not anymore. The bathroom dazzles; the kitchen bin smells like a summer rose; even the fridge has been wiped out and reorganised, with Sinead’s wilting spinach disposed of and all the jar labels facing the right way. It’s just a pity my wife isn’t here to see it.

Mindful, too, of Sinead’s YOUR MOTHER!!! point, I also decided to tell Mum precisely what had happened as soon as she arrived, rather than staggering through some terrible, ‘Oh, Sinead’s just popped out’ kind of charade.

‘I have to say, you seem remarkably … calm,’ she acknowledges now.

‘Well, I can’t just fall to pieces,’ I say, as if I have been the epitome of composure since my wife left me.

‘This must be terribly tough for you, though. Humiliating, too …’ Mum perches on a kitchen chair, and I hand her a coffee. Sunshine streams in through the newly-cleaned kitchen window on this bright Sunday morning.

‘Hmmm,’ I reply non-committally.

She sips her coffee. ‘This is very milky, Nate.’

Yes, because I have sloshed in extra cold milk so it’s drinkable right away. ‘Is it? I’ll make you another …’

‘No, no, it’s fine.’ Her mouth curls into a frown, and I am aware of her gaze following me as I potter about the kitchen. ‘So, where is she then?’

‘Just staying at a friend’s for the moment.’

Mum sniffs. ‘So, she thinks that’s okay? To just leave Flynn, at this crucial stage—’

‘Please stop this,’ I cut in. ‘That’s not what this is about …’

‘Well, what am I supposed to say?’ she asks.

‘You’re not supposed to say anything, actually.’

‘But I think I’m entitled, when it affects my grandchild …’

‘Mum, Flynn’s fine,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t go into all the details about this now. I’m only just trying to figure out things for myself.’ I inhale deeply and lean against the fridge.

‘Is there someone else?’ she asks, arching a brow.

‘No, of course not.’ I stare at her, aghast.

A wash of sanctimoniousness settles over her face. ‘I don’t mean with you. God knows, Nate, with that job of yours and everything else you have on your plate, I can’t imagine you’d have the time …’

‘Mum, please—’

‘I’m only trying to help,’ she points out, as if she’s the one who’s been wronged. She pushes back her chair with a loud scrape, and makes a great show of searching around the kitchen for Bella’s feeding bowl, lead and plastic poo bag dispenser, sighing in irritation that I haven’t had everything packed and ready in her oilskin bag.

‘Okay, if you don’t want to talk about it,’ she remarks coolly. ‘So, any idea where Bella’s pigs’ ears might be?’

Ah, those gnarly treats – ‘They’re actual ears of pig!’ Flynn once announced with fascination – that Sinead always hides away at the bottom of our veg rack. I unearth the packet and hand them to Mum. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thank you.’ She packs them into the bag and makes a point of wiping out Bella’s bowl with a piece of kitchen roll. ‘So, where do you and Sinead go from here, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I really have no idea,’ I reply, even keener for her to leave, now that she’s raised the possibility of my wife seeing someone else. Could she have met someone? I’m wondering now. Have I been an idiot to not even consider that this is the real reason, as opposed to my apparent incompetence with a spirit level and drill?

Flynn appears in the doorway, rubbing at his face. ‘Hey, Grandma,’ he drawls with a bleary smile.

‘Oh, Flynn,’ she exclaims, instantly adopting a ‘darling baby, abandoned by his mother!’ voice. ‘How are you, love?’

‘I’m okay.’ He hugs her briefly before grabbing a loaf from the bread bin and shoving a slice into his mouth.

Mum peers at him and scowls in concern. ‘Couldn’t you toast that, darling?’ she suggests.

‘Nah, s’okay …’ He shrugs.

‘Or at least put butter or jam on it?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

He grimaces at me. ‘Thanks, Dad. I’m aware of the options regarding toppings, but it’s fine.’ He crams another slice into his mouth, fills a half-pint glass to the brim with milk and takes a hearty swig.

‘Well, Flynn, Bella and I are off now,’ Mum announces.

‘Okay. See you soon, Grandma.’ He gives her a brief kiss on the cheek.

We leave him alternating between chomping on bread and swigging milk as I carry out Bella’s basket and see Mum to her car.

She frowns at me as Bella jumps obligingly into the boot. ‘Oh, Nate. That poor, poor boy, with a broken home now …’

‘He’s all right, Mum. Really …’

‘He didn’t look all right, stuffing dry bread into his mouth!’

Despite everything, I can’t help laughing. ‘That’s not because of Sinead leaving.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ She bangs the boot shut.

‘Because,’ I say, in an overly patient voice, ‘he has dry bread all the time. It’s not a broken-home thing – it’s a teenage thing. Toasting or buttering it is just too much effort—’

‘That’s because of his condition—’

‘No, it’s not,’ I exclaim. ‘You know Flynn, what he’s capable of. Of course he can make toast. He can cook an entire dinner, actually. Peel spuds, roast a chicken, make one of those terrible microwave cakes—’

‘If you say so …’

Christ, is she always as maddening as this? Probably, I decide as she climbs into her car. Until now, I’ve allowed her to breeze in and say pretty much whatever she likes without challenging her. On and on she went, about Sinead’s non-existent massage, and all I said in her defence was, ‘A massage isn’t that big a deal’, effectively putting my mother’s feelings before my wife’s. It wasn’t just that, either. There was the, ‘Your turkey’s always quite dry, isn’t it?’ comment last Christmas, when Sinead had been up at 6 a.m. to cram the damned bird into the oven, and then that remark about the shimmery red dress my wife chose – and looked sensational in – for Flynn’s solo guitar performance at the school concert. ‘It looks quite nice,’ Mum had remarked tersely, ‘from the back.’ Years and years of spiky comments, which Sinead has remarked upon now and again, only for me to try and placate her with an, Oh, you know what Mum’s like …

She winds down her driver’s side window and peers at me. ‘Well, you take care, Nate.’

‘Thanks, Mum. You too.’

She pauses, her lips set in a thin line, her hands gripping the steering wheel unnecessarily, seeing as she hasn’t even turned on the engine yet. And then out it comes: ‘You know, I don’t think Sinead has ever appreciated all you’ve done for this family.’

I gawp at her, unable to respond for a moment.

‘All those years,’ she continues, ‘not having to go out to work while you gave up your career in music—’

‘Career in music?’ I retort. ‘It was just a few crappy bands …’

‘… and went through that gruelling driving examiner training, just to ensure she had the lifestyle she wanted …’

‘Mum!’ I snap. ‘What on earth are you talking about? What “lifestyle”?’

She blinks at me, clearly startled by my response. ‘Well, Sinead’s never wanted for anything, as far as I can see.’

I look at my mother, fury rising in my chest now, but knowing there’s no point in explaining that Sinead buys most of her clothes from charity shops, drives a car that’s on its last legs and probably has her hair done around twice a year. There’s no point, because Mum would never listen. ‘I won’t have you running her down,’ is all I say, taken aback by the calm but firm voice that seems to be coming out of my mouth.

Mum’s eyes widen. ‘I’m only saying—’

‘Well, just don’t, okay? I mean that, Mum. That’s my wife you’re talking about. I know we’ve separated, but I won’t have it, all right? And I don’t want to hear anything like that again—’

‘Joe never speaks to me like this!’

Ah: the spectre of my perfect younger brother rears its head. We stare at each other, invisible horns locked. ‘No, well, you don’t have a go at his wife, do you?’

‘No, because Lorraine would never walk out on their kids …’

‘Stop this, Mum. Stop it right now—’

‘Stop what? I haven’t done anything!’ She looks aghast, then clamps her mouth shut and closes the window. With just a quick backwards glance towards Bella, who is sitting demurely in the rear – and who we look after every time Mum goes away – she switches on the engine.

There’s no goodbye, and no wave; just a jutted-out chin and her cool gaze fixed determinedly ahead. But I know she’s rattled as she pulls away, as her failure to mirror-signal-manoeuvre correctly causes an oncoming taxi driver to toot at her. Guilt snags at me as she gestures angrily, then disappears from sight.

*

Despite his Victorian-street-urchin diet, Flynn does seem okay as the day progresses. Max and Luke come over, and they all hang out in the living room, chatting away and playing guitars. Understanding that I am required to keep out of their way, I tackle the laundry, then head out to the back garden to mow the lawn and gouge out weeds from between the patio paving stones. Whilst not exactly joy-making, these tasks at least prove useful in stopping me pacing about, obsessively trying to work out who Sinead’s new boyfriend might be, not that I think for one second that she is sleeping with someone else. But then, even if she isn’t yet, at some point in the future she will be, unless I can make myself truly worthy of her.

As I empty the mower’s grass container, a particularly unsettling image forms in my brain: of some dashing bloke – Hugh Grant at his peak – sauntering into the gift shop and being overwhelmed by the confusing array of candles on offer. Gosh, he really can’t decide! He glances over at the woman sitting at the till, registers her gorgeousness and falls instantly in love.

Meanwhile, at my work, I have people referring to me as ‘that lanky fucker with the glasses’.

Back indoors, as I wipe down the entire upstairs’ skirting boards – so much dust! How come I’d never noticed before? – it occurs to me that I really should have stood up to Mum years ago, whenever she was offhand or downright rude to my wife. Mum was never like that with Kate Whickham, the girl I was seeing just before I met Sinead. Kate who’d been to Oxford and whose family ‘owned land’, and was working as a consultant, which seemed to impress Mum hugely, even though she didn’t fully understand what a consultant actually did. Meanwhile Sinead, who was awash with orders for her jewellery, was regarded with suspicion right from the start. ‘She seems nice enough,’ Mum said coolly, after their first meeting.

Frozen pizza and oven chips aren’t exactly top-quality fare, but it’s what the boys want for dinner and, anyway, we can eat whatever we want now and to hell with it. I walk Scout in the rain, which seems to suit the new weekend mood. Back home, soaked to the bones, I run a bath and clamber into it, convincing myself that of course Sinead isn’t out on a date right now, canoodling in some bar with her tongue in someone’s mouth, but merely watching a box set with Abby.

I mean, she left me on Wednesday night and it’s only Sunday evening. Surely no one could meet someone that quickly, unless … she’s been seeing someone else all along?

I eye my phone, which I have placed on the side of the bath in case she wants to talk to me. A text pings in from my mother: Very upset after the way you snapped at me today. Spoke to Joe. We are both v worried. He thinks you might be having some kind of breakdown?

Let them think what they want, I decide, placing my phone back on the side of the bath and reclining into the warm water. Let them discuss my mental health and the fact that I was a little offish with Mum today. However, I know the truth. My first weekend without my wife is, thankfully, almost over and – whilst hardly brimming with joie de vivre – I have at least survived it.

‘I’m not going to fall apart,’ I say aloud.

And now, when I run through Sinead’s list in my head, another idea starts to form in my mind. Never mind all this cleaning and weeding and snapping at Mum. A kind, loving gesture is what’s needed: something to prove to Sinead that I’m capable of making everything right. I’ll get onto it tomorrow and choose her something thoughtful. But right now, I sense myself drifting, lulled by comforting thoughts of Sinead’s surprised but delighted expression as I turn up at Abby’s with … well, I don’t know what exactly. But I’m sure I’ll think of something.

It’s my wife’s heart-lifting smile I’m thinking of as I stretch out and knock my iPhone with my elbow so it plummets, with a small splash, to the bottom of the bath.

Chapter Ten
Sinead

It’s 7.45 a.m. when my mobile rings. Wrapped in a towel, I race from Abby’s bathroom to my bedroom in order to retrieve it. HOME is displayed on the screen.

‘Hello?’ I bark in panic. No one ever uses our house phone.

‘Hi,’ Nate says.

‘Nate? What is it? What’s wrong?’ It comes out more sharply than I’d intended.

‘Erm, nothing. I just …’

‘Why are you calling me on the landline?’

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