Theo grins at him, a proper, surprising, the-clouds-have-cleared-and-the-sun-has-come-out kind of smile.
‘Why did you flip out?’ George asks him curiously, changing the subject.
Theo shrugs and takes a drag of his cigarette. ‘Felt like it.’ He blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth and stares at me.
I stare back at him.
I don’t know what it is about Theo Whittington that makes me want to do this – there was also this morning on the bus, out the window – but for some unknown reason, I refuse to break eye contact.
The seconds tick by and I become increasingly edgy.
But then Theo smirks and averts his gaze and I inwardly smile at my small victory.
‘When will your dad be here?’ George asks me. He seems bemused.
I check my watch. ‘Ten minutes or so.’
‘I need more cigarettes,’ Theo states.
The rain has died down so we walk with him to the high street, hanging back on the bridge while he goes into the newsagent on the corner. He’s too young to legally smoke, so if he’s going to lie about his age, I don’t want us to have any part of it.
George gazes down at the river, swirling and surging below us.
‘The water’s black,’ he muses. ‘It’s like squid ink.’
It is very dark in contrast to the brilliant green of the trees that are growing on either side of the banks. I like the analogy.
‘I think it might have something to do with the iron content in the water,’ I say. ‘Or the peaty earth.’
George doesn’t reply and I wish I’d kept quiet. I preferred his description to my explanation anyway.
He nods past me towards the newsagent. ‘What happened when you guys went to his house?’
I tell him about Brandon – and Theo’s mum’s reaction. ‘Stepmum,’ I correct myself.
‘She sounds grim,’ George says when I’ve finished. ‘Poor Theo.’
I’ve never really thought to feel sorry for him before.
He obviously doesn’t get on well with his brother, either. And his dad is an arsehole.
Maybe he’s different to his family.
Theo comes out of the shop, stuffing change into his trouser pocket. I catch sight of my parents’ Land Rover coming down the high street behind him and hold out my hand to flag down Dad. He waves and points at the car park opposite.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask Theo as we walk across the pedestrian crossing.
He seems kind of stiff.
He doesn’t answer straight away, then he asks, ‘Are you sure your dad won’t mind giving me a lift?’
‘He won’t mind at all. I promise.’
Is he feeling awkward because of the incident at his home? Dad will remember it, not only because I’ve asked about Theo this week, but because he has a memory like an elephant.
But he doesn’t bear grudges, and he certainly doesn’t hold kids accountable for the actions of a family member. Theo will see that soon enough.
We reach the car park as Dad completes his U-turn. He pulls to a stop and rolls down his window.
‘Hi, Dad, this is Theo. Can we give him a lift?’
‘Sure.’ He winces at the sight of Theo’s split lip. ‘That looks painful, son. Have you put anything on it?’ He doesn’t ask how he got it – he’s seen far worse.
Theo shakes his head.
‘Taken anything for the pain?’
Again, Theo shakes his head.
‘Grab the first aid kit from under the passenger seat, love,’ Dad prompts me. ‘There’s Ibuprofen in there.’
‘I’ll be okay,’ Theo brushes him off.
‘Well, let’s get you home so you can put a cold compress on it. Lip cuts heal quickly, but you’ll need to be careful when you eat dinner tonight. Hop in.’
I go around to the back of the car and open the rear door, glad to see Theo looking more relaxed as he climbs in. George is next, but he seems surprised when I follow.
I guess he thought I’d sit up at the front, next to my dad. But I don’t want to give him any more reasons to consider me ‘other’.
Chapter 9 Now
A week after Dad’s funeral, Jamie asks me to meet him in Ripon for lunch. There’s something he needs to talk to me about and I suspect he doesn’t want Mum to overhear.
He suggests the pub at the end of the high street and texts to say that he’s found a seat in one of the two bright front rooms. But when I walk into the eighteenth-century former coaching inn, I see that he’s not alone.
Jamie’s face lights up at the sight of me, prompting George to look over his shoulder. I meet George’s eyes with surprise and he gets up from his stool to greet me, giving me a brief hug that manages to leave me breathless, even though he barely touches me.
‘What are you drinking?’ he asks, his expression seeming marginally less intense than I remember.
‘Oh, um, a soda water for now, ta.’
He walks straight behind the bar.
Jamie distracts me from the sight of George helping himself to a glass by patting the seat beside him in invitation.
‘Now then,’ he says as I sit down, giving me an affectionate squeeze.
‘I didn’t know George worked here.’ He didn’t specify which pub when he told me he worked in Ripon. This is one of my favourites and I’m not sure how I feel about him being a semi-permanent fixture.
We look over at the bar in time to see George filling a glass with the soda gun. He’s already added ice and lemon.
‘You’d better hope he works here,’ Jamie replies. ‘Otherwise he’s about to get arrested.’ He passes me a menu. ‘You hungry?’
I nod, scanning the options. Three women walk in and pull up stools at the bar.
‘Be with you in a sec,’ I hear George tell them as he comes over and places the soda water in front of me. ‘I’ll catch up with you guys later,’ he murmurs, disappearing back behind the emerald-green panelled bar area.
‘I’ll have a burger,’ Jamie states, returning his menu to the table.
My attention is diverted by George taking the women’s order. I thought he looked good in a suit, but that was before I saw him in casual clothes. He’s wearing well-worn denim jeans and a long-sleeve dark-grey T-shirt. He nods at his customers and brushes his hand through his unruly curls as he turns away. The women exchange appreciative smiles.
I try to focus on the words written in front of me.
‘No salad,’ Jamie says, covering the corresponding section of the menu with his hand. ‘You’re fading away. Go for a pie. Come on.’ He taps the menu with his finger as I give him a weary smile. ‘Beef or chicken. Which one?’
‘Chicken.’
He gets up and I experience a stupid stab of regret that I’m not the one to lean across the bar towards George.
‘How’s Emilie?’ Jamie asks upon his return. ‘I thought you might bring her.’
‘No, Mum wanted to spend some time with her. I keep feeling as though I’ve forgotten something.’
In the last two years I can count the hours Emilie and I have spent apart on the fingers of one hand. I used to work at a boutique clothes shop in Hampstead, not far from our flat in West Hampstead. I studied Philosophy at university because I was unsure what I wanted to do with my life and thought it might help me find some clarity of mind. I graduated just as clueless as when I started, but I felt I’d landed on my feet at the shop. The owner pretty much left me to it, allowing me to order in all the clothes and build relationships with local designers. Recently she asked if I wanted my old position back, but I still haven’t been able to bring myself to put Emilie into childcare. I know she should be going to nursery at her age – she plays with the twins who live next door, but she needs more interaction with other children. The problem is, I find it hard to let her out of my sight.