‘Like setting up another coffee shop that only hires care leavers?’
The Cracked Teapot is all about helping teenagers transition out of care.
‘Possibly, but there are other ways. He could volunteer at a youth club or mentor a teenager. I used to hate it when we lived in London and people complained about addiction problems in their area. “Don’t complain, do something!” I wanted to shout. Get involved in the community, find out where the problems are, why there’s a problem, and try to work out how you can help. Stop living for comfort and care. Even giving support to another foster family is worth its weight in gold. Do you remember when Ashlee and Nia landed on us with next to no notice and I was run off my feet?’
I nod.
‘Do you remember how Veronica came over that day with a homemade casserole that she’d prepared for her own family and gave it to us instead?’
I shake my head, my nose beginning to prickle.
‘What she did meant so much to me. She didn’t want to be a foster parent herself, but she was able to support me, and that helped. Social workers need support too: a shoulder to lean on, an ear to listen. It all helps the bigger picture. It really does take a village and we can all do a bit more.’
‘I’m worried George wouldn’t be able to cope when the children come to leave him.’
‘He’d pull the strength from somewhere,’ Mum assures me. ‘He’d have to. People used to say to me, “I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t do it; I couldn’t say goodbye.” But you can and you do and it hurts and it never stops hurting. But it’s not meant to be easy. These kids need someone to care for them and hurt for them and never want to let them go. Someone has to. I had to. Your dad and I both did. It was our calling.’
I’m overcome with emotion at hearing Mum speak so passionately. We don’t often talk about it.
‘I know it was hard for you at times, Lee-Lee,’ she says to me as tears roll down my cheeks. ‘And I’m sorry about that. But I hope you understand. Now that you have Emilie, I hope you understand.’
‘I do.’ I nod and her eyes well up too.
‘Fostering is the best thing I have ever done with my life,’ she states fervently.
I believe it.
* * *
George comes home at eleven, as we’re calling it a night.
‘You’re back early,’ Mum says with delight.
Usually we’re fast asleep by the time he returns, knackered after Emilie-induced early mornings.
‘It was surprisingly quiet tonight,’ he replies with a smile, and I realise there’s an unusual energy radiating from him. ‘I have news.’
‘What is it?’ Mum and I ask in unison.
‘A job at Forestry England has come up. They want me to go for an interview on Monday.’
‘Oh George, that’s fantastic!’ Mum cries as my heart leaps. ‘Here in North Yorkshire?’
Now my heart lurches, but he replies with a yes and it soars again.
‘I’m off to bed, but sit down and have a drink with Leah,’ she urges. ‘You should celebrate.’
‘I haven’t got the job yet,’ he says with amusement.
‘Oh, but you will.’
I admire her confidence.
George ducks out to use the bathroom, but before Mum heads upstairs, she whispers to me: ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe Emilie should call George Uncle George, like she does Uncle Jamie?’
‘Mum, no!’ My response is loud and absolute.
She looks surprised at my overreaction.
‘No. “George” is fine,’ I add more evenly.
She accepts what I’m saying with a shrug and an ‘Okay’, but I hope she doesn’t think too much about it later.
Now I understand why Jamie and Dani always stress that they didn’t have feelings for each other when they lived under the same roof. They weren’t technically foster siblings at the time as Jamie had already left for university, but their paths crossed when he came home for the holidays, as he always did.
I’m still reluctant to tell Mum that George and I have history. There’s something… I don’t know… icky about it.
George comes back with a bitter from the fridge and the bottle to top up my glass.
‘Mum just suggested Emilie call you Uncle George,’ I whisper, closing the living room door and pulling a face.
He mirrors my expression and I giggle, going to sit down beside him on the sofa.
‘Hello,’ I say, knocking my glass against his bottle.
‘Hello,’ he replies, holding my gaze with his dark eyes.
He looks so hot in his dark-green shirt, layered over a plain white T-shirt. He’s got his extra well-worn denim jeans on too. It’s a style I’m familiar with: understated, yet cool. I like his clothes very much, but after what I saw a few days ago outside the bathroom, I’m getting increasingly eager to see him out of them.
I know he won’t make the first move, though. It has to come from me. We’ve reached an unspoken understanding and he won’t act until I show him I’m ready.
Right then and there, seeing him sitting a foot away from me with his arm draped over the back of the sofa and his foot resting casually on his knee, not to mention the bottle being pressed to his lips, I do feel ready.
I close the distance between us. His outstretched arm is behind my shoulders, but it comes around me now as he pulls me closer. His body is so warm and solid, his arms so strong and capable. He looks down at me, a smile tugging the corner of his lips.
He takes another swig from his bottle and I stare at his mouth, mesmerised.
We’re only inches away.
He lowers his drink and stares at me until the air leaves my lungs, then he turns and puts the bottle down on the side table and I’m pressing my glass into his empty hand, silently asking him to do the same with mine.
A moment later, I’m straddling his hips. I slide my palms up his hard chest and he digs his fingertips into the small of my back and edges me closer. The heat of him is spreading everywhere. I am aching for him, and judging by what I’m beginning to feel beneath me, I believe the feeling is mutual.
Desire burns in his eyes and I slowly bring my mouth down to his. It’s all the permission he needs.
Chapter 32 Now
The next morning, George finds me at the kitchen sink, rinsing out Emilie’s cereal bowl. Mum and Emilie left a moment ago to go and collect the eggs. He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest and pressing a kiss to my neck. We don’t speak for a while, we simply stand there, enjoying the feeling of being so close.
‘I love you,’ he whispers in my ear.
I twist in his arms so I’m facing him, my back against the counter. His brown eyes stare down at me, dark and intense.
‘I love you,’ I say solemnly. ‘I’ve loved you for half my life.’
I loop my arms around his neck as he brings his mouth down to mine, and our kiss is full of the words we’ve said to each other.
‘Oh!’ Mum exclaims from the doorway.
We jerk apart. George turns away and I blush and cover my face with my hands, peeking at my mother guiltily through my fingers. I feel like a naughty teenager.