‘Whore,’ Mia whispers under her breath.
‘Mia!’
A curtain of tangled dark hair obscures her face.
‘I’ve met someone I like a great deal, and I’d like to introduce him to you.’
Oliver looks dumbfounded. He drops his spoon and it clatters into his cereal bowl, splattering milk on the table.
‘I’m sorry this is such a shock for you both. I know you’ve been through so much. Too much. But please know I love you both with all my heart and that will never, ever change. His name is Patrick, and I’ve invited him for supper so you can both meet him.’
Mia scrapes her chair back and flees the room.
Oliver bursts into tears.
I throw my arms around him. It’s obvious I’ve done this all wrong. But how should I have told them? Surely it’s better that they know the truth? Oliver lets me hug him and soothe him until his tears dry up, and all of a sudden, he pulls away from me, as if he’s remembered that he’s too old for his mother’s arms.
‘Are you very upset?’ I ask him.
He shrugs. ‘Are we getting a new dad, then?’
‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘Not at all. He’s my… boyfriend.’ Such a silly word for a woman of my age. ‘I like him very much, and I’d like you to meet him too.’
‘Ok,’ Oliver says, standing up. He also leaves the room.
I don’t know what to do about Mia’s reaction. Oliver has always been more straightforward, his feelings showing on his face. He is the sort of child who expresses his emotions and gets rid of them, quickly moving on. Mia is the opposite. It scares me how much of a cauldron is bubbling inside her, when it might rise to the surface and explode. I have offered for her to talk to someone, explaining that a counsellor is just an objective listener, a person who understands the process of grief and shock, but she insists there’s nothing wrong with her, that lots of kids lose their parents, that she’s got plenty of friends she can talk to. And I haven’t pushed it.
I spend the day trying to speak to Mia, but she’s either rude to me or refuses to talk. I call Cassie.
‘I’m a crap mother.’
‘You’re not. You’re trying to do your best in a crap situation. Mia is hurting and it’s understandable.’
‘Is it too soon to introduce them to Patrick?’
‘Possibly.’
I groan, wondering if I have been too impulsive, whether I should uninvite him.
‘But I want to be honest with the kids. No more pretense.’
‘Well, then, you’re doing the right thing. Tell Mia she can always talk to me if she wants to.’
‘Thanks, Cass. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
Patrick arrives on the dot of 7 p.m. I have made Mia’s favourite roast chicken and Oliver’s favourite pancakes for pudding. I don’t suppose it will make any difference. I’m not sure whether to warn Patrick about the kids’ reactions, but decide not to. I don’t want to make him any more uncomfortable. He is wearing suit trousers and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves – strange for a Sunday. He gives me a kiss on the cheek and proffers another rose.
‘Do you mind if we don’t touch at all whilst you’re here?’ I whisper, feeling myself flush.
‘Of course.’
He follows me into the kitchen, and I try to imagine seeing it through his eyes. It is a fabulous room, part of the converted barn, with the complex oak beams and rafters on display. The handmade kitchen is painted in cream, with a navy-blue island unit, and the work surfaces are a seamless white Corian, beautiful, if somewhat impractical. I hate having to scour the sink with bleach to get rid of tea bag stains. We have a black Aga as well as two conventional ovens. I never use the steam oven. At the far end of the room is a massive oak table large enough to seat fourteen people.
‘Wow!’ Patrick whistles gently. He isn’t the first and he won’t be the last to be impressed. Ours is the sort of kitchen you see laid out on the pages of glossy magazines. I know how lucky I am.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘A beer would be great.’
‘Food is nearly ready,’ I say as I hand him a glass. ‘I’m just going to call the kids.’
I walk to the bottom of the stairs and shout, ‘Supper’s ready!’
Oliver comes clattering down and careers into the kitchen. I wonder if he’s forgotten that Patrick was going to be here, because he freezes.
‘Hello,’ Patrick says. ‘You must be Oliver?’
Oliver gawps at him.
My boy is well brought up, because he snaps out of the moment quickly and shakes Patrick’s hand.
‘Are you into Minecraft?’ Patrick asks. ‘Because my nephew is the same age as you and he’s obsessed. I could do with a few lessons if you’re up to it at any time?’
‘Sure,’ Oliver says.
‘Darling, could you go and get your sister for me, please?’
He sighs, but thumps back upstairs. A few seconds later he re-emerges. ‘Mia says she’s not hungry.’
‘What!’ I turn to Patrick. ‘I’m sorry. Mia has been struggling of late.’
‘That’s totally understandable.’
‘Why don’t you two start, and I’ll go and have a word with her.’
‘How about I carve and you can go and chat to Mia. I’m sure Oliver and I can manage the serving. Hey, Oliver?’
I find a carving knife and some serving bowls and leave them on the side for Patrick.
Upstairs, Mia is on her bed with her headphones clamped to her ears. She doesn’t look up when I stand next to her bed.
‘Darling, you need to eat.’
She ignores me and I wonder if she can even hear what I’m saying, as the music is thumping so loudly. I reach over and try to pull her headphones off.
‘Don’t!’
But one earphone is off now.
‘I know you don’t want to meet Patrick, but I’d rather you did. It’s polite and I don’t want to be hiding things from you.’
‘You’re gross, Mother. I don’t want to know who you’re shagging. I’ll eat later.’
‘No, you will come downstairs now. You don’t need to make conversation, but you will join us.’
‘And if I don’t? What can you do?’
‘Don’t push me, Mia.’ I try to withhold my tears. I remember when Mia was a toddler and she threw herself down on the floor in Tesco, screaming and wailing because I wouldn’t let her have a packet of jelly babies. I was mortified at the time, but now I think how much easier those days were. I didn’t have to walk on eggshells. People are forgiving of parents with temper-tantrum toddlers.
She sighs melodramatically. ‘If it means so much to you, I’ll come and see lover boy, but don’t expect me to talk.’
She follows me downstairs and into the kitchen. She’s wearing shorts that barely cover her backside and a shapeless baggy T-shirt with the name of a band I’ve never heard of. As she sits at the table, she clamps her headphones back over her ears and keeps her eyes on her bitten fingernails.
‘Hello, Mia.’ Patrick tries to engage with her. She doesn’t look up.