‘You stupid little boy!’ I can’t help it. I can feel Hugh bristle behind me; he takes a step forward, is about to speak. I get in ahead of him. ‘Where d’you think you’re going to go? Running away? At your age? Don’t be so ridiculous.’
He looks wounded.
‘You think you’d last more than five minutes?’
‘I’m going to see Evie!’ he yells, his face inches from mine. His spittle falls on my lips.
‘Evie?’ I start to laugh. I’m regretting it already, but somehow powerless to stop speaking. ‘Your girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your girlfriend who you only talk to online?’
His face falls. I can see I’m right.
His voice cracks. ‘So?’ I experience a moment of triumph then feel utterly wretched.
‘Are you even sure she’s who she says she is?’
I mean it to be a genuine question, yet it comes out as a sneering accusation.
‘Julia…’ Hugh’s taken another step forward, is by my side now. I can feel his heat, the faint aroma of his body after a day in the office. ‘Enough,’ he says. He puts his hand on my arm and I shrug it off.
There’s a long silence. Connor stares at me with a look of absolute hatred in his eyes, then he says, ‘For fuck’s sake, of course she’s who she says she is!’
‘That’s enough of your language,’ says Hugh. He’s picked his team. ‘Both of you, just calm down—’
I ignore him. ‘You’ve spoken to her? Have you? Or are you just Facebook friends?’
My tone is supremely condescending, as if I find him pathetic. I don’t. It’s me I’m really talking to. I did exactly that, fell for someone on the internet. It’s myself I’m furious with, not him.
I try to calm down, but I can’t. My anger is unstoppable.
‘Of course I’ve spoken to her. She’s my girlfriend.’ He stares right at me. ‘Whether you like it or not, Mum.’ He pauses, and I know what he’s going to say next. ‘She loves me.’
‘Love?’ I want to laugh out loud, yet manage to stop myself. ‘As if you –’
‘Julia!’ says Hugh. His voice is loud. It’s an attempt to shock me into silence, but I won’t be silenced.
‘– as if you have any idea about love. You’re fourteen years old, Connor. Fourteen. How old is she?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘How old, Connor?’
‘What does it matter?’
Hugh speaks again. ‘Connor! Your mother asked you a question.’
He turns to his father. Go on, I think. I dare you. Say ‘Fuck you’ to him.
He won’t, of course. ‘Eighteen,’ he says. He’s lying, I know it. I snort. It’s through nerves, through fear, but I can’t help it.
‘Eighteen?’ I say. ‘No, Connor. No way can you go and see her. No way—’
‘You can’t stop me.’
He’s right. If he were determined enough, then there’d be nothing I could do.
‘Where does she live?’
He says nothing.
‘Connor,’ I say again. ‘Where does she live?’
He remains silent. I can see that he won’t tell me. ‘I’m guessing from the bag that it’s not up the road,’ I say. ‘So how’re you going to get there? Eh?’
Connor knows he’s beaten. He can’t survive without me, not yet.
‘I want to go and see her!’ His voice rises, it takes on a pleading edge, and I’m taken back to when he was a child, to when he wanted an ice cream or another bag of sweets, to stay up late to watch some show on TV. ‘Everything else this year’s been shit!’ he says. ‘Except for her! And you know why, Mum!’ It’s an accusation, hurled; it hurts because it’s true, and he knows it. It crosses my mind he did see the kiss I shared with Paddy after all; he’s been storing it up, it’s now when he’ll tell his father. I shake my head. I want him to cry, to turn back into the child I know how to comfort, but he remains resolute. He’s determined.
‘I hate you. I wish you’d never taken me. I wish you’d left me with my real mother!’
It breaks. Whatever I’d been holding in check, it finally breaks. I slap him, hard, across the face.
‘You ungrateful little shit.’ I hate myself as soon as it’s out of my mouth, but it’s too late. His eyes are smarting, but he’s smiling. He knows he’s won. I’ve lost my temper. He’s become the adult and I’m the child.
I hold out my hand. ‘Give me your phone.’
‘No.’
‘Connor.’ Still he doesn’t move. ‘Your phone.’
‘No!’
I look round, at Hugh. My head is tilted, imploring. I hate having to make this request for him to step in, but this is a battle I can’t afford to lose. He hesitates; there’s a long moment when I’m not sure what he’s going to say or do, then he speaks.
‘Give your mother your phone, Connor. You’re grounded for a week.’
Hugh and I sit on the sofa. Together, but separate. We’re not touching. Connor is upstairs. Sulking. He’s surrendered his phone, dug out his old model from one of his drawers, which we’ve told him he can keep. It has no internet connection; he can make calls, receive texts, take pictures. But that’s it. No Facebook. No Twitter. We’ve left his computer in his room, but I’ve told him he has to delete every friend he doesn’t know in real life. He complained, but I told him it was that or I’d take away his computer altogether. He’s behaving as if we’ve cut off a limb.
‘So…’ I begin. Hugh looks at me with something like pity. There’s a calmness in the room, despite the music Connor has insisted on playing loudly upstairs. In an odd way it’s refreshing that Hugh and I are united on something.
‘It’ll blow over. I promise you.’
Shall I tell him? I think. I could, even though it would end it all. My marriage, this life I’ve built, my relationship with Connor. All of it would go.
Yet still I imagine it. I’d take his hand, look him in the eye. ‘Hugh,’ I’d say. ‘There’s something you need to know.’ He’d know, of course, that something was wrong, that it was something bad. I wonder what he’d think: I’m ill, I’m leaving him, I want to move out of London? I wonder what his deepest fears are, where his mind would race. ‘Darling,’ he’d say, ‘what is it?’ And then I suppose I’d say something about how I love him and always have and that hasn’t changed. He’d nod, waiting for the blow, and then, eventually, once I’ve prepared the ground, I’d tell him. ‘I met someone. I met someone and we’ve been having sex, but it’s over. And it turns out that he was already engaged, to Anna of all people, and he has pictures and now he’s trying to blackmail me.’
What would he do? We’d row. Of course we would. Things might be thrown. He’d blame the fact that I’d had a drink, I guess. And my duty would be to let him explode, to let him be angry and accuse me of whatever he wanted, to duck the crockery and to remain silent while he blows off his rage and Connor hears it all.
And then, if I’m lucky, we might be able to figure out what to do, how to stay together. Or – just as likely, if not more so – that would be it. I’ve betrayed him. I know what he’d say. He’d tell me I could have let him help me cope with Kate’s death, but instead I’d run. First, in Paris, I ran to the bottle, back here I ran to the internet, then to bed with a stranger. I’ve no doubt he’d help me to sort out whatever mess I’m in, help Anna, but that would be it. Our relationship would be over.
And he’d want to take Connor, and Connor would want to go with him, and I’d be powerless to stop them. My life would be over. Everything gone. Even the thought of it is utterly unbearable.