Out on a Limb (20 page)

And in saying so something wonderful suddenly occurs to me.

‘Yes!’ I say. ‘
Yes
! Jake, I’ve just had a thought. I know someone who can speak Italian!’

‘Who, Mum?’

‘Well, at least I presume he can, anyway. Some at least. He must do. He lived there, didn’t he?’

‘
Who
, Mum?’

‘Gabriel Ash!’

‘What, that weather guy who came here? Hugo’s son?’

‘Exactly!’

Gabriel Ash is doing the tea-time weather forecast. Live. On air. On TV. Right at that very moment. Wearing a pink and purple tie. Which is why I can’t reach him on his mobile, I presume. I leave a message on his voicemail and a text message too, and try to desist from making any more random conjectures about why an old Italian man might have my missing son’s phone. But they come at me anyway, like runaway scuds. He’s caught Seb with his daughter. He’s locked him in a cowshed… no, no. It can’t be. He left the girl didn’t he? Another girl then… No! Why a girl, anyway? Perhaps he ran him down? Or perhaps he was out cruising for vulnerable young men… Perhaps… Oh, God. Too many perhapses for a mother.

‘And for all those of you hoping to make the most of the weekend,’ Gabriel Ash is saying brightly, ‘Make your plans for the Saturday if you can, because this current round of weather is likely to break by early Sunday, when this low pressure system –’ he wafts a hand towards his map ‘– will see rain in most areas by noon.’

Yes, yes, yes. I think. Get on with it!
Ring
me!

Exactly ten minutes after Wales Tonight has started, he does.

Which is impressive. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he says politely. ‘Is there something I can do for you, Abbie?’

‘O h, thanks so much for calling back, Gabriel! Um, yes. At least, I hope you can. I was wondering how your Italian was?’

‘My what?’

‘Your Italian. As in the language. As in speaking it, I mean.
Do
you speak it? Only I presumed you probably did, and I was wondering if I could ask you a really big favour. There’s this Italian man, and I need to be able to understand what he’s saying, and it’s really important, and…’

I have to pause here, for oxygen. ‘What man?’ he asks, taking advantage of the gap. ‘Where?’

‘In
Italy
. Only he’s got my son’s phone, and my son’s gone missing, and he obviously knows all about it – well, at least, I
hope
he does – he could have just found the phone, of course, and be trying to trace its owner, but…’

‘Your son is
missing
?’

‘
Yes
. His friend has lost track of him, and this man has his phone, but without being able to understand what he’s saying, I don’t even know where he is, let alone what he has to do with anything, and I thought if
you
could call him, you could find out for me, and then I could put him in touch with Jonathan and then he could…’

‘Okay, okay,’ he says, soothingly. ‘First things first. You have a number?’

‘I have two. I have my son’s mobile number, and I have a land line number. I thought I ought to get one in case Seb’s battery dies.’

‘Good thinking,’ he says. ‘Hang on. Let me grab a pen. Right. Give me both.’ I reel off both numbers, the latter just as I wrote it. Amazingly, all my chink-ways and settees make sense to him. ‘Right, then,’ he says, in a businesslike fashion. ‘Did you manage to get this man’s name?’

‘God, I didn’t think of that.’

‘No matter,’ he says swiftly. ‘But your son’s called Sebastian, right?’

‘Sebastian McFadden.’

‘Okay. Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can find out and call you straight back.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you,
thank
you. I’m so sorry to bother you.’

‘You’re very welcome. Hey. And keep
calm
.’

* * *

Keep calm. Yes. I know I must keep calm. But it’s so hard. All I can think of are the myriad ways in which trauma and disaster might have visited my son. ‘Oh, God,’ I say to Jake. ‘What can have
happened
to him?’

‘Probably nothing,’ Jake says with his reliable lack of panic. ‘He’s probably just dropped his phone somewhere and this guy has picked it up.’

‘But he wasn’t feeling well. Jonathan said he wasn’t feeling well, didn’t he?’

Jake shrugs. ‘Probably just had too much to drink. Left his phone somewhere. Something like that.’

Oh, I wish I had your confidence, Jakey.

The house phone rings less than ten minutes later, but already it feels like ten hours have sped by.

‘I’m sorry to have taken so long,’ says Gabriel Ash. ‘I had to make a couple of calls.’ And he says it in such a serious voice that all thoughts of hangovers and phones being mislaid now implode. I’m immediately scared absolutely witless.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Don’t worry. He’s all right.’

‘Oh, thank God. Oh thank God.’

‘But he’s in hospital.’

‘In
hospital
? Oh, God. Oh, my baby! What’s
happened
?’

‘Well, by all accounts, he’s had his appendix removed.’

I gasp at this, floored. ‘His
appendix
?’

‘His
appendix
?’ echoes Jake.

‘Yes. His appendix,’ confirms Gabriel Ash. ‘And he’s okay. He’s fine. Look, are you at home?’

‘Yes. Yes, we’re here. We’re at home.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Stay there. I’m on my way over. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘But –’

‘Sit tight,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. Keep
calm
.’

As soon as I see Gabriel Ash’s car pull up, I’m out of the front door, Spike tucked under armpit, Jake close on my heels. He’s still wearing the jacket and tie he did the weather in. He could be someone who’s come round to sell me an ISA.

In any other circumstance I would find his arrival somewhat amazing. I know full well that Broadcasting House is only a couple of miles away, but even so, it seems to go against the laws of physics that he could be smiling out from the middle of my TV screen at one point, and then walking up my front garden path minutes later. It almost doesn’t seem possible. But he’s here, even so.

For which I am terrifically grateful. He locks his car and strides across the street to the house. His limp, I notice, is already markedly improved. Is now barely noticeable, in fact.

‘Right then,’ he says, finally, sitting down at the kitchen table and unfolding a couple of sheets of A4 paper. There are lots of scribbles on them, some in English and some in Italian. He passes one of them to me. A name and an address. ‘Here’s the man’s details. Thought you’d want to have them. So. I think I’ve pretty much got all the facts. The guy I spoke to –’ He nods towards the paper, ‘– well, he found your son on his way home last night. He was doubled up in the lane, apparently, and when the guy stopped, he thought maybe he’d been hit by a car or something, but when he got out to see if he was okay he couldn’t get any sense out of him, so he got him into his truck and drove him to the hospital – ‘he checks his notes. ‘In a place called Ravenna, where they took him in. He obviously didn’t know anything about him at that point – but he did leave his name with the hospital receptionist. He’d dropped your son’s rucksack off with him, of course, but when he went to use his truck at lunchtime today he realised his jacket was still in his truck, and that it had his phone and wallet in it. And of course he realised the phone was beeping at him, and saw all the missed calls. Which was when he thought he’d better try and return the last six.’ He smiles. ‘The word ‘mum’, I think, is pretty universal, don’t you?’

‘Oh, bless him.
Bless
him. And thank heavens for that!’

‘Anyway, he told me he’s going to drive back up to the hospital later and drop it all off for him.’

‘I should phone them, pronto, shouldn’t I? Find out how he is.’

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I’ve already done that.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘That they operated last night. And that he’s doing just fine. I’ve got the number of the hospital so you can call them yourself though. The nurse I spoke to –’ he indicates a name and a number ‘– speaks pretty good English, and she’ll be able to fill you in.’

‘God, I must ring Jonathan too,’ I say. ‘
Now
. I must tell him where Seb is so he can he can get there. Is it far, this Ravenna, do you know?’

‘About fifteen, twenty kilometres north, apparently. Not too far.’

‘Right. I’d better get to it, then. And I should ring his father too, shouldn’t I? Yes. He’s only in Marseilles. He can get down there too. He can probably get down there tonight, even. And I must get back on the internet and try and book a flight. Oh, God. What a thing to happen! Oh, my poor boy!’

Gabriel Ash slides the pieces of paper across the table at me. ‘Quite a shock, eh? Look, do you want me to make you guys a cup of tea or something?’ He rises from the table in a purposeful manner.

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ I say, doing likewise. ‘Where are my manners? No, no. really. We’re fine. But what about you? You’ve come rushing all the way over here, and –’

H e rolls his eyes. ‘It’s only a ten minute drive.’

‘I know. But it’s so kind of you to do this. I’m so sorry to have bothered you. I just didn’t know what else to do.’

‘You did absolutely the right thing,’ he says firmly. ‘I’m happy I could help.’ He glances at the wall clock. ‘Look, I’d better be getting get back to work. But if there’s anything else I can do, just give me a shout, okay?’

We reach the front door and I open it for him. There’s a chillish breeze in the street, coaxing the first lemony leaves from their billets in the birch trees, and causing my upper arms to goose-pimple. I rub them.

‘Hey, good timing,’ he says, ‘for an Italian mini-break. Don’t forget what I said. If you need me, just call.’ He looks hard at me. ‘Really,’ he says. ‘I mean it.’

On impulse I reach up and peck him on the cheek. He looks embarrassed. ‘I know you do,’ I say.

And then, also on impulse, I hear myself adding, ‘Look, you know that time when you told me you were just trying to be friendly and I told you not to bother?’

He lifts a brow minutely. ‘How could I forget?’

‘Well, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I said that.’

‘Please don’t be,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I know you didn’t mean it.’

‘I hope so,’ I say. ‘Because I’m very glad you did.’

‘Hey, all part of the service,’ he says.

I bought a set of three matching Jane Shilton suitcases on wheels at a sale of seconds at McArthur Glen three years back. In an organised household, they would, naturally, be carefully stowed, all tucked up inside one another like a set of Russian dolls, and thus available and ready at all times. Not so in this house, however. Things get stowed in our loft on a shove-it-up-there basis, and generally only after their presence on the landing has begun to invoke health and safety concerns. Typically, then, the one I want on this occasion (i.e. the one that is just the right size for the sort of woman who goes off on impromptu weekend breaks, which, sadly, I’m not) is gathering colonies of spiders in a far distant corner of the loft. Which is where I am when the phone rings again an hour later. I’ve spent much of the preceding one in phone conversations; with Jonathan, with Sebastian’s father, Rob, and, lastly, with a number of airline reservations clerks, the upshot of which is that I’ll be en route tomorrow morning, to Bristol airport and thence on to Venice. Bologna is a bit nearer (or so Seb’s dad tells me) but there wasn’t a seat on a flight until Sunday, and I need to be there, like,
now
.

‘Who on earth have you been on the phone to?’ demands my mother crossly, just as soon as I clamber down and pick up the receiver in my bedroom. ‘I’ve been trying and trying and trying and trying. Didn’t it
occur
to you that I’d be trying to ring?’

My mother, who has been with Celeste to see a special showing of one of those turgid French films with sub -titles that she’s always claimed to be so fond of, sounds three sherries in – she’s pretty turgid herself. Well, of course she is. What else would she do? She is sitting, she informs me, in waspish tones, in a bar on St Mary Street. Waiting.

For
me
. For me, as-was-not-at-any-point-arranged, to pick them up. Just assumed. As with everything, always. Just
assumed
. So it is, it must be said, with just the tiniest bit of entirely inappropriate pleasure that I am able to cut short her bleating. Only short-lived, obviously, because first and foremost I am in a state of chronic maternal agitation about the fact that my sick son is almost a thousand miles away from me just when he needs me most, but it is nevertheless a small oasis of joy in a veritable Sahara of stress.

‘No,’ I say crisply. ‘It
didn’t
occur to me, I’m afraid. I have had much more pressing things to worry about, Mum.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as your grandson is in hospital.’

‘What,
Jake
?’

‘No, Mum. Sebastian.’

‘
Sebastian
?’

‘Yes, Sebastian. He’s had to have an operation to remove his appendix.’

‘His appendix?’

‘His appendix.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Gracious me. Is he all right?’

‘Yes, yes, he’s fine. Well, so his father says, at any rate. He’s going to set off for Italy tonight. I’ve got a flight booked for tomorrow.’

‘A
flight
?’

‘Well, how else am I going to get there? In a row boat?’

I hear her sharp intake of breath. Her naked surprise. ‘What,’ she says. ‘
You’re
going to Italy?’

She gathers herself then, of course. Oh, of
course
I must go. Absolutely. And no problem. She and Celeste will find a taxi. And so on. So it’s only after I’ve put the phone down that a sense of utter incredulity descends upon me. What on earth does she think I’m going to do? Just sit here? I’m his
mother
! But then I remember, with a jolt of sadness that takes me quite unawares, that
my
mother’s definition of the word ‘mother’ is entirely dissimilar to mine.

Chapter 20

T
HE
P
EGGY
G
UGGENHEIM COLLECTION
, or so the in-flight magazine tells me, boasts paintings by all sorts of famous artists; particularly by Jackson Pollock, for whom I’ve always had a bit of a fondness. In my early twenties, in fact (during that brief adult period when I was childless and time-rich and prone to such fancies), I even attempted to emulate one of his splatter pictures, using a selection of emulsion paint leftovers from one of my ex-husband’s then projects. However, the resultant Great Work, rich in every aspect of artistic creativity, not least of which was paint (which I had applied by the trowel-load), was so heavy that we were unable to hang it anywhere on our then flat’s paper thin walls, leaving me little alternative but to prop it against the wall of the living room out of sight behind the sofa, as there was no other bit of wall big enough to accommodate it. I’d rather like to see a Jackson Pollock for myself, but, on this trip, anyway, despite my tantalising proximity, it doesn’t look as though I’m about to.

No sooner have I had an all too brief glimpse of Venice itself – a shimmer of spires rising from the teal blue water – than we land, in no time at all, at Marco Polo airport. It’s a very new looking place – clearly dedicated to the needs and desires of the discerning middle-class, culture-seeking holiday-maker. Glass cabinets on plinths sprout like randomly placed religious icons, promising myriad ways to divest tourists of their money, and elegant slim women carrying briefcases and coffees criss-cross me in click-clacking shoals.

Rob, is, as promised, there to meet me. I was actually all off and angsty and resistant about the idea of him driving all the way up here to fetch me today, not only because he’s already driven so far already, but also because old habits and hard-won independence die hard. I intended, and expected, to hire my own car. But in fact, now I am here, I find I don’t mind in the least. I never thought it would be possible, because people always tell you it isn’t, but as I spot him in the arrivals hall I no longer think ‘hateful ex alert, adopt face-on and keep guard up’ but instead I think, with a rush of something almost approaching affection, ‘that’s my sons’ father, that is.’ I can see them both in him. It feels rather fine. If more grown up than I fancy I really should be, pre-bus pass.

He waves, smiling cheerily. He looks lean, and is tanned. ‘Abbie!’ he calls brightly at me. ‘Long time no see!’

And it has been a long time. The last time I saw him was at Heathrow, two and a half years back, where we executed a change-over to dovetail with some conference, before he whisked the boys off for a week’s skiing in the Alps. ‘Hmm,’ I say, though not in at all a hmm-ish sort of manner. ‘If not in the best circumstances, eh?’

He takes my case from me, even though I’m quite capable of pulling it, but once again, I don’t mind. It would feel churlish to refuse. ‘He’s doing absolutely fine,’ he says, reassuringly. ‘You’d hardly know he’s had surgery, honestly you wouldn’t. They’re going to discharge him tomorrow as long as his temperature’s normal and his bowel is working okay.’

‘That
quick
?’

H e nods. ‘I know. I was shocked too. But apparently that’s standard procedure these days. Anyway, how are
you
? I hear you’ve got your mother living with you. Bet that’s a blast.’

I give him a potted history on the way out to the car, which has him chuckling intermittently and rolling his eyes. And in the telling, I think, the whole thing does sound comedic. It’s just the reality that’s so short on laughs. But then he knows this already. Knows
her
. Indeed, in one of the few angry moments that preceded our final parting, he even ventured to suggest that her removal from his life would be almost more thrilling an event than would mine.

But that’s history now. Over and long since forgiven and forgotten. Or if not completely forgotten – bad words do tend to linger, like snatches of pop songs – at least consigned to a box marked ‘recriminations various. Of no practical worth. Store below 5 degrees C’.

His car – a Mercedes – is roomy and air-conditioned and expensive. As it would be. He’s an architect. He earns lots of money. And he’s booked me a room, too. Same place as he’s staying. Nothing pricey, he tells me, for which I am most grateful. Sanguine though I am about case-pulling chivalry, I would baulk at the idea of him paying for my room.

Ravenna, according not to the in-flight magazine but to the enthusiastic large lady in the seat next to me, is apparently a largely overlooked Byzantine Jewel. And is also very famous for its world-beating mosaics. A veritable Mecca for tesserae enthusiasts. An absolute, absolute must-see. She even wrote me a list of all the places I could go. San Vitale, so she tells me, knocks St Mark’s Basilica into a cocked hat any day. But it’s all academic. They can keep their mosaics. The only sight I want to see right now is my son.

‘So,’ Rob says as we wend our way out of the airport environs and then on to the motorway south. ‘You got everything sorted back home, then?’

The backs of his hands are the colour of almonds, and the first suggestions of grey stripe through his black hair. ‘Just about. Mum’s gone off to Pru’s, Jake’s gone to his friend’s house, and Spike is being babysat by Dee. I could have left them, but Jake’s back in school on Monday morning, and I didn’t know how long I was going to be.’

‘Oh, no worries there. You wait till you see him. He’s looking as fit as a flea.’

‘And what about Jonathan? What’s he doing now?’

‘I spoke to him earlier. He’s staying put in Cervia for another week. They’d got themselves a few days work helping to strike camp for one of the big firms down there.

‘Strike camp?’

‘It’s end of season. They have to dismantle all the tents. Big job, by all accounts. Then he’s going to come up and stay with us for a few days.’

I wonder at that, but then I remember I ’ve forgotten that Rob already knows Jonathan quite well. He’s been over with Seb on numerous occasions. It was Jonathan, in fact, who took the first photo that I ever clapped eyes on of Rob’s second wife, Elise. She’s half French and baguette thin and luminously pretty, and I’ve only ever spoken to her on the phone. She sold Rob his current house and her
tarte tatin
is legendary. That’s pretty much the extent of my knowledge. Except also that both my boys really, really like her, which is actually just fine by me. Because she came along way after Rob and I split, it’s uncomplicated. Easy. Something about which (bar this Christmas and that’s strictly my problem) I don’t have to trail any baggage. Which is something about which to be relieved at this juncture, what with already having so much in residence at home.

‘That’s really nice of you,’ I say. And I mean it.

Despite feeling it’s really a bit off to be doing so, I then end up sleeping for almost the whole of the rest of the journey, and when I come to, we’re coming off the motorway. By the time I’m fully with it, we’re in the hospital car park, which, bar the lollipop trees and the cicada-filled air, could just as easily be situated in Bolton.

Likewise, t he hospital – no, the much more pleasing
ospedale
– smells like hospitals do the world over. It’s a comfortable smell, a smell that I’m used to. And it reminds me that in many ways I do miss my own.

Rob leads the way along a couple of corridors and we eventually arrive on the ward. Though his French is good these days, he speaks little more Italian than I do, but the nurse who comes to meet us obviously knows him already, and nods a greeting before waving us through. Only half the beds are occupied, by an assortment of swarthy male patients in various stages of slumber, and I scan anxiously, keen to get a first glimpse of Seb. Rob veers off then, towards a bed in which a young man is sitting, propped up against several generous white pillows, reading a book by the light of a lamp and idly scratching his beard.

It’s only when Rob greets him that it finally dawns on m e that this stranger, in fact, is my son.

I’m still gaping wh en his face widens into a smile. ‘Mum!’

‘Oh, God, Seb! I almost didn’t recognise you!’

H e looks confused, and then not. He touches his hand to his chin again. ‘Oh, this,’ he says, slightly self-conscious now. ‘Well, I just figured it would be less hassle.’

He lets me touch it too. It’s baby soft. Nothing like his dense wiry hair. I can’t stop looking at him. It’s been months since I last saw him and I simply can’t stop staring. But when I hug him, albeit carefully, he feels just the same.

I sit down on the bed, while Rob takes the chair.

And I scrutinise. ‘So,’ I say. ‘How
are
you?’

He closes up the book and shrugs his shoulders. ‘I’m
fine
, Mum.’

I shake my head. ‘No, you’re not. You’ve just had your appendix out. How can you be fine?’

‘I just am. A bit sore. A bit stiff. A bit bored. But all in all, not too bad at all.’

Oh, my sweet, brave, precious child.

Except he’s not a child. All of a sudden he seems anything but. ‘You look tired, Mum,’ he observes. Which floors me still further. Children don’t
do
that. Children don’t notice. You tell
them
when you’re tired and then they pat you. Or offer to make cups of tea. Or give you biscuits. Yet Sebastian has. And now he pats
me
. On the forearm. ‘You know, you really didn’t need to come all this way,’ he says. Then, seeing my expression, his own changes tack. He holds his hands up as if to ward off an imminent blow. ‘Okay, okay, okay, then! Yes, then. Point taken. You
did
need to come all this way.’ And he laughs. ‘How’s Jakey?’

‘Jake’s absolutely fine. Still busy with his band. They have a gig coming up so he’s permanently hyper. He sends his love. As does Nana, of course.’

‘How is she?’

‘Oh, same as ever. Almost mobile again, thank God.’

‘Has she found somewhere to live yet?’

‘Not
quite
yet. Though I’ve given her notice to quit your room, obviously. I told her she can bunk down with the drum kit for the moment.’

And hopefully she’ll find that so unedifying an experience, that she’ll raise a tad more enthusiasm for moving elsewhere. But I stop speaking at this point because Seb looks confused. He’s shaking his head. And also glancing at Rob. Who is now looking at me. They’re
both
looking at me. ‘What?’ I say, somewhat confused myself now. ‘
What
?’

Seb shakes his head. He looks a little like Jesus. ‘Mum, I’m not coming
home
.’

‘What d’you mean, you’re not coming home? Of course you’re coming home!’

H e shakes his head. ‘Whatever made you think that?’ He glances at Rob again. ‘I’m going to stay at Dad’s.’

I look from one to the other, stupefied. ‘Not coming
home
? But…but you
have
to. You have to recuperate. To rest. You need to –’

‘Mum, I’m
fine
. I told you. I mean I know I’ve got to rest up a bit for a couple of weeks, obviously. But I can do that at Dad’s, can’t I?’ Rob’s nodding. ‘And when I’m well enough, I’m going to rejoin the guys. They’re going to come and spend a few days with me at Dad’s once they’ve finished up at the campsite, and then we’re going to head off to Croatia like we planned.’

So
that’s
what Rob meant about Jonathan coming up. God, I’m so stupid. But this can’t happen.
Surely
. ‘Sebastian, you can’t possibly go galumphing back off around Europe – particularly eastern Europe – when you’ve just had major surgery. It’s not safe. Supposing something happens?’

He’s unimpressed. ‘Come on, Mum. What’s going to happen?’

‘Well, I don’t know! But something might. You might get an infection. Your stitches might weep. You might –’

‘Mum, it wasn’t major surgery. It was just my appendix. Look.’ He pushes back the sheet and tugs at his boxers. ‘See? Almost nothing. Just two tiny holes. Honestly, Mum. Stop
fretting
!’

I round on Rob as soon as we’re back in the hospital corridor. Bloody hospitals. I don’t care how great a job they did on Seb, I am all at once sick of the places. Not least because I’m sure they are making
me
sick. I’ve had enough hospital dramas and the last few weeks to script a whole series worth of episodes of that bloody A and E.

What a difference an hour makes. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you
warn
me? Why didn’t you say something on the drive down about this?’

He looks completely nonplussed. ‘Hang on, Abbie. Why didn’t
you
? How was I supposed to know you had some plan on the go to whisk him back to Wales? It never so much as occurred to me for an instant. Why on earth would he do that when I’m just around the corner?’

‘Marseilles is hardly just around the corner,’ I snap at him.

He doesn’t rise to it. ‘But still a good deal closer than Cardiff. Besides, he was due to be coming to me soon anyway. You knew that.’

‘
Yes
, I knew
that
. But that’s not till October. In the meantime he should be home. With me.’

‘Why, exactly?’

‘Because he needs looking after.’

‘Which is something I’m perfectly capable of doing.’

‘I know, but –’

‘Abbie,’ he interrupts me. ‘Just you hold up a minute. There’s no ‘but’ about it. You don’t have a monopoly on looking after the children, you know.’

‘But I’m his mother!’

‘And I’m his father.’

‘Yes, I know
that
, but –’

‘But
nothing
, Abbie. It’s entirely up to
him
what he does. He’s almost nineteen now. He’s an adult. You can’t keep him wrapped up in cotton wool for ever.’

‘I don’t keep him wrapped up in cotton wool! That’s a really unkind thing to say! And what the hell would you know about it anyway?’

‘Rather less than I’d like to. As well you know. Jesus, give me a break, will you? Why
shouldn’t
I take him home with me? Why shouldn’t I have the opportunity to spend some time with him, huh?’

‘I’ve never stopped you seeing him. Not once. Never.’

‘No, I
know
that. I’m not saying you have. I’m just trying to point out that
I’m
here, too.’ He has, I notice, adopted the look of a man who is all out of energy for taking things on. Taking
me
on. I know that look well. Perhaps it’s just as well we live so far apart. ‘Surely –
surely
, Abbie – we’re not going to have a row about this?’