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mother was ripping up little shreds of doily.
    I took a sip of tea. ‘Obviously it was naïve to think it would never catch up with us. I’ll tackle Sean. In the meantime, don’t come down to the school, at least not with Dad.’ I got up and put my hand on her shoulder. She shrugged me off. ‘Try not to get in a conversation with Sean if you see him.’
    ‘I don’t think he’ll recognise me. He only saw me once or twice. You always went to his, remember?’
    And frankly, why wouldn’t I have done? Sean’s mum, Margie, had made me so welcome with her relaxed ways, her ‘Staying for tea?’ No one stayed for tea at my house without a good month’s notice and my mother huffing and puffing about what hard work it was catering for extra guests. I loved going to Sean’s house where we could walk out of the bottom of the garden, over the dunes and onto the beach. Where we’d spent hours, skimming pebbles on the water, daring each other to paddle in the creek on freezing February days. Sometimes Sean would drop the rugby player bravado and make a little heart out of cockles, a razor shell for an arrow. Those six months were the happiest of my life. Even the cool girls squiggled along to make room for me on the bench in the dining hall. No wonder I’d been drawn to Sean and his cosy house, with its piles of magazines, plates of cakes and yes, damn it, that big bedroom of his where his mother seemed not to care that we emerged rumpled, smudged and flushed.
    Thankfully, before my mother could really hit her stride, Jamie strolled through the door, flicking his dark fringe out of his eyes with the studied cool-dudeness of a sixteen-year-old.
    ‘Hello, Grandma. Didn’t know you were going to be here.’
    Jamie sounded as though he’d been promised a bacon sandwich, then opened the fridge to find a spinach and watercress salad. In turn, my mother was finding it difficult to smile as she was too busy making a mental list of things she didn’t like about my son’s appearance. Top button undone, tie too far down, dark curly hair in need of a good cut, blazer sleeves rolled up and, new for today, a rip in his trouser knee. Eventually, she managed to crinkle her lips into an upward motion. ‘Jamie. I just popped in. Must be going anyway.’
    I got up to help him lug in his school paraphernalia – his kitbag, boot bag and rucksack – all as heavy as a small wardrobe. Impulsively, I planted a little kiss on the nape of his neck and he squirmed away.
    ‘Mum! Off!’ He batted me away, eyes glued to his phone as though the world was a bonfire of information he needed to contain.
    He was lucky I hadn’t scooped him into a full-blown body hug. I was desperate to cuddle him close, to make certain that if this precarious house of cards blew down, whirling debris and detritus around every corner of our lives, that he knew that I loved him. That I hadn’t set out to be a rubbish mother, the subject of derision at the school gates.
    Izzy slammed through the door, her long blonde hair coming loose from her ponytail and her skirt rolled up way too high.
    ‘Hi, Grandma.’
    My mother found anything other than ‘Hello’ repellent unless it was on a Scrabble board. A small cloud scudded across her features. Izzy ignored her and ran over to whisper something in my ear. I could almost hear the squeak of my mother’s disapproving eyebrow.
    ‘Izzy, don’t whisper. It’s rude,’ I said, without conviction.
    She giggled and looked over at Jamie. ‘I know who fancies Jamie.’
    Right on cue, his phone beeped. He glanced down. A smile, secret and satisfied, flicked across his face before he narrowed his eyes at Izzy. ‘Yeah, right. Who’s gonna tell you anything?’
    ‘I heard her talking about you in the lunch queue.’
    ‘Shut up, dickhead.’
    ‘Jamie! Do not speak to your sister like that.’ I was clinging onto the hope that my mother might still be rooted in Famous Five land and think ‘dick’ was short for