Flynn and his mum fling their arms around each other and hold each other tightly. ‘Oh, darling,’ she murmurs.
‘Mum,’ he croaks. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, sweetheart, as long as you are …’ There’s no awkward ironing-board hug this time.
After what feels like a week they peel apart, and both settle on the sofa, jammed together, while I perch on the far end and stare at my shoes. And out it all comes:
‘The thing is, Flynn, love, I’ve decided me and Dad aren’t right together anymore. I know this is so hard for you to hear, but I want you to understand that it’s nothing to do with you. It’s about me and Dad …’
Flynn nods mutely. He is actually letting her hold his hand. I haven’t been allowed to do that since he was about eight years old.
‘We’ve, I don’t know – grown apart over the years, I suppose,’ she continues, with only the slightest tremor in her voice, ‘and I haven’t been happy for quite a long time. I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I could stay, pretending everything’s fine, until you leave home and have your own independent adult life.’ She stops, blinking rapidly, and clears her throat. ‘But that would be dishonest, wouldn’t it? To you, me and Dad?’
She addresses Flynn throughout all of this. I might as well not be here. I am just a passive observer.
‘Yeah,’ Flynn murmurs, ‘I s’pose it would.’
‘So I need to be true to myself,’ she goes on, ‘which means I’ll be staying at Abby’s for a while, then I’ll probably look around for a flat of my own …’
Oh, Jesus God. My heart is banging so hard it feels as if it could burst out of my chest.
‘… which of course you’ll be welcome to stay at any time. You’ll have your own room there, it’ll be your home too …’
Our son nods, lips pressed together, as Sinead continues: ‘I hope you understand why I’m doing this, honey. I’m sorry I won’t be here with you all the time, but this is your home, it’s where you belong – with Dad and Scout.’
‘Yeah,’ Flynn says in a gravelly voice. He’s being brave, so bloody brave it rips at my insides. Even braver than when he went for surgery when he was nine, to improve his gait, and lay there with one hand tightly clutching mine (maybe that’s the last time we held hands?), the other stuffed into his beloved Mr Fox glove puppet, just before he was given the general anaesthetic. Although he’d long since given up on taking Mr Fox everywhere, on this occasion I’d suggested the puppet might like to come along too. Flynn had agreed that that was an excellent idea. I knew he was scared about ‘going to sleep’, although he was determined not to show it. His jaw was set firm, the small hand gripping mine slick with sweat. Sinead had waited outside the operating theatre as she couldn’t face seeing him go under.
‘Nothing’s going to change, Flynn,’ she explains now. ‘You can still phone or text me any time, and come over every day if you like – after school, maybe? Or pop into the shop and we’ll get a milkshake from that cafe across the road?’
‘That’d be nice,’ he mumbles.
A milkshake! If I’d suggested that, he’d have laughed in my face. I try to rub at my eyes surreptitiously. Actually, the two of them are so locked in their exchange, his tousled head resting on her shoulder now, I could probably have a cardiac arrest without worrying either of them unduly.
Then before I know it she is gathering herself up to leave, and Flynn has given her one last hug and shot off back to his room. I have said virtually nothing to her, and, quite rightly, she addressed her entire spiel to our son.
‘What about your stuff?’ I ask as I see her out.
‘Erm, I took some clothes and a few other bits and pieces when I came over at lunchtime,’ she replies, ‘and I’ll deal with the rest some other time, probably when you’re both out.’ I catch her swallowing hard. ‘It might be easier that way.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I reply dully.
‘You’re okay with me hanging onto a key for now?’
‘Of course, yes.’
She looks around for Scout, who trots towards her. ‘I’ll need one anyway, while I’m still walking Scout …’
‘Yeah, I guess so …’
‘Okay, then …’ A sense of awkwardness hangs between us.
‘Um, I could get a dog walker,’ I suggest, ‘if it’s easier for you?’
She touches my arm in a way that is utterly devoid of affection. ‘Let’s say I’ll just do it for now, okay? Bye, Nate.’
‘Bye, love,’ I croak.
She opens the door and steps outside. I have to say, I’m almost impressed by the speed and efficiency of tonight’s proceedings, but then, that’s Sinead all over: a powerhouse. She neatly summed up my flaws on a sheet of A4 and is ready now to get on with the rest of her life, without me in it.
Incredibly, it seems that nineteen years of being together can all be undone in a little under twenty-five minutes. I stand at our front door, watching Sinead as she marches along our street, willing her to look back or, better still, to turn and run to me and throw herself into my arms, like she would if this were a film with any kind of decent end.
Instead, she climbs into her silver car, with a casualness that suggests she’s just nipping out to the supermarket, and drives away.
‘So, how did it go?’ Abby has arrived home from her shift as manager of the Lamb and Flag, one of Hesslevale’s most popular pubs.
‘Bloody awful.’ I pour a glass of wine from the bottle I picked up on my way home, and hand it to her. We settle on the sofa in her immaculate newly built home.
‘Oh, love,’ she murmurs. ‘It was never going to be easy, explaining it all face-to-face. But at least you’ve done it now, and he knows exactly how you feel. So maybe the worst part’s over.’
I grimace. Was that the worst part? I have no idea. All I know is that, two nights ago, it felt as if I had no choice but to leave him. With my heart rattling furiously, I’d glared at the packet of three wooden mousetraps I’d bought a week previously, knowing it would happen soon.
Flynn’s music had stopped upstairs, and all was quiet at 83 Allison Street. I poured myself a huge glass of wine and sat sipping it at the kitchen table, then refilled it. Drinking alone, on a Wednesday night – but no wonder. I sipped, and I waited, on high alert now – just like Nate must be every time he conducts a driving test. Then out one popped from under the microwave – a grey blur. I leapt up and screamed, knocking over my glass as the mouse darted across the worktop, skirting the packet of traps and disappearing behind the toaster.
Shaking, I snatched a ring-bound notebook from the cookbook shelf and hurried through to the living room. I’d bought the notebook for collecting recipes that both Nate and Flynn would appreciate because, God knows, it’s hard to please both of them. It even had divided sections for soups, mains, desserts. However, food was the