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  “Hi, Jess!” Charlie is outside his door, on the other side of the courtyard.

  “Oh, hi!” I smile back, as I root round for my key.

  “He fancies you,” Natasha whispers, as I snap up my head to check William can’t hear.

  “Don’t be silly,” I hiss back. “How can you tell?”

  “He’s coming over, for a start.”

  I open the door and usher Natasha and William inside. He runs in immediately, but she decides she’s going nowhere.

  “How are you?” I ask Charlie, as he approaches.

  “Glad the sun’s made an appearance again after yesterday.”

  “Ha! Yes, hopefully that was a one-off. This is Natasha—she’s just joined us.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Natasha says, looking him up and down as if she’s in a car showroom assessing the paintwork on a new coupe.

  “And you.” He smiles before turning to me again. “Did you go to the family barbecue last night? We’d forgotten it was on and went out for dinner.”

  “It was nice,” I reply. “Not sure it would have appealed to Chloe, but William enjoyed it.”

  His speckled green eyes settle on my features. “I wish I’d remembered—we’d have joined you if I had.”

  I become uncomfortably aware of Natasha’s expectant grin.

  “DAD!”

  Charlie turns and looks in his daughter’s direction. “Ah. Sorry—the teenager beckons. Woe betide anyone who does not jump immediately. See you soon, I hope.” And then he is gone, heading towards Chloe as I wonder if Natasha could be right about him liking me.

  “He couldn’t take his eyes off you,” she declares, as we step inside.

  “Oh, shush.”

  “It’s true. Good job he didn’t see you in those white shorts yesterday. He wouldn’t have known what to do with himself.”

  We step inside to find William on the sofa, already on the iPad. “Did you have a nice time today, sweetheart?”

  “It was fine,” he says.

  “Listen . . . I’m really sorry your dad let you down today.”

  His head snaps up. “He didn’t let me down. He’s the boss, so when he has to work, he can’t avoid it.”

  I suppress a ripple of irritation. I know it was me who told William that Adam had to work, but listening to him leap to his father’s defense requires a restraint I never knew I had. Nonetheless, I suppose it beats him knowing what his dad was really up to.

  Chapter 23

  The scent of the air changes by midafternoon each day. It happens when the sun is high and its penetrating warmth has infused every flower and plant, so that the sweet, herby perfume of summertime escapes into the breeze.

  The day after our lake visit, William, Natasha and I stroll to the château for a cold drink. Some kids are gathering at the soccer pitch when one runs over. He was hanging out with William in the pool over the weekend, even though he looks a couple of years younger than my son, with hair the color of carrots and a large gap between his two front teeth.

  “There’s a big match starting in five minutes, and we need another player. Are you coming?”

  “I’m not sure,” William replies.

  “Oh, go on, William, give it a go.”

  He thinks for a second and eventually nods, looking a bit wan. He heads towards the pitch as I spot Ben tidying up some of the chairs by the pool. I wave to him, and he waves back before picking up another chair. Then he hesitates, puts it down and starts to come over.

  “Enjoying your holiday?” he asks. He has a clutch of leather bracelets on his thick, tanned wrists and a vintage crew T-shirt with a faded slogan on the front. His face is burnished to the color of honey, injecting warmth into his brown eyes.

  “Lovely, thanks, Ben. Shame you’re stuck at work in this gorgeous weather,” I say.

  “There are worse jobs. And at least I’m not cleaning bathrooms today.”

  I realize I haven’t done any introductions. “This is my friend Natasha.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Her eyes flicker up to his. “That sounds like a Cardiff accent.”

  His face breaks into a smile. “Well spotted.”

  “My grandmother was from there.”

  Seven kids of varying nationalities are now on the pitch, and they communicate mainly via the universal language of soccer. Unfortunately, this is not a language in which William is fluent. As the other children sprint across the pitch, my son seems to just . . . hover. In fact, you’d think he’d been told that the primary aim of the game is to actively avoid the ball. Occasionally, he has a go, but short of someone introducing a new rule that involves solving a crossword, it’s hopeless—and his face crumples in despair every time he misses the ball, cursing his own ineptitude. It makes my heart twist.

  I continue to watch the game, my attention drifting only when Ben and Natasha begin to laugh, and I glance across to see him completely charmed. Eventually, she excuses herself to get ready for dinner, and he resumes tidying the chairs, with an almost visible spring in his step.

  “Hi there.” Adam appears next to me. I look up and catch sight of him in profile. I can’t bear how handsome he’s become over the years. It’s as if all those things that once bewitched me—the smell of his skin, those pools of his eyes—exist now only to taunt me.

  “Hello,” I reply frostily.

  We stand side by side silently, watching as our son slips as far into the corner as he can manage. We are the only spectators.

  “Has he scored?” Adam asks.

  “Not . . . yet.”

  “GO ON, WILLIAM!” Adam shouts. My son looks up, sees his father and his forehead creases with anxiety. But determination does not prove enough. He runs across the pitch like a fairy tiptoeing across a set of stepping-stones and is quite simply unable to get near the ball.

  Adam has this strange look in his eyes, as if the worst kind of revelation has just been laid bare: his son is crap at soccer. “He’s . . .”

  “Do not say a word.”

  He turns to look at me. “But he’s . . .”

  “Yes, Adam, I know. He’s rubbish. He’s never going to score a goal. He’s—”

  “I was just going to say he’s left his shoelace undone.”

  I snap back my head. “Oh. Argh. WILLIAM!”

  I start waving at him, but he shoos me away, like he’s trying to get rid of a mangy cat. “YOUR SHOELACE!”

  It’s too late by the time he comes to a dead stop and frowns at me. He’s already been hit by one of the Dutch girls—entirely by accident—and is flying across the pitch, where he lands on his cheek and ends up with a mouthful of dust. Adam races over.

  “I’m fine, Dad,” he splutters, as Adam lifts him up.

  “Are you sure? Why don’t you come and sit down?”

  Heroically, he wants to join in again. Even more heroically, the kids on his team say they want him to. Adam and I slink back to the edge of the pitch.

  “I thought you were about to complain that he was no good,” I confess.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “Sorry.” There’s an awkward pause.

  “He is . . . astoundingly bad though.”

  I glance at him sideways and let out a spurt of laughter. “Oh, bless him. It’s a good thing I love him.”

  Adam looks back at the pitch.

  “We love him,” he corrects me.

  Chapter 24

  My head is fizzing with objections to Adam’s statement after the stunt he pulled yesterday. If he really loved William, he’d act like it. He’d do what love involves when you’re a parent: putting your child first. Always.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says.

  I can’t look at him.

  “Can I explain? It was Simone’s birthday. She’d booked this hotel before you’d e
ven confirmed you were coming out here. It was months ago. I should’ve mentioned it to you, but I’d assumed it’d be no big deal, because it was a single day in the five weeks you’re here. I had no idea you’d want to spend every day off with me.”

  “I don’t. But given that William hasn’t seen you for months, whereas Simone has, can’t you see that he should be your priority?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “You seem to think that because you’ve taken him canyoning once, you’ve done your bit. You’ve played at being Good Dad, posted the pics on Facebook and can now go back to your normal life. A life in which William barely seems to exist.”

  “That’s not true, Jess.”

  “But it is!”

  “Look, we live a long way from each other; that’s a fact of life. As it is, I have to make do with Skype and—”

  “You hardly know him, Adam.” He looks away, unable to answer. “To you, he’s more like a . . . nephew you’re fond of but don’t see much of. You’ve never had to deal with the hard grind of parenthood. You’ve had the luxury of being absent. Of never having to grow up yourself.”

  His jaw tenses visibly. “What’s going to happen in the future, Adam? I’m not just talking about when he’s a child, but as he grows up. Who’s going to be around to give him advice about buying a car, or moving into his first house? Do you just assume it’s all going to be down to me?”

  He looks bewildered, clearly wondering why I’m going on about a time that feels eons away.

  “Jess. I don’t want to fall out with you, I really don’t. But sometimes you give the impression that you’ve forgotten it was you who wanted us to break up.”

  “Oh, don’t get me started on that,” I say, because he hasn’t got a leg to stand on. He knows I had no choice. I might have technically been the one to leave, but he was desperate to see the end of the relationship. He made that very clear in the months before and years afterwards.

  He tries to meet my eye, but I refuse to indulge him. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t be there all the time, can’t do more to support both of you day to day. And I also apologize—again—about yesterday, but it was a misunderstanding, nothing more. I’m going to make it up to him.”

  I can feel my jaw clench as I glance over at William and remember the look on his face when I told him the trip was canceled.

  “You need to man up and behave like a father, Adam,” I whisper. At first, he doesn’t answer. He simply feels the kick of my words in his stomach and lets them sink in.

  “Can I say something?”

  I brace myself for an onslaught, for the row I know I’ve started by uttering one inflammatory but completely fair and accurate sentence.

  “I don’t say it enough, but I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you do. You’re a wonderful mum. And whatever happened between us, you’re bringing up our son brilliantly. I know you’re doing the hard work—I know that it isn’t easy. And you’re raising a kid who is amazing, whether he can play soccer or not.”

  I take a deep breath and feel myself growing dangerously emotional. I focus on the edge of the grass, trying to stop my lip from trembling.

  “The other thing I want to say is . . . I don’t know why, after all these years of trying to avoid me, you’ve suddenly decided to come here. But I’m glad.”

  I can’t look at him as a swell of emotion fills my chest.

  “It was Mum.”

  “What?”

  “It was my mum who wanted us to come.” The effort to keep from crying makes my head start throbbing. “Much as she hated what you did, Adam, she has a problem with the idea of you and William living separate lives. She’s always felt like this. But since she moved into the home, she’s become even more determined about it. She thinks family is important. No matter what’s happened in the past.” I look down at the ground. “On one level she’s trying to be practical. She and Dad have basically brought William up with me. Given the circumstances, that’s no longer possible. She worries about me doing this on my own.”

  “Do you want more money?” he asks.

  “No, Adam. If I’m honest, when I asked to come to visit, I was just humoring her.” He remains silent. “But, this is the truth: Since I got here, I’ve seen with my own eyes how much William wants you in his life. He idolizes you. And much as it pains me to say this, I think Mum is right. William needs you in his life. More than you are currently.”

  I glance down at my hands, before carrying on. “I know you’ll never move back to the UK. I know your life is here but . . . maybe if you could think about coming back to visit more, or William coming to you or . . .”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  As my temple throbs, I whisper a question that is bubbling at my lips. “Do you ever think you would move back to the UK? Just out of interest?”

  He takes a second to reply. “I think you’ve already answered that question, Jess, haven’t you?”

  I sniff and smile cordially. “Just thought I’d ask.” I straighten up and try to think of a way to lighten the mood. “Anyway, promise me you’ll never pull a stunt like that with William again, or else.”

  His eyes soften. “Are you threatening me, Jess?”

  “Damn right. Step out of line again, and I’ll review you on TripAdvisor.”

  He laughs, then falls silent for a moment. “Are they any closer to finding out exactly what’s wrong with your mum?”

  My chest tightens. “It’s a neurodegenerative condition.”

  “I know but . . . what, ALS or something?”

  “They’re not entirely sure,” I say.

  But I’m lying.

  Because it still feels far too difficult to tell Adam the truth.

  Chapter 25

  When my mum’s symptoms began, the changes weren’t obvious to those around her. Because we weren’t looking for them.

  It was her mood that altered first. She went from being a woman who was usually even-tempered and happy-go-lucky to one capable of completely losing it, over the slightest thing. Not all the time, you understand; her rages were rare, but so volcanic that you couldn’t miss them. And anything could spark them: My room not being tidy. The hem on her skirt coming undone. My dad trying to claim that vomiting in the school toilets before my school play wasn’t a big deal.

  I remember several incidents while I was at university whose significance looms even larger in hindsight.

  Once when I was home for the spring break, I came down from my room one Sunday morning to find her in the kitchen surrounded by ingredients.

  “What are you making?”

  Amy Winehouse was singing on the radio, and cool rays of sunshine were streaming through the windows.

  “An Easter cake,” she said, inviting me to look at the picture in one of her glossy books. She’d made far more complex creations, but this was sweet—a single-tiered coconut cake, covered in grass green fondant, with a little white bunny popping out of the top.

  “Very cute,” I said, as I sat down at the table to flick through the paper and chat while she got to work.

  But as I tried to tell her about one of my last classes before the break, I noticed that she kept stopping and reading the instructions, before glancing anxiously at the sugar paste. It was as if her brain was keeping her from working out how to marry the two. She’d start kneading a small piece, working it into the shape she wanted, before she’d stop again and mutter angrily to herself.

  “Is everything all right, Mum?” I asked, closing the paper.

  “Yes, I just had a late night,” she snapped, blowing her fringe out of her face. “I’m not really in the mood for this. I’ll do it tomorrow instead.”

  She slammed shut the book.

  But the Easter cake was never finished.

  * * *

  —

  Looking back, a mountain of ev
idence had started to develop before anyone did anything about it. Her fidgeting, her little twitches, odd but almost imperceptible movements—they all went on for ages before any of us thought too hard about all the signs.

  I couldn’t tell you if my mum was genuinely oblivious herself, or if she was deliberately ignoring them. Either way, there reached a point when I realized I had to make her go see a doctor.

  The Christmas before William was born, she and I had decided to go to the Trafford Centre to finish our shopping. We were on our way home, the boot of her little red Corsa packed with presents and baby paraphernalia that she hadn’t been able to resist.

  “Do you think you’ve got enough sleep suits?” she asked, as we pulled up at the lights near the end of her road.

  “I’ve got about forty, so I would hope so.”

  “Believe me, you can never have enough. If this baby is anything like you were, it’ll be permanently covered in dribble.”

  The lights changed, so she put the car in gear and approached the end of her road. But she sailed right past it.

  “Mum, what are you doing?” I laughed.

  She glanced at me but continued driving. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve just driven past your road,” I said incredulously.

  She flicked on her indicator and pulled in. Her face was devoid of color, her eyes full of panic.

  “Mum, what’s the matter?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I just got distracted. I was thinking about the baby.”

  She waited until the traffic was clear and did a three-point turn. But as she gripped the steering wheel, I could see instantly something wasn’t right. She couldn’t remember how to get home. “Next left,” I said.

  “I know, I know,” she replied crossly. But, without that simple instruction, I’m not sure she’d have ever found her way back to the house where she’d lived for fifteen years.

  I made her swear she’d go to the GP afterwards. She told me she’d been sent for tests but that everyone was certain it was “nothing.” She played down what was really going on, determined not to break her hideous news to me while I was pregnant, when she worried about what the stress would do to me and the baby.