Dad say anything last night?’ Ava asked the next morning, as she waved a piece of toast around, never quite bringing it within biting distance of her mouth.
‘Yes. He gave a speech about Alice Hornby. It went well.’
Ava tutted, rolled her eyes, and dropped the toast onto her plate.
‘I don’t mean about that,’ she said, fourteen years of accumulated disgust throbbing in every word. ‘Did he mention the sleepover?’
‘What sleepover?’ My own toast fell to my plate. I wasn’t going to like it, whatever it was; I knew by the way Ava was flicking her mousey hair in an artificially nonchalant way. She might look like a Black, but her character had been cut from the same cloth as mine. I glanced at Jonas, but he had his earphones in, and gave a shrug that either meant he hadn’t heard, or didn’t want to get involved. He resembled me, but his temperament was entirely Leo. It was hard to say which of them had the better deal.
‘I thought I’d invite a few friends for a sleepover, probably on the Bank Holiday weekend. Chloe can come,’ Ava said, knowing that I wouldn’t disapprove of Daisy’s daughter, and instantly making me worry who else she might want to invite. Surely not boys, at fourteen? My heart thudded at the very idea.
‘That’s great!’ I said, smiling too brightly in my relief that it was nothing worse than a sleepover. ‘We can rent a film and I’ll make popcorn and pizza …’
‘No need for that.’ Ava had twisted her hair so tightly round her finger that when she let go, it stayed in a ringlet. ‘We won’t be here. We’re going to Dad’s.’
‘Dad’s?’
‘Yeah, Clark said it would be okay.’
‘Clark?’
‘It’s his flat too. They have two spare bedrooms.’
So our one spare bedroom was no longer enough. My eyes flicked around the kitchen, taking in the relics of a family breakfast: toast crumbs on the worktop; a sticky trail of honey leading from the jar to the sink where the knife had been dumped; a couple of stray cornflakes on the floor; a puddle of milk on the table. And that was only as far as I could see: if I turned around, I would spot the pile of abandoned shoes, the coats and blazers thrown over the furniture, and the school books in a muddled heap, and not in school bags as I had requested last night. Of course Clark’s flat would be preferable to this. But I loved it here, whatever state it was in. My happiest memories were here, papered on the walls and blooming in the garden: memories of my father, before my mother drove him away, and memories of Leo and the children, before I had driven him away. One throwaway remark from Ava had prodded all my bruises: that was life with teenagers. I was a parent, not a human being: I wasn’t allowed to feel.
‘It’s a long way for everyone to go,’ I said, foolishly believing this was an innocuous remark. But that was another reality of living with teenagers: no remark was unarguable.
‘No, it’s not. If you drive us, it will only be an hour. And at least there’s something to do there.’
‘At Clark’s? What can you do that you can’t do here?’
‘We can go shopping, obviously.’
‘Shopping? With Dad?’
‘On our own. We don’t want Dad. He’s got less fashion sense than you. We don’t want to go to Marks & Spencer or somewhere like that.’
I discreetly felt the back of my top, making sure the M&S label was tucked down. It was rare that I had the advantage over Leo, especially where Ava was concerned. But then I stopped the thought, shame prickling across my chest. It wasn’t a competition. How could I be so disloyal as to feel a flicker of pleasure that for once I wasn’t the most embarrassing parent?
I stood up and began the usual morning routine of nagging and chivvying, in the vain hope that we might leave the house on time. Jonas chucked a few things in his rucksack, picked up an apple, ran his hands through his hair and was ready. Ten minutes later, Ava was still upstairs, titivating as my mother would have said. I bellowed up the stairs, sounding too much like Mum for comfort.
Ava stomped down after the third bellow. Her black eyeliner was so thick it looked like she’d applied it with a permanent marker pen, but I knew better than to start that discussion when we were pushed for time.
‘I’ve not finished my hair!’ Ava grumbled, standing a few stairs up from the bottom so that she could glower down at me more effectively. ‘Look at it!’ She grabbed a chunk and waved it in my direction. ‘I haven’t straightened this side. The kink is still there. I’m going to look hideous all day and it’s all your fault!’
Ava and her kink were legendary in our house: no one else saw it, but it caused her endless angst. And of course it was my fault, even though my hair was ruler straight, and if Ava did have a kink, it undoubtedly came from her Black genes; everything had been my fault since the day Leo moved out, and most of the time before that. The next stage in the familiar tirade was to blame me that she had inherited Leo’s mousey colouring, rather than my Celtic black hair and green eyes. Sure enough, Ava opened her mouth to begin the argument, but I bit my tongue, and whisked her and Jonas out of the house without another word.
It was no surprise that by the time we turned up at Broadholme, there were only a couple of minutes left before registration.
‘We were never late when Dad brought us,’ Ava pointed out. That was too much. Leo had done nothing but drive the car, oblivious to everything I had done to get the children from their beds to the car door. But before I could retaliate, Jonas patted my arm.
‘Chill, Mum,’ he said. ‘We’re here now.’
I nodded in response to these wise teenage words, and to make up for my near grumpiness, I used my pass to enter the teachers’ car park: the pass was a perk of being on the PTA, although we were only meant to use it when we attended meetings. While the children took forever to gather their stuff, I loitered in the disabled space, engine running like a furtive getaway driver. Three loud knocks shook my window. I pressed the button to open it.
‘Mrs Black, you know I should give you detention for abusing your PTA pass.’ Owen Ferguson peered in at my open window, a warm smile making a joke of his words. ‘I hope you have an excellent excuse.’
‘Can I blame the dog? That’s the traditional excuse, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Whose homework has Dotty eaten?’ Owen smiled across at Jonas, who shrugged, and at Ava in the back, who flushed pink and avoided eye contact. ‘I’d love to hear how missing homework can explain your presence in the teachers’ car park.’
I laughed. ‘Okay, you’ve rumbled me. Dotty is innocent. We were running late, that’s all. There’s no hope of escaping that detention, is there?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Perhaps we could discuss it over an after-school drink?’
An after-school drink? What on earth did that mean? An instant coffee in the staff room with a borrowed mug, or a proper drink in the pub in the evening? Did he mean just the two of us? Alone? A date? I’d never been on a date in my life. The moment stretched. Embarrassment stole over Owen’s face. Jonas and Ava were staring at me; I didn’t need to see them to know that. The ghost of Leo hovered over my shoulder. Owen’s head was framed in the rectangle of the window, gentleness and kindness engraved on every feature. How could I be anxious about anyone who reminded me so much of Leo?
‘A drink sounds great,’ I said. ‘Let me know when you’re free.’
Owen looked surprised, but then smiled with more pleasure than my agreement could possibly deserve.
‘I will do.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Come on, you two, time for registration.’
He wandered off, but despite his warning, there was no movement from within my car.
‘Mum!’ I turned to see Ava’s wide-eyed, stricken