I See You(13)

‘Justin, cup of tea for you.’

He doesn’t stir, and I pick up yesterday’s offering, its contents cold and untouched. I look down at my son, three days’ growth hiding a gentle face with its dimpled chin; his hair long across his face and one arm outstretched towards his headboard. ‘Love, it’s almost seven o’clock.’ He grunts. Justin’s laptop is open on the bedside table; an open window for some music forum. It’s black with white writing, and would make my head hurt if I looked at it for too long. On the left I can see the photo Justin uses online: it’s his face, but almost completely obscured by a hand thrust towards the camera. On his palm, in black letters, is written his user name, Game8oy_94.

Twenty-two, going on twelve. Katie was always in such a hurry to grow up – couldn’t wait to leave behind the Barbie dolls and the My Little Ponies – but men seem to stay boys for so much longer.

I think about what Simon said the other night, and wonder if Justin really will still be living here when he’s thirty. I used to think I never wanted my children to leave home. I liked living here, the three of us, meeting for supper but otherwise simply coexisting. Katie and I would go out together occasionally, and Justin would lurk in the kitchen while I cooked tea, stealing chips before they hit the plates and sharing intricacies of Grand Theft Auto I didn’t understand. Like flatmates, I kidded myself. It was only when Simon moved in that I realised how much I’d missed sharing that part of my life with someone.

Justin pulls the duvet over his head.

‘You’ll be late for work,’ I tell him. As will I be, I think, if I don’t get a move on.

‘I don’t feel well,’ comes the muffled reply. I yank the duvet, hard.

‘Melissa’s gone out on a limb for you, Justin. You are not calling in sick, do you hear me?’ The urgency in my voice finally gets through to him. He knows he wouldn’t have a job without Melissa – without me asking her, come to that.

‘All right. Don’t go on.’

I leave him sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxers, rubbing his head till his hair stands on end.

A fug of steam billows from the open bathroom door. I knock on Katie’s door and she calls for me to come in. She’s sitting at the desk she uses as a dressing table, drawing dark brows on to an immaculately made-up face, her hair twisted into a towel.

‘You legend. I’ll drink it while I do my hair. Ready to go at half seven?’

‘Do you want some toast?’

‘It’ll bloat me. I’ll have something afterwards.’ She blows me a kiss and takes her mug, the one with ‘Calm down and watch TOWIE’ on it. Even in a towelling dressing gown she’s gorgeous. Legs up to her armpits. Heaven knows where she got those from: certainly not from me, and although Matt’s taller than me, he’s stocky with it.

‘Bought and paid for,’ he used to say, grinning and rubbing his beer belly. He couldn’t be more different to Simon; tall and rangy, with long legs that look great in a suit and endearingly comical in shorts.

‘I bet he’s never got his hands dirty in his life,’ Matt said scornfully, after the first time they’d met – awkwardly, on the doorstep, when Matt was dropping Katie home.

‘Maybe he’s never needed to,’ I retorted, regretting it the second it left my lips. Matt’s bright. Maybe not academic, like Simon, but not stupid. He would have stayed on at college if it hadn’t been for me.

I take Simon his tea. He’s already dressed; a pale blue shirt and darker blue suit trousers, the jacket still in the wardrobe. He’ll leave off the tie, in a concession to the Telegraph’s relaxed dress code, but he’s not a chinos kind of man. I check the time and lock myself in the bathroom, hoping the others have left me some hot water; cutting my shower short when I realise they haven’t.

I’m drying myself when there’s a knock on the door.

‘Almost done!’

‘It’s only me. I’m off.’

‘Oh!’ I open the door, towel wrapped around my damp body. ‘I thought we were going in together.’

Simon kisses me. ‘I said I’d be in a bit early today.’

‘We’ll be ready in ten minutes.’

‘Sorry, I really do need to go. I’ll give you a ring later.’

He goes downstairs and I finish drying myself, cross with myself for being disappointed he doesn’t want to walk to the station with me; a teenage girl denied her crush’s football jumper.

Simon used to work shifts, covering earlies and lates in the newsroom, and doing his share of the weekend rota. A few months ago – at the start of August – they changed things at work, putting him on permanent days, Monday to Friday. I thought he’d be pleased, but instead of enjoying more evenings together, he comes home grouchy and depressed.

‘I don’t like change,’ he explained.

‘So ask for your old shifts back.’

‘It doesn’t work like that,’ he said, frustration making him short with me. ‘You don’t understand.’ He was right; I didn’t. Nor can I understand now why he won’t wait ten minutes for Katie and me to be ready.

‘Good luck!’ he calls to Katie, as he heads downstairs. ‘Knock ’em dead!’

‘Are you nervous?’ I ask her, as we walk towards the station. She doesn’t say anything, which is an answer in itself. Under one arm she’s clutching her portfolio, inside which are a dozen 7 × 5 photos that cost a small fortune. In each one Katie’s wearing something different; a new expression on her face. In all of them she’s beautiful. Simon paid for the photos as a surprise for her eighteenth birthday, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy.