A Year at the French Farmhouse(78)

Even with his back to her and from this distance, she felt a flood of recognition taking in the chequered shirt, the tousled hair, the way he stood, one shoulder leaning slightly.

She began to run, her heart pounding, her whole body longing to get closer to him, to fling herself into his arms. All the missing him she’d repressed suddenly rushed to the fore. She hadn’t stopped loving him; hadn’t given up hope that this might happen. It was Ben! Perhaps he loved her after all? Perhaps he’d decided to make a go of it.

But as she approached, the man turned towards her and fixed his eyes on her, lifting his hand in a small wave of greeting and she felt a flush of heat on her neck. Her feelings raced from elation to disappointment to another sort of elation altogether. It wasn’t Ben at all. Just someone who looked incredibly like him from behind.

‘Ty!’ she cried, as she raced towards him, no longer worried what her poor bare feet might encounter and stumbling over a particularly pointy stone, before flinging herself into his arms. ‘What are you doing here?’

He embraced her briefly before standing back, slightly horrified at her enthusiastic greeting. But she’d missed him so much over the past few weeks, despite their phone calls and texts, that seeing him out of the blue had made her momentarily forget that although he was still her boy, he was also a teenager standing in front of a mother, asking her not to hug him.

‘All right?’ he said, picking up the bag at his feet.

‘Yes. Oh, Ty, it’s so good to see you!’ she said, feeling slightly dizzy. It was wonderful to see him, but the merging of one of her worlds with the other made the whole experience feel surreal.

She saw his eyes take in her appearance and suddenly realised how this must look. Flimsy dress, shoes in hand, messy hair, smudged mascara. It was a classic ‘walk of shame’ only in reverse – she, the wayward mother sneaking in after staying out all night, he the disapproving teen waiting on the front doorstep.

‘It’s not what it looks like,’ she said, instantly regretting the words, surely one of the most incriminating phrases in the world.

‘I’ve been here for two hours,’ he said, frowning.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I just didn’t… Why didn’t you call?’

‘I wanted to surprise you.’

‘I’m really sorry, Ty,’ she said, rubbing a hand on his arm.

He nodded, looking again at her dishevelled appearance but not saying anything – probably in fear of unleashing the most awkward conversation in the history of awkward conversations. You didn’t ask your mum where she’d been all night, did you? Especially if you were afraid of the answer.

‘Come on,’ she said as brightly as she could, hoping to distract him from her appearance. ‘Let’s get inside and I’ll give you the tour.’

Half an hour later, she’d slipped on some more respectable jogging bottoms and a loose T-shirt, given her face a rudimentary wash, made a quick call to the bricolage to arrange an oil delivery and made him a cup of tea with a side order of pretty much all the biscuits she had in the cupboard. At last she no longer felt on the back foot (although one of her feet was still suspiciously sticky under its clean sock).

‘So,’ she said, sitting down opposite her son and taking a grateful gulp from the mug of tea she’d made. ‘What made you decide to come?’

He shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘I mean, I’m delighted you’re here. You can stay for as long as you want – forever if you want. But it’s a surprise, is all.’

He looked at her over the top of his mug. ‘Where did you go last night?’ he asked.

The question was unexpected. ‘Well, I was out for a meal with… well, with a friend. I’d been drinking, so I crashed at… hers,’ she said, feeling a little guilty. But it was less complicated than admitting she’d been with Frédérique. Plus it was private and new and something that was – for the moment at least – just theirs. The moonlight shining on the edge of crystal glasses, the softness of his lips against hers. The way in which he’d made her feel attractive, wanted in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

Tyler nodded, his eyes dark.

She tried to smile.

‘Well, I came for… I wanted to come for Dad,’ he said.

She felt something inside her sink. Guilt rose up. But what could she do? ‘Oh, Ty.’

‘What?’

‘I’m so sorry we’re putting you through this, sweetheart. And it’s so lovely that you love Dad so much and want to come and fix things for us. But…’

‘No, wait,’ he said, ‘I’m not…’

‘Not what?’

‘I don’t think I’m going to fix things for you, I’m not stupid,’ he said, frowning. ‘I’m just… you don’t know everything and I thought you should know everything before you…’ He trailed off, his eyes pleading with her not to make him say it.

‘Before I… move on?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, comfortable with her choice of words.

‘Oh, Ty,’ she said again, reaching over and covering his hand with hers. He let her, briefly, before moving his away. It wasn’t a gesture of rejection, just an automatic teenage reflex. ‘I know Dad loves me. I love him, too. You know? But…’