The Art of Hiding

Chapter 1

ONE

Nina caught the red light only a spit away from the entrance to the boys’ school. It was a regular frustration at the beginning of the day and something she tended to see as an omen.

Green light, good day. Red light, bad.

‘What’s for supper?’ Connor asked as he pulled at the seat belt of their Audi and flicked his overly long Bieberesque fringe from his eyes with a well-practised jerk of his head.

‘You’ve only just had breakfast!’ Nina smiled at her son, who sat forward with his school bag on his lap. Her youngest, Declan, gave a chuckle from the back seat.

‘I know, but I’m planning ahead. I’m always starving after my match.’

‘Yes, I’d noticed.’ She pictured him in his rugby kit with mud-caked knees, tearing through the kitchen cupboards with locust-like enthusiasm in a desperate search for carbs or sugar, preferably both. ‘What have you got on today apart from the big match?’

‘Nothing.’ Connor extracted his phone from his pocket and began to text with agile thumbs. She decided not to express her concern yet again that all that texting and game playing would lead to arthritis in later life. It didn’t stop her from thinking it though.

‘Nothing? Is that it? Nothing else to share?’ She willed the light to change. It always made her antsy to wait like this, just inches from the school.

‘Nothing,’ he confirmed.

‘That’s what you always say.’ She pressed the accelerator, letting the engine rev, as if this action might in some way influence the traffic light, encourage it to hurry up.

‘Mum,’ he began, sounding much like a statesman about to deliver a valuable sound bite, ‘it’s just my normal schedule, regular classes! I never know what else to tell you.’ Connor held his phone in the air and raised the other hand. His gesture reminded Nina so much of his dad it made her smile.

‘I know.’ She winked at Declan in the rearview mirror. ‘I just wish you did.’

There was a beat or two of quiet while she listened to the movement of Connor’s fingers as they glided across the screen, punctuated by the odd tut.

‘Spaghetti carbonara, by the way,’ she said, leaning towards him.

‘Huh?’

‘For supper, after your match. Spaghetti carbonara. Oh look, there’s George.’ She raised her hand in a subtle wave.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Connor stiffened, eyes blazing.

She stared at him, taken aback. ‘I was just waving to George.’ She pointed at the boy who was a regular visitor to their house, lumbering along with his sports bag slung across his shoulders.

‘God! Don’t do that! Don’t wave at my friends! That’s so embarrassing!’ He slid down the upholstery until his chin rested on his chest.

‘Really?’ She screwed her face up. ‘Waving? That’s a no-no now?’

‘God, yes!’ He sighed.

‘He . . . he did wave back,’ Declan mumbled. His hesitant tone suggested he was torn between wanting to support his mum and not antagonise his big brother. Connor whipped around to glare at his younger sibling.

The traffic light changed from red and amber to green.

Nina pulled away, more than a little embarrassed.

The list of things that were forbidden/discouraged/frowned upon where Connor was concerned seemed to be long and ever changing.

She found it hard to keep up. She remembered a time not so long ago when this same boy who now seemed to hold her in such contempt ran out of the school gates and straight into her arms, keen to show her whatever he had made that day, while rummaging in her pockets for snacks.

Upon discovering a treat, he would reward her with a kiss on the cheek and place his plump little hand inside hers for the walk back to the car.

She looked at the tall, muscular boy trying to sink down below the level of the dashboard while texting furiously and felt a flush of sadness; what wouldn’t she give to feel those chubby little arms around her neck one more time.

Thankfully, the Internet had proved to be her parenting buddy.

The many forums she could dip into – asking the anonymous question ‘Why does my teenager hate me?’ – offered reassurance by the bucketload that he didn’t hate her, far from it, but was going through a stage of discovery where his love for his mum might at times feel a little .

. . repulsive. But it was just a phase. Nina was happy she was not alone.

The messages that most gladdened her heart were those that repeated the wisdom: ‘I have been through this. He will come back to you. He will open up. You’ll see.

’ She longed for the day when she’d once again be a person of interest in his life, and not just the inept and profoundly embarrassing cook and chauffeur.

‘Have a great day! See you later,’ she called out as her boys climbed from the car. Connor strolled confidently ahead, with Declan trotting behind him on the path, happy to follow in his wake.

She shopped for groceries, lobbing smoked salmon and dainty petits fours into her basket.

Back home, she tackled two of the never-diminishing dirty clothes mountains that grew in her laundry room and ran the vacuum over the acres of flooring in their large farmhouse.

Finn had suggested more than once that she get help with the housework, but this idea rankled.

It was her thing, her job, for want of a better description, and she enjoyed it.

It was early afternoon by the time she pulled back into the boys’ school and killed the car engine.

Looking at her reflection in the rearview mirror, she took a deep breath, then exhaled through pursed lips.

Steeling herself, she rubbed her palm over the waistband of her jeans, trying to quieten the familiar flutter of nerves as she parked her shiny off-roader among the other sleek models.

A car like this was part of the standard requirement when you were a Kings Norton College parent, along with a confident stride, the right accent and a weighty bauble or two glinting on your fingers and dangling from your wrist. She had been gifted the car and the jewellery, but the other two items had proved a little harder to attain.

Closing her eyes, she damned the anxiety that left her feeling flustered.

After spritzing her favoured Chanel behind her ears and over her throat, she grabbed her padded jacket from the back seat.

The January ground was still hard, and despite the bright blue sky, a chill wind whipped across the playing field.

She hesitated at the mini lunch box containing a bottle of water, a ham and cheese sandwich and a bar of chocolate that sat on the passenger seat.

She wasn’t sure of the etiquette when playing with the A team.

This was the first time for Connor and therefore a big deal for her sports-loving boy.

Her instinct had been to prepare snacks, but she was wary of doing the wrong thing, like her earlier waving antics.

The thought of embarrassing him or herself sent heat to her face.

Smiling now at the absurdity of her concerns, she thought how ridiculous it was that whether to take a snack or not felt like a decision of such mammoth proportions.

She left the lunch box where it was; she could always nip back for it.

Hitching her handbag onto her shoulder, she trudged from the car park to the rugby field.

Glancing at her watch, she saw it was 1.

50. Kick-off was at 2 p.m. There was just enough time to go and find a good place to stand, where Finn would be able to see her easily when he arrived.

He’d promised Connor last night he would come.

She wished he would hurry up. Nina put her phone in her pocket – it was a useful tool for avoiding eye contact with other parents.

The sports field was busy. Clearly the top team was a big draw; she had never seen quite so many spectators.

Her stomach bunched; there were groups of people she didn’t recognise, parents and supporters from the opposing school all wearing the Coteswell Park colours of burgundy and navy, and already calling out instructions to their boys before the match had even kicked off.

‘Come on, Tom!’

‘Keep your eye on the ball, Max!’

‘Stay with your man, Cameron!’

Slow claps followed these shouts, as if these words and gestures could spur their sons on to great things.

Nina blinked and looked at the ground, nervous that some of the attention the parents drew to themselves might float upwards and fall on her shoulders.

Over the years, her confidence in social situations had eroded.

Her world existed within the four walls of their home, ‘The Tynings’ – an archaic English word derived from the verb meaning ‘to enclose with a fence or hedge’ – and they had done just that, making a haven for their family.

To interact with others exposed the fear that she had nothing of interest to say.

She found it hard to explain to Finn how she felt, knowing he didn’t fully understand what it was like to have grown up in humble circumstances, with shabby rooms and a lack of space.

She made no secret of the fact that she loved their home and felt an overwhelming sense of pride every time she walked in the front door.

It was where she felt safest, happiest. It lifted her spirits to see how far she had come from the grubby corridors and shared bathroom of her childhood in a rundown Southampton suburb.

She had never fully realised how poor they had been, until she grew up and met Finn.

Not that he had grown up with the wealth that now surrounded him, but at ten years older, he was more self-assured than her and was well on his way towards success when they started dating.

By the time they married, his construction firm was beginning to really take off and they had never had to struggle.