Chapter 7 #2
I pull him out of the bath and wrap him in a towel, hugging his skinny eight-year-old frame to me.
“No, he can’t. Not until I’m ready. And you’ll be grown by then. You all will be.” I smile confidently at him, my voice soft and full of love.
“Why was he saying it then? I heard him on the phone as well to someone else. Talking about you getting an offer for the London building. We will have to stop cricket and futsal. I love that as well. We love going to the building with Grandad.” He gulps back his tears.
I shake my head. “I did get an offer, but I said no. I won’t be selling anything if I can help it. And if I did, I’d have plans for everything. You don’t need to worry. And I’m sorry that you had to hear your dad and I arguing.”
He shrugs. “Dad argues with everyone. He’s always shouting at Amy.
Cal— He wants to come live here.” My face must pale.
“He likes it when we go to his house, he wants us every weekend. He cries when we leave. I see him run to his room.” I understand the hopefulness in my son’s voice and try to pull my expression under control as he rambles on.
“He loves cricket, and Ollie taught him how to bowl. He’s been practising. ”
I smile at my youngest son. The exact same age, he and Cal—a.k.a. Carlton, my kids’ half brother. The other baby—have forged an unlikely bond. I’ve never discouraged it, he’s their brother. Even if I hated the thought of what Nigel had done, it wasn’t the child's fault. But still…
“Cal isn’t my responsibility. You, Noah, and Ollie are. I don’t think his mum will want him to come here.”
“She doesn’t mind. I asked her. She said he could if you agreed.
I’d like him to come, and stay for a weekend.
He could meet all my friends, play games.
We play on the Xbox now. He knows all my school friends through that.
He doesn’t seem to have many friends at his school.
” His optimistic smile hits me, and I sigh.
“I’ll see.”
His grin widens. He thinks he’s won. But I really do not want the responsibility of the golden boy that is Carlton Drew-Langford. My feelings are so mixed. But the fact that he’s a child and a half-brother and obviously a friend to my kids… I might have to bite the bullet.
Back at my desk on Monday, I concentrate on my work.
The London Construction Conference is fast approaching at the end of the week.
Two days of total networking and selling.
I love it. More people for me to market our little company to.
I’ve big hopes for more new clients, or maybe to lure some old ones back again.
Louise and two of my construction staff recruiters are backing me up.
I’m powering through my tasks for the week.
Firstly, I’ve brushed off Nigel. Sent a message he can fetch Carlton to cricket, we are not his taxi service.
Spoken to Ollie about his dad. A short and curt discussion.
‘Dad’s an idiot.’ His words. But he also mentioned Cal wanting to come to our home.
Apparently the boy has been badgering him for months.
“I can fetch him and take him back,” my oldest offered.
“I know the circumstances, Mum, but he’s a nice boy, and loves Nat.
Nathan helps him. I think he has dyslexia like Noah.
But no one is helping him. Noah gave him some coloured sheets.
He was better, could read easier. But Dad busted a gut and binned them. ”
My heart sinks for the boy. But what can I do? He isn’t my child. This is on Amy to deal with Nigel on behalf of her own son.
Next on my list is a Wednesday afternoon visit with Noah's teacher. I’m sat with my face going redder and redder when she describes a boy I don’t even know.
I have to check twice that she’s talking about Noah Drew.
She’s talking suspensions for disruptive behaviour, and dropping him down two or three sets if he doesn’t work harder.
Even going so far as insisting she’ll stop his music lessons in school as a punishment.
It’s the only thing he loves. Over my dead body will she do that.
“You do know he has dyslexia. He has additional help. I’ve had him tested.”
“We have not had him tested, and a private test doesn’t count in our school. So at present, I don’t recognise his situation. And Mr Drew-Langford has contacted us several times, even been in to see the head, to say that he felt that the test was not correct. He doesn’t want his son singled out.”
I push down my anger. How can she sit and say that? How could Nigel do it? She’s supposed to have my son's interests at heart. Clearly Nigel has been exerting pressure on the school board. His father-in-law's name coming in handy. Again.
I keep my voice calm. My agitation under wraps.
I’m here for Noah. “Well, I’ve had it looked into.
Could we please start the process for this school again.
I started it two years ago. I can’t believe that you haven’t followed it up.
Noah’s welfare is of the utmost importance, not Mr Drew-Langford’s narcissism. ”
“I’ll note your concerns. But if Noah's grades don’t pick up, I’ll have no choice but to drop him down a set or two even.” She stares haughtily at me. “His music is taking up all his focus. He needs to be more rounded.”
Fair point I suppose. “But his grades have been good in most classes. Certainly sufficient for him to move on with his class. I check in regularly with the office and grading system that you show online.”
“It’s also a teacher assessment. And every test he does for me is incorrect.
I can’t, in all good conscience, move him on at this level if he is going to struggle to that degree.
Zero on every test is not keeping up.” She pauses, as my mouth is open in shock.
He never gets no marks. “And if I don’t agree, then his case will be looked at. ”
I’ve had enough of her. I know a woman on a power trip when I see one. Obviously a Nigel disciple. Well good luck with that.
“I’m sure when an independent body reviews, he'll be fine. I’ve kept all his work and a note of grades. For all his other classes.”
I smile sweetly, and watch as her smile drops slightly. She’s probably listened to Nigel's chat for too long. And his character assasination of me, no doubt. I leave feeling like the battle has only just begun. I’m in a war I didn’t know existed.
But at the end of the day on Thursday, at least work is going well. I’ve signed up two new clients who will see me through until the end of March with no overdraft usage or savings. Louise was doing a victory dance, her pink trainers brightening the January grey.
Wiping the sweat from my brow—I’ve certainly been super productive—I pack up and double check all my conference items. Pens, power packs, notebooks, pads of paper, canvas tote bags.
You name it, we ordered it from the corporate marketing store.
My car is loaded, as it’s an early start at London's premier Construction Conference Centre.
A large arena, I’ve shelled out for a premium spot in the Grand Hall. There's at least three halls, and everyone knows if you’re in Hall Three, you might as well go home. Everyone is full of swag by the time they get into Hall Three. They can’t even be bribed in, their tote bags bulging.
I’ve gone all out. Bought pink cupcakes. Dozens of them. I’ve never seen them at an event before, and I’m hoping they’re a crowd puller. A friend of a staff member did them in return for a free month's rent of my building's main room for her ‘Bake-off’ event. What a result for us and her.
My optimism is sky high. Projecting confidence, and already feeling the effects of more contracts, I’m sending everything I have out into the world, knowing my work ethic will be rewarded with good Karma. People will be flocking to my stand.
It’s only when I get there, bright and early Friday morning that my shiny optimism is dented. I realise that, for now, the world of Karma is not listening. What were the odds of that?