Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
BETTSY
How did I forget the silent treatment is a hell of a lot worse than the glare of disappointment? Honestly, I don’t know how long she’s planning on dragging this out for, but I’m pretty sure she’s got several days in her—more if she’s feeling particularly stubborn.
But Mam being Mam won’t let anyone go hungry—not even me, the son she’s stuck with.
The fuck-up. The child who doesn’t think things through.
No. She sets down a sandwich on the table with a heavy thud and pulls out a chair.
Silent message: sit down and eat. And since I’m not in the mood to fuel her fire and piss her off even more, I do as I’m told.
She stalks back to the kettle, lifting it off the stand and pouring boiling water into three mugs. One for me. One for her. And one for?—
“I’m home.”
Ah, shit.
Dad calls from the front door, announcing his arrival, slamming it closed behind him before dropping his keys into the bowl on the sideboard. His routine plays out in my head. He’ll use the bathroom, then there’ll be a moment of silence as he takes his shoes off, followed by his belt.
Mam finishes making the tea, then turns to me, her mouth in a straight line as she watches me—scoffing down the sandwich—as we wait for my dad.
Though, I’m not sure what I’m waiting for because my dad’s soft as shit. He’s told none of us kids off once—Mam is the authoritarian. She can rule with a single look.
“You can tell him,” she says.
And I face no choice but to nod, swallowing my pride along with a chunk of bread. Because even though Dad is laid back and generally carefree, I’m not overly excited about breaking the news to him.
The silence stretches out before the kitchen door finally opens. Dad enters, stopping next to Mam and planting a kiss on her cheek before reaching for his mug.
“Everyone okay?” he says.
But Mam’s silence tells him what he needs to know—everything is far from okay in her world.
“Didn’t realise you were visiting today, Mike?”
He takes a sip of his tea.
“Yeah, I’ve got the social thing with Team GB tomorrow, so I figured?—”
“Go on. Tell him,” Mam says sharply, cutting me off.
“Tell me what?” Dad says, looking between us.
“Why don’t you ask your son?”
I wince. This is how I know things are bad. I’m not ‘her son’ in this moment, or the collective ‘our son’, I’m his son. Dad’s son. Dad’s responsibility.
He realises this too. The last time I recall her throwing that out into the world was when I broke a ￡200 stick the day after I got it.
Weeks of begging, that took me. Weeks of trying to justify my needing it, for it to be gone a day later.
Snapped in half after a failed one-timer.
Needless to say, I didn’t have one that fancy again—not until I started playing pro.
“What’s going on?” Dad says, looking right at me.
I swallow hard and brace myself to talk—even getting as far as opening my mouth, but Mam cuts across me again, turning to my dad and sticking a hand on her hip.
“He’s only gone and told his new Coach he’s married, Tony.
Married. Apparently—Coach Harris from the Team GB squad implied being settled in a relationship would be better for Michael’s image, you know, grounded and all that—so bright spark here casually dropped the mention of a wife into the conversation and now?—”
“Married?” Dad says, contorting his face as if he’s trying to work out what the word means. “You’re joking?”
And if I’m not mistaken, I think there’s a hint of a smile.
He looks around the room and I shrug, not sure what else I can offer.
“I wish I was joking,” Mam says. “And now he’s convinced some poor girl to go along with it.”
Dad laughs. His deep chuckle fills the room, only to halt at the sight of my mother’s unamused face.
“What? Who?” he says, straightening up.
I open my mouth to answer when the doorbell rings and Mam looks at me, absolute rage in her eyes.
“Oh, my god,” she says. “I’ve got a home appointment, so Tony, I’ll leave you to deal with this.”
She dips out of the kitchen, leaving Dad and me alone.
“Outside. Now,” he says, pointing towards the patio doors.
My pulse picks up as I get to my feet, wondering if the disappointment will come from Dad instead. I force myself to move forward. Left foot, right foot, a steady movement right out into the garden, clutching my brew like it’s going to save me.
Dad pulls up a weathered patio chair and points at it, “Sit,” then grabs one for him, sinking down onto it before hissing, “talk.”
“It’s actually a funny story,” I say, choosing to add a bit of humour to the mix, but his face remains solemn—clearly deciding this isn’t as funny as he first thought.
See, when I told Mam, I omitted the part about Ellie and I potentially being married for real. I also missed out on the mention of who was playing along, but for some reason, I choose to tell Dad the entire story. Starting at the very beginning.
I tell him about the eighteen-year-old me, and the naivety it came with, then I tell him about the fact that I tried to get in touch with her once I got home—then I skip forward to her turning up at my apartment and the events that followed quickly after.
He sucks in a breath. “Christ’s sake, Mike.”
“I know,” I say. “I didn’t plan for it to happen, obviously.”
Then he asks me the question I’ve been dreading.
“Who is she?”
I pick at my cuticles. My dad’s not dumb. He’ll know that there’s no way a girl like Ellie would actively choose to be with a guy like me. Rough around the edges, covered in bruises and scars and missing several teeth.
Maybe that’s why Vicky acted the way she did.
I gear myself to answer. Gathering all the courage I have. “It’s?—”
But something catches my eye, and I let my attention slip to the kitchen window, where I notice movement inside.
Two people. One being my mother and the other, taller, hair a warm chestnut.
The reflection of the garden blurs against the glass, making it hard to see—and it doesn’t help that my dad is glaring at me, waiting for a reply.
He prompts me again. “So, who?”
“Ellie?” I gasp.
For a second, I think it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but nope. There she is, standing in the kitchen with my mother.
Ah, fuck. My stomach lurches. My heart pounds—like I’m a single defenceman on an odd-man rush.
Dad follows my eyes, and he says something—except I don’t hear him because there’s a pull in my chest at the exact moment I realise Ellie is crying.
I set the mug on the floor before standing, and stride over to the door, pulling it open and stepping inside, where I catch the end of her sentence.
“…I’m so sorry, Mrs Betts. I didn’t mean to let you down or anything, but hopefully we can line up home appointments from now on.”
Ellie looks at me, her eyes widening.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Can you give us some privacy, please, Michael?” Mam says.
Ellie sniffs loudly before wiping a plump tear from her cheek.
“Kitch?”
“It’s nothing,” she says.
I don’t even think about what I’m doing until I’m doing it—I step towards her and pull her into my arms.
“What’s going on?” I ask, keeping my voice low and level.
“I was about to ask the same question,” Mam says. “What—Michael you can’t?—”
Ellie pulls away slightly, sniffing loudly before dabbing her face with a tissue.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine honestly—your mam’s appointment didn’t get fulfilled and?—”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Mam says. “Come and sit down, love.”
She steers Ellie to an empty chair at the table before turning and making her way to the kettle.
I kneel in front of Ellie, trying to catch her eye.
“Did something happen with Kathryn?”
“No.” She swallows, rummaging in her bag for a packet of tissues, pulling a fresh one from the wrapper. “I hate letting people down and your mam’s appointment?—”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly, Mike.”
She dabs her eyes, then pulls on her best fake smile.
I rack my brain for something—anything because if Kathryn has done anything …
but Dad is apparently more switched on than he leads anyone to believe.
He’s been watching the scene unfold from the doorway to the garden, and he steps towards me, tapping me on the shoulder, forcing me to look up at him.
“Want to tell us what’s going on?”