Jenna
watches Callum on the sofa next to her, eating the last of his toast. She tries not to stare at the red mark emblazoning his cheek, tries not to imagine what may have caused it. Tries not to think about the argument between her son and Isla this evening.
Consternation prickles the back of her neck as she thinks about Callum’s precarious standing at school. The only sixth-form student on a full bursary. The only student who has transferred from the local, failing comprehensive. The only student, almost certainly, who is trying to escape a past that so nearly derailed his life.
His relationship with Isla – straight-A student, county swimmer, universally popular – had been Callum’s first teenage romance and also a fast-track into the nucleus of the school’s social life. Abby had clearly not approved of her daughter’s five-month relationship with Callum, had been unable to conceal her displeasure beneath the superficial social niceties when bumped into her at school events: the tight smiles, the stock enquiries, the supreme effort to pretend that class, wealth and privilege were of no importance when it came to the young man dating her daughter. Callum always insisted that Abby was unfailingly polite to him during all those evenings and weekends he spent at Isla’s house, but politeness and kindness were not the same thing.
has no illusions of ever being embraced by the parental clique at Collingswood; she does not have time for their coffee mornings nor the money for their endless stream of dinners and drinks. She has never sought that kind of inclusion. She knew, before Callum started at Collingswood, that they would be entering a different economic world: a world of seven-figure salaries, affluent houses, second homes, brand-new 4x4s, exotic trips abroad every school holiday. A level of wealth could barely envisage, let alone compete with. But since Callum started at Collingswood, has been clear in her own mind that financial parity and parental friendships are not what’s important. She just needs the Collingswood students to accept her son. And she is all too aware that if there is going to be conflict between Callum and Isla, there will be only one social casualty.
From deep in the pocket of Callum’s jeans comes the familiar sound of his phone.
She watches as he pulls out his mobile, opens a message, observes the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple.
‘Is everything okay?’
He turns to face her, and there is something unreadable in his eyes: disquiet, upset, angst, she cannot quite tell.
‘It’s Isla.’
does not know whether to feel concern or relief. If Isla is messaging him, perhaps things aren’t as bad as she feared. Or perhaps the message is a continuation of their earlier argument, an edict for him to stay away from her, to stop hanging out with her friends.
‘What does she say?’
Callum scrunches closed his eyes, shakes his head in small, jolting movements. ‘Fuck!’ He bangs a fist down hard on the sofa beside him, and anxiety wraps itself around ’s throat.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Callum does not reply, presses his hands against the sides of his head as if trying to squeeze out whatever thoughts are inside.
‘Callum, please, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?’
A lone tear slips over the lower lid of Callum’s left eye. has not seen him cry for years – for over a decade – since the last time his dad promised to visit and failed to materialise. The sight of it now shreds a little piece of her heart.
Consciously, she softens her voice, places a hand on Callum’s arm. ‘What is it, love? What’s happened?’
Callum does not speak, passes her his phone.
reads the message, senses her world tilting at a different angle.
Shit. Have you heard? Isla got knocked down by some fucked up hit-and-run driver. She’s been killed. There’s police swarming around Meera’s. Where are you?
reads the message, and then reads it again, her eyes swimming from one word to the next, knowing what they say but unable to grasp their meaning. Unable to comprehend that Isla is dead: the beautiful young woman with whom her son, knows, is still in love.
‘Callum, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’
Wrapping her arms around him, she rocks him back and forth, holds on to him, wishing she could feel his pain for him. And yet, even as she murmurs to him that it’s going to be okay, that they will get through this together, she cannot escape the fear tugging deep inside her that perhaps, this time, she will not be able to protect him.