15. Sophia #2
Ethan has seated himself opposite Jamie at the island and is scrolling on his phone. I take a seat next to my boss.
‘So, Jamie. Got any plans this weekend?’
He shrugs. ‘Dunno. Can we go to the driving range later, Dad?’
‘Afraid not.’ Ethan doesn’t look up from his phone. ‘Far too much going on at work. Why don’t you call one of your mates?’
‘No one’s around.’
‘That’s ridiculous. There are one hundred and fifty kids in your year group. I guarantee someone is “around”.’
He misses his son’s eye roll, but I don’t. I get it. He wants some time with his dad, not dismissive, snarky rejection.
Davide sets a shallow soup bowl in front of me and Ethan.
The liquid of the minestrone is thicker than the usual broth—it looks like he’s blended the tomatoes and broth into a wonderful, velvety consistency.
It’s dotted with colourful diced vegetables and beans, but no pasta.
Ethan doesn’t eat gluten. When I asked him about it earlier this week, he said he wasn’t allergic but avoids it given its inflammatory properties.
Seems pretty standard for Ethan, though I’m amazed no one’s filled him in on the inflammatory properties of chronic stress and holding onto life with an iron fist.
Again, not my business.
I run my spoon slowly through my soup in an attempt to cool it down and try again with Jamie, who’s clearly been here for a while.
His soup is nearly finished. I’m sure a teenage boy doesn’t want to make awkward conversation with his dad’s random assistant, but Ethan’s ignoring us both, and I can’t sit here in this awful silence, especially as Davide has made himself scarce.
‘So you’re at Westminster, Jamie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s an incredible school. What year are you in?’
‘Year ten.’
Fourteen going on fifteen sounds right, then. ‘So you’ve just started your GCSEs then? How are they going?’
He shrugs. ‘Fine.’
‘Can I ask what options you’re taking?’
If I’m pissing him off, he’s doing an admirable job of hiding it. ‘Um, Computer Science, Design Technology, Art and Geography.’
‘Cool. Those sound fab. Want to go into the family business when you’re done?’
His look of abject horror nearly makes me laugh. Luckily Ethan, who’s replying to an email on his phone while eating, misses it. ‘No. I want to work in animation.’
‘Your science teacher hasn’t come back to me,’ Ethan says without looking up.
‘It’s fine, Dad. Just leave it.’
‘I will not leave it. You should be in top set. We’re nearly halfway through the term and they still haven’t rectified the situation.’
‘It’s not a big deal.’ Jamie’s voice is quiet but firm. ‘If I do well, they’ll put me up at some point.’
‘I want to make sure you’re on the right path for Triple Science. I’ll get Grandpa to put in a call.’
Ahh, I remember this from school. They’ll steer some kids towards a triple science qualification, some towards double, depending on abilities. Though why he needs to do triple science if he wants a creative career is beyond me.
‘He’ll just embarrass me. He’s so dramatic. It’s not that deep.’
Ugh, so Richard must be a Westminster alum too. I can imagine him striding in there and throwing his weight around on a subject that’s categorically none of his business.
Poor Jamie. I really hope his mother is lovely, because he hasn’t exactly lucked out on the family of origin front, from what I can see.
‘Are those your drawings, Jamie?’ I ask him in a desperate attempt to rescue the conversation from the car crash it’s becoming.
His gaze slides to me and back to his pad. ‘Yeah.’
I cock my head and give him my best smile. ‘Working on some animations?’
He wriggles uncomfortably and pulls his cuffs down over his hands. ‘I mainly use Autodesk Maya for that, but I sketch out the ideas first by hand.’
‘Any chance I can get a peek at what you’re working on? I draw like a three-year-old. I’m always so in awe of people who can draw.’
‘Sure.’ He shrugs and leafs through the pad, folding back the top pages once he’s found what he’s looking for and sliding it across to me. ‘I only do anime. I’m trying to get her right, but it’s hard.’
I pick up the pad. The page is filled with stunning, delicate pencil sketches of a single anime character with huge eyes and a perky ponytail. He’s depicted her face from various angles and with several expressions.
‘These are exquisite,’ I tell him. ‘So amazing! You have such a talent. Ethan, have you seen these?’
I wave the pad at him excitedly. He glances up from his phone and studies the page for a moment. ‘They’re good. You need to pay more attention to proportion, though.’ And with that, he resumes his emailing.
My blood runs cold. Honestly, I feel sick. How can he be so dismissive of his own son? So disinterested? How can he not possibly discern that what Jamie needs in this moment, having had his golfing request knocked down, is just a second of validation?
Surreptitiously, I look over at Jamie. His shoulders have slumped dejectedly, and he’s grinding his teeth. I slide the pad back across to him.
‘They’re really gorgeous,’ I say lamely.
He shrugs his acknowledgment in the most disinterested way possible. ‘Thanks. Dad, can I be excused?’
‘Yes. Put your bowl in the sink for Davide, please. And go find some way to entertain yourself. I’ll see you at dinner.’
He slides off his stool, taking his bowl over to the sink. Then he’s back for his pad and pencil and slinking away into whatever corner of this cold, lifeless house he holes up in when he’s staying with his dad.
I sneak a sideways glance at Ethan.
I want to take him by his lovely broad shoulders and shake him.
I want to yell at him, to demand that he goes out there right now and suggests a trip to the driving range with his gorgeous boy, so tall and gangly and yet so clearly still a kid.
I’m giving myself a stern talking to, reminding myself that it’s none of my business, when Ethan drags his hand down his face and shudders out a huge sigh.
‘Fuck.’
He knows he’s done badly. That’s something, I suppose. And it gives me an opening to stick my nose into his business. I decide to couch it in can I help terms.
‘Is there anything I can do so you can sneak off with him for a couple of hours?’
He shakes his head, once, curtly. ‘Believe me, the last thing that boy needs is more time with me.’
I’m aghast. ‘What on earth does that mean?’
‘Exactly what I said. He’s better off steering well clear.’
Okay.
This I cannot ignore.
It may be clear as day that Ethan has a lot of what some might call baggage and I would call unresolved trauma, and it’s also clear that his parenting style leaves a lot to be desired, but this is another level of dysfunction altogether.
Ethan dismounts from his barstool, a sign that he sees this conversation as closed, but I’m having none of it.
The question is what to say. I could tell him home truths until I’m blue in the face, but the chances are he won’t hear them. Not at a somatic level where he needs to viscerally understand them, anyway.
Besides, he might actually fire me if they’re unwelcome and unpalatable enough.
I clear my throat. ‘You can say things like that, but that’s not you talking. It’s a part of you that’s very protective—and probably very fierce.’
He gives me a who knew she was a nutter look. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you mean.’
‘Look. I know he’s your son and this is absolutely none of my business, but—’
‘But I can’t imagine that’ll stop you.’ He sounds weary. Weary but resigned, which is good, I suppose, because he’s already come to terms with the fact that I’m getting stuck in.
‘When we have… issues,’ I say carefully, ‘with… family members—parents, say—and those issues aren’t resolved, we develop these protective parts inside of us—kind of like emotional bodyguards—that guard the vulnerable parts so that we don’t have to feel pain.
It’s a very well-established therapeutic model. ’
‘Otherwise known as psychobabble.’ He picks up both our bowls and puts them in the sink.
Of course that’s his reaction. He knows I have an actual psychology degree from Cambridge, which should warrant a modicum of respect (even if IFS, the modality I’m referencing, lies outside the traditional therapeutic models that I studied), but whatever.
‘I don’t think that’s fair. It’s helped me a lot.
But my point is that whatever part of you believes you need to stay away from Jamie to keep him safe is just that.
A part. It looks to me like it’s working very hard right now, but it doesn’t have the whole picture—not even close.
Because Jamie loves you, and he wants to spend time with you. ’
‘You know precisely nothing about my family, which gives you precisely zero right to wade in.’ He strides out of the kitchen without looking at me. ‘Stay out of my business and stick to your fucking job.’