Chapter 24
The woman who does my Botox is an attractive fifty-something ex-NHS dermatology nurse called Liz and is, in the words of Jeff – who recommended her – a miracle-worker. I’m not sure about that, but she is willing to err on the side of caution and subtlety. Judging by some of the foreheads I’ve seen at the school gates, this is not a universal quality in her profession.
She had a cancellation this afternoon at her clinic, which is great except that I can only go directly after picking up Jacob from school.
‘Can’t we go straight home? I’ve got so much to do,’ he says, climbing into the passenger seat.
‘A lot of homework?’ I ask, starting the engine.
‘No, I’m just about to complete a new level on Roblox. Where is it we’re going anyway?’
‘It’s . . . a beauty appointment,’ I say vaguely.
But he’s not listening, too busy scrolling through Spotify to find ‘Wuthering Heights’ again.
The clinic has that sterile, all-white look similar to how set designers in the 1970s imagined all living rooms would be fitted out in the future. Jacob sits on a chair outside the treatment room, next to a well-dressed woman of indeterminate age. They smile at each other, before he picks up a copy of Aesthetic Beauty magazine and starts flicking through it.
I ask for ‘my usual’ and tell Liz I need to be quick if she doesn’t mind, which she takes as her cue to start telling me all about the limestone render she’s having replaced on her Georgian terrace and try to flog me an at-home skin tightening device.
‘I haven’t seen you for ages , Lisa,’ she says, peering at the lines above my nose with an expression that suggests I’ve allowed myself to become a gnarled old crone. She pulls back with a ponderous expression and I’m slightly concerned she’s going to pull out a syringe the size of a nuclear warhead. But instead, she snaps on a pair of latex gloves and asks, ‘Have you got something special coming up?’
‘Yes, an award ceremony in a few weeks,’ I say, which is at least true.
The actual injections are relatively quick and, contrary to popular belief, fairly painless, at least for anyone who’s ever been through childbirth.
‘Usual advice,’ she says afterwards, ‘no exercise or alcohol for twenty-four hours.’
‘Why is that?’ I ask, pulling on my coat.
‘Oh, any increased blood flow can cause the toxin to migrate to the surrounding areas. Worst-case scenario, you’d end up looking like Droopy. Oh, don’t worry,’ she laughs, sensing my alarm. ‘Just don’t be going into a sauna, running a 5k – basically anything that makes your face go red. It will take two weeks for you to see the full effects so we’ll book you in for a review then.’
I head out into the waiting room, where Jacob is now regaling a woman dressed in head-to-toe Marc Jacobs about why Manchester City’s new striker has the best left foot in the Premiership.
‘Ready, sweetheart?’
‘Yep,’ he says, slapping his hands on his knees before standing. Then he looks up at me and frowns. ‘No offence, but you don’t look any different.’
We head home and I’m pulling into the driveway when a text arrives from Rose.
Feel free to ignore this but given what you’ve been saying about Leo lately, I thought I’d forward this. My cousin swears by it.
I click open the link to an e-book called The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read , by Philippa Perry.
Interesting – I’ll give it a go. Are your cousin’s children perfect, as a matter of interest? x
I wouldn’t go that far, but she says it’s helped. On another subject, the Keanu movie is sadly meant to be a stinker x
Do you care? I thought your devotion to him transcended all that!
It does, as my Feeling Minnesota DVD proves! Might be better to stick to the new wine bar in the village instead though x
I smile to myself as we go inside, pleased to hear she’s even considering this.
Then I enter the kitchen and my expression dissolves. The devastation in here is the kind that can only be attributed to the recent detonation of a nail bomb, a minor earthquake . . . or alternatively a teenager who has decided he wants to make a cheese toastie. Every item – from a little-used cucumber spiraliser to what, worryingly, looks like it might be the PTA trifle dish – has been removed from a cupboard and is now sprawled across the worktop alongside half the contents of the fridge.
‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter, heading into the hallway. ‘Leo! Will you please get down here to clean up this mess? ’
No response.
‘LEO!’
No response.
‘ARE YOU UP THERE, LEO?’
His bedroom door opens. ‘WHAT?’
Ah. The monster lives.
‘Can you please come and clean up your mess.’
He exhales. ‘FINE.’
I return to the kitchen and put the kettle on to set about making myself a cup of tea. By the time I’ve made it and put away the milk, he’s still not down here and the sight of this mess is burning my retinas.
I begin to clear up, amidst a tornado of huffing and puffing. I am acutely aware that I should dig my heels in and wait for him to do it. But I am still apparently compelled by some mysterious force that simply won’t allow me to even look at this.
Once I’ve put the first few items away, it’s very clear he’s wilfully ‘forgotten’ about the whole thing. I return to the hallway and call up the stairs.
‘LEO!’
‘WHAT?’
‘Get down here and clean up the mess.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘SO AM I!’
I try to remember a couple of breathing techniques and remind myself that he’s got a lot on at school this year. Maybe I need to cut him some slack. I count to 10 and tell myself I need to let this go. There are more important things. Just put the stuff away, let him get on with his schoolwork and fight this battle another day. So I do exactly that. Only, just as I’ve cleaned the surface of the worktop, my phone beeps.
Notification: Principal’s detention
Your son has been given a Principal’s detention, for non-attendance of his recent Faculty detention, for failing to submit GCSE Art coursework. Detention must be served on Monday from 15:00 to 16:00. Yours, Mr C Stowell
My eyes begin to blur as I attempt to count the number of times the word ‘detention’ is used and work out exactly how many my son has been given. Then, I head into the hall again and stride upstairs two at a time, before giving three sharp knocks on his bedroom door and opening it.
It’s a complete state, but I’ve seen it all before. Like a scene from a documentary about people with hoarding disorders, only instead of old newspapers, my son is collecting empty Pot Noodle cartons, dirty underpants and a spaghetti heap of USB cables on his floor. I remind myself of a scientific study sent to me by one of the producers of My Teenage Bombsite which said teens’ bedrooms are messy because ‘as their childhood starts to succumb to the confusion of adolescence, so does their sense of order.’ So they’re not just bone idle then.
‘CAN’T YOU KNOCK?’
I look up at him, crouching at the window, and realise that he’s shouting because he’s panicking. And the reason for that is that I’ve caught him red-handed, surrounded in a halo of melon-flavoured nicotine vapour.
‘ What . . . are . . . you . . . doing? ’
It’s my Darth Vader voice. Deep, menacing, designed for intimidation.
He starts coughing and spluttering like a backfiring lawnmower. ‘Nothing! I’m not doing anything! What are you doing in here? JUST GET OUT.’
I step forward and hold out my hand. ‘Give me that. NOW. Please.’
‘What?’
‘The vape that you’ve just been smoking.’
‘What vape?’ he says as something drops from the window, clangs on the conservatory roof and clatters down to the patio below. He holds out his hands. ‘There. No vape.’
‘You’ve just dropped it! Honestly, Leo, you must think I was born yesterday,’ I say, my voice rising.
‘I have NO IDEA what you’re talking about,’ he protests, marching to the door and holding it open for me. ‘Now will you just get out!’
He has red cheeks and the guilty, cornered air of someone who’s farted in a lift, but the only available tactic to him is to brazen this out. Unfortunately, he is no Talented Mr Ripley.
‘I’m talking about you vaping. But that wasn’t even why I came here.’
‘This is MY ROOM.’
‘And this is MY HOUSE,’ I say, realising as the words come out of my mouth that all I’d need is a batwing jumper and a Lady Di haircut to turn into my mother, circa 1989.
‘Look, don’t yell at me,’ I say, feeling my temperature rise and my temples throb. ‘We will get onto the vaping later. That’s quite bad enough, but I wasn’t even here to talk about that.’
‘I know,’ he huffs. ‘You were here to have a go about your AWFUL DELINQUENT CHILD leaving a bit of cheese on the counter.’
‘Well, yes, there was that too. But the main thing I was here to discuss with you was ... THIS.’
I thrust the phone at him, showing him the notification about the detention.
He peers in. ‘That’s me and Jacob in Disney World.’
I glance back and realise my screensaver has flipped on. ‘Not that.’ I try again. ‘THIS.’
Only now, the bloody thing is refusing to unlock – presumably because my facial recognition can’t cope with the steam coming out of my ears. I hit a few numbers in a bid to type in the code and, when that doesn’t work, abandon the phone and just come out with it.
‘Leo. You have a Principal’s detention . . .’
He releases a long sigh and rolls his eyes. ‘Is that all? You’d think I was wanted by the FBI.’
‘. . . and the reason you have that is that you’d been given a different detention and didn’t show up. And the reason for that – apparently – is that you haven’t submitted your coursework for the Art GCSE.’
‘I mean . . . it’s only Art.’
Stay. Calm.
‘It is a GCSE. If you’re going to do A Levels, you need to get enough points right across the board to stay in your school’s exceptionally good, highly oversubscribed sixth form.’
He’s not looking at me now. Instead, he’s sitting on the bed, putting on one of his trainers. Once he’s got that on, he starts looking for the other. Unfortunately, it’s concealed somewhere under the rubble of his life, buried probably for eternity like the lost Ark of the Covenant.
He starts throwing bits of paraphernalia around to try and find it.
‘Have you got nothing to say for yourself?’ I ask.
‘Nope.’
Then, having failed to find the shoe, he stands up and pushes past me.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Oh no you’re not, young man. We need to talk about this. You’ve only got one shoe on for a start.’
‘ UHMIGODDD ! WOULD YOU JUST STOP MICROMANAGING ME.’
‘Fine!’ I say, hurtling after him down the stairs. ‘But you can’t go out, you’ve got homework to do or you’ll end up in yet another detention.’
There is a pleading note in my voice now, but it’s too late. ‘Look, we can talk about the vaping. I can help you give those up – I’ll get you an app. But please. Your exams . . . this is your whole future. You need these grades if you’re going to get into sixth form and—’
‘I’m not going to sixth form. You’d know that if you bothered asking me.’ He reaches the door and turns around.
‘What? What are you going to do then?’
‘I’m going to apply to a rugby academy instead.’
I let out a laugh before I can stop myself, but when I realise he’s serious, manage to turn it into a cough.
‘But . . . what about your A levels?’
‘I’d get a BTEC in Rugby Union Studies instead. I don’t need anything else. I’m going to be a full-time player.’
‘But . . . but . . . Leo, only a tiny proportion of people are able to become professional sports people.’
‘Oh, thanks for your support. That’s just great, that is.’
I resist pointing out the irony of this particular delusion when he’s just been caught sucking that rubbish into his lungs. Instead, I say: ‘Leo. Listen to me. You’re a really clever kid. I will support you in whatever you want to do. And I’m not saying give up on your sporting dreams but—’
‘Then don’t. Don’t say anything.’
‘I’m your mother! It’s my job to say something!’
‘Whatever,’ he replies, before striding out of the door – in his one shoe – and slamming it behind him. I look in the hall mirror. My face is the colour of a beetroot.