‘She is now that you’ve agreed to have Joel. Thank you, darling.’
‘Jess the pushover.’
‘Stop it!’ Mum moved in for a hug, but I could tell she was eager to be off. ‘Joel’s a nice kid.’
‘Not what you said back in January, Mum.’
‘We all make mistakes. I truly believe Joel was pulled into something he didn’t know how to deal with. Or how to get out of.’
‘We’ll see. The second I see anyone hiding in my leylandii, waiting for their next fix from Joel, he’s out. Right, Mum, see you tomorrow.’ I almost pushed her towards the door and immediately headed for the stairs, not wanting to see her actually finally leave. ‘I’ve Joel’s room to sort. It’s full of Lola’s toys at the moment. I suppose they can all go to the charity shop now that Lola’s suddenly morphed into a teen.’
* * *
I spent the next hour cleaning the tiny spare room, finding clean sheets and emptying the little bookshelf of Lola’s things. Joel would need somewhere to study, but there wasn’t room to swing the proverbial cat never mind shoehorn in a desk and chair. I stood from searching under the bed for wayward pieces of Lego, comics and dolls’ clothes, thinking. There was no reason why Joel shouldn’t have the box room next door to study in. If Dean complained, tough. He was in no position to call the shots. I’d no idea what rent he and Mum had agreed on but, knowing her, it wouldn’t be the going rate.
Hearing a noise downstairs, I made my way back down to find Dean helping himself to coffee and sampling a piece of the first of the five puddings I was intent on getting just right for The White House.
‘Oi, d’you mind?’ I took the still-warm baking tray from him. ‘Where’s Lola?’
‘I’ve dropped her off at Ruby’s…’
‘Ruby’s? Ruby who?’ I stared at Dean.
‘Big eff-off house down Queen’s Gardens.’
‘I don’t know anything about a friend called Ruby. Someone she’s at school with?’
‘Presumably.’ Dean turned back to his plate.
‘Presumably? Dean, she’s eleven years old.’
‘I know, I know, and well within her rights to be dropped off to go and play with a mate from school.’
‘Rights? Eleven-year-olds don’t haverights! Who are these people? What’s the phone number?’
‘No idea.’ For a split second, Dean looked shamefaced but then shook his head, his mouth full of pudding. ‘She’ll be fine. Her dad said he’d bring her back later.’
‘Later? Later when? And who is this dad? Was there a mum there?’ I felt anger mount. What was the matter with the pillock that he couldn’t do a simple thing like know who was looking after his daughter? My daughter!
‘Does it matter?’ Dean said huffily. ‘You mums don’t have priority over us dads, you know.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find we do when we don’t know who the sodding dad is! He could be some paedophile kid molester.’
‘What, when he lives on Queen’s Gardens, has a Porsche and a Bentley in the drive and a kid of his own?’
‘I don’t think paedophiles have a monopoly on childlessness and driving Fiestas…’
Dean frowned. ‘I don’t think they mentioned playing Monopoly…’
‘What?!’
‘Jess, it’s a decent gaff down there. Not as if I’d dropped her off on the council estate down in Little Micklethwaite.’
I felt my temper rising. ‘What time did he say he was going to bring her back?’
‘Well, he didn’t. The kid came to the door and said something to our Lola and then our Lola shouted back to me that the kid’s dad would drop her off back at home.’
‘Well, this is a great start to shared custody. Don’t you ever dare do this again. When you take Lola anywhere, you know where she is, who she’s with and you have a phone number.’
