‘They fight, that’s all. They’re better off on their own.’
‘But that’s so sad.Everybodyneedssomebody, Mum,’ he says, earnestly.
‘Not everybody. And definitely not Alan. Alan is an independent woman.’ The name has stuck despite it now being clear that our hamster is very definitely female. ‘And she’s really happy that way.’
I glance at my watch and realise we’re nearly 10 minutes late thanks to my teenage son, who has yet to grace us with his presence.
‘That’sit, Leo,’ I yell up the stairs, for what must be the ninth time. ‘Unless you’re down here in 20 seconds, you’ll be walking.’
His school is two miles away. It’s raining heavily. The register will be called in 15 minutes. The likelihood of him making it in any other way than by car is zero. But this is now beyond a joke; enough is enough and hecannotbe allowed to go on like this. Which is precisely what I say every morning.
‘Are we really going without him?’ Jacob asks, looking up at me anxiously.
I pull up the hood of his raincoat.
‘I hope not,’ I whisper. ‘Because then I’ll drop you off, feel guilty and have to turn around to go and pick him up. Leo! NOW!’
He finally appears at the top of the stairs, half asleep and looking like a drunk who’s just crawled out of a nightclub. At 15 years old, my son is six foot one, athletic and handsome, which Ithinkis true even taking maternal bias into account. He also currently has no shoes or socks on, his shirt is undone and the top button of his trousers is hanging open. The only element of his appearance that he’s attended to is his dark blond hair, which is styled to perfection. Of course it is.
‘Have you seen the time?’ I say.
He closes his eyes and inhales deeply as he heads down the stairs.
‘Would youpleasestop shouting.’ He has the air of someone whose patience is being tried by an incompetent customer service operator. I feel my simmering blood rise to a slow boil.
‘I. Was. Not. Shouting. I’m merely trying to get you out of the house without making everyone else late. I’ve got an important meeting first thing.’
‘There’s plenty of time,’ he shrugs, sitting on the bottom step and tugging on a sock in a manner so leisurely you’d think he was lying on a beach in Acapulco.
‘There isn’t!’I say, with rising exasperation.
‘You say that every morning and I’m literally never late.’
‘That’s only because I have to drive like a maniac to make up for lost time!’
He stops and looks at me. ‘WHYare you shouting?’
‘I’MNOT.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Well . . . NOW I am! GoodGod,’ I huff. ‘Just get in the car.Please.’
I love my eldest son more than I can express. I am often dazzled by how clever, thoughtful and fun he has the ability to be. But he’s none of these things in the mornings. If you catch him before 9am on weekdays – and early afternoon at weekends – he seems determined to forge a reputation for himself as a giant pain in the arse.
He hasn’t always been like this. He was the sweetest little boy you could hope to meet, the first to want a cuddle or a bedtime story. I thought I’d got away lightly with his teenage years at first, but then he hit 15. The transformation happened like the flick of a switch . . . or, more accurately, Godzilla rising from the deep, ready to wreak havoc on everything in his wake.
I turn Jacob around and march him out of the house to the car, clicking the lock and piling in the bags.
‘Have you put anything nice in my packed lunch?’ he asks.
‘What do you mean? You have school meals.’
‘But there’s the museum trip today,’ he reminds me. I feel a gust of breath leave me. ‘You haven’t forgotten, have you?’
‘Of course not. You jump in the back and I’ll go and get it.’
In the kitchen, I throw the first edible things I can find into a Tupperware box, before running back outside.
