‘Do you think you got through to him about staying at sixth form?’
I spent last night googling the sports academy he wants to go to, determined to keep an open mind. Its academic performance is atrocious. I’m sure he’d have enormous fun there – whichobviouslyI want for him, just not at the expense of his whole future.
A place like that is going to close all his options, not widen them. How do I get through to him that he needs to put the work in, get the grades, then make an informed decision about what he wants to do with his life? All this sounds so sensible I’m almost boring myself to tears.
‘No doubt about it,’ he says confidently. ‘Although, are you absolutely sure he was vaping? He was determined you’d got that wrong and you didn’t see anything of the sort. Are you absolutelysureyou saw it?’
‘Yes,’ I say, through gritted teeth.
‘It’s just, I really think I’d know if he was lying. He seemed very genuine, Lisa.’
‘I bet he did,’ I mutter, though I question myself a moment later. Maybe I’mnotsure. Maybe this is the dreaded brain fog I’ve heard all about. It makes people feel as if they’re losing their mind, apparently. I can’t deny I feel like that quite a lot lately.
‘Either way, I don’t think you’re going to have any more problems,’ Brendan says confidently.
‘Really? Well, that really is . . . great. So thank you. I’ll be honest, I felt like I was hitting my head against the wall last night. There was no getting through to him.’
‘I think some things simply need to be dealt with man to man.’
I feel a stab of indignation. Or is it jealousy? It’s not good, either way. The thought thatI’mthe one who has raised this child – single-handedly, give or take the odd weekend in the Peak District – yet all it takes to get Leo to start listening is for Brendan to sweep in and talk to him.Man to man.
I shake the thought from my head. This is no time to be petty. It really doesn’t matter whether it’s me or Brendan who makes him see sense. The only important thing is that our son gets his act together.
‘So . . . what did he say exactly? That he’s going to start revising?’
‘He’s got the message, don’t you worry. Trust me Lisa, it’sall sorted.’
‘Right,’ I say, exhaling. ‘Well, that really is brilliant, Brendan, thank you.’
‘Any time,’ he says, with a Supermanish air.
I end the call just as the lift doors open. And I come face to face with Zach Russo.
He looks me in the eye as if daring me to glance away and some odd feeling swoops in my gut that I can only compare to the first big plummet on a fairground ride. He’s wearing a suit. I’ve never seen him in one before. Our office dress code is like most places in these post-pandemic days – smart but with mostly open collars.
Zach has a tie. Midnight blue, the same colour as his eyes. It’s juxtaposed with a white shirt that looks specifically designed to highlight how tanned and smooth the skin on his neck is. Meanwhile, his jacket, in a steely grey, emphasises the breadth of his shoulders, with a single button that meets precisely in the middle of that muscular torso.
He looks like a Hugo Boss model, all polish and attention to detail.
He looks – there’s no other way of putting this – insanely hot.
I consider running away, but as the lift begins to close, he puts his hand against the door to stop it.
‘Getting in?’
I swallow, then nod. ‘Yes.’
I step inside and the doors close.
We both look straight ahead for a few silent seconds and the only thing that fills my head is the intense, now familiar smell of him, with top notes of something else.
‘Like a mint?’ he asks, offering me a Tic Tac.
So that’s what it was.
‘No thanks,’ I say, followed by a stab of paranoia that my breath smells.
He turns his head to look at me.
