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I look at him.

‘Yes, I am. Thank you. I know you had our best interests at heart today,’ I say.

And I mean it. But I also know, deep down, that something about all of this doesn’t sit right with me.

Chapter 17

The following week I begin packing in earnest, collecting some boxes from Ifan and confirming that, yes, I’m moving. Once again I turn down his offer of a chippy tea and even a proposal of marriage, of sorts.

‘You and me, we could join farms?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Thank you, Ifan, but no.’

‘Shame. You and I could’ve made quite the team,’ he says shaking his head. ‘You’re a farm girl, see? You’ll miss the country air!’

I take the boxes and throw them into the back of the Land Rover. Will is sitting up front with Tegan. He’s hardly said a word since we visited the school.

‘Look, I know this all seems strange right now,’ I say as we drive away with the boxes in the back of the car. ‘How do you feel about Gareth’s house? It’s a nice room and we could decorate it for you,’ I say. ‘Do it how you’d like it. And plenty of room to cook.’

Will shrugs. Once again giving me the impression he’s underwhelmed by it all.

‘You’ll have your own room. We can get you a television for it, if you like. Have it just as you want. Until your new family is found for you.’

He’s thoughtful. And I’m not sure what I’ll do if he isn’t on board with this. Then he says, ‘And Tegan?’

‘And Tegan,’ I smile. ‘And as I say, the school is your choice. Why don’t we make a list: reasons to go, and reasons not to? Let’s think about all the good things about the school – all the friends you’ll make, and the fun you’ll have. There was so much to do there, so many sports . . .’ I can hear myself saying the words, but I’m not believing them.

I look briefly at Will stroking Tegan. The last thing he is is sporty, I think. And the art department was minimal, even if I could get him interested. And cookery, non-existent.

‘Shall we get something to eat?’ I say. ‘We can stop at the shops.’

He shakes his head.

‘You can have anything you fancy?’

He looks up at me.

‘Can we make a curry? Like Ayesha used to do.’

‘We can try,’ I say and pull in to the supermarket car park.

At home, I look at the recipe online on my phone. I have no idea what I’m doing! But we’ll try. And we do. I serve up my attempt at butter chicken and overcooked rice.

‘It’s not very good, is it?’ I say.

Will looks up at me, and then we both give a little laugh.

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It’s not very good.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll try and get better. How about some toast?’

Then he says, ‘Why was that boy sad at the school?’

It’s the first time he’s finally spoken about the school.

‘He missed home,’ I answer as honestly as I can.

‘What, his house?’