The Spark - Jules Wake Page 0,51

you don’t think I’d like to meet him?’

Shit, what did I say that for? Of course Mum would take it personally that Lynn had met him before her.

‘They haven’t met him like that. They already knew him. Like I said,his parents live next door.’

‘He still lives with his parents?’

Ergo a complete loser. It was such a Mum assumption.

‘No,’ I said keeping my voice light and pleasant. ‘He was housesitting for them. We hit it off. And started seeing each other a couple of weeks ago.’

‘And you want to take him to the wedding?’ The subtext being that a couple of weeks wasn’t long enough. How did I explain that Sam and I were … Sam and I?

‘It’s serious.’

She raised an elegant eyebrow. Seriously, those babies were her secret weapon; she could speak volumes with the damn things. With that one ‘really?’ lift, she managed at once to convey a wealth of disapproval and cynicism.

‘You hardly know him.’

And she would know that … how?

‘What does he do?’ Her face had gone marvellously blank.

Because that was what really mattered. Not, does he make you happy? Does he look after you? Is he in love with you?

‘He’s a teacher.’

She straightened and her eyes sharpened. She dipped her head with a quick, sharp nod just slightly to one side.

‘What does he teach?’ At the sudden interest and warmth in her voice, my heart took a nosedive. She was in for a big disappointment. I bet she was envisioning a sports-jacketed man with neatly cropped mousy-brown hair, sensible shoes and pressed wool trousers, shaped by the ruler-straight crease down the front. Oh dear, even in his teacher get-up, Sam was not going to match her expectations.

‘Children,’ I said.

‘I rather assumed that, Jessica.’

‘He works in a primary school.’ I kept my voice even, although the everything-about-Sam-is-amazing part of me was dying to jump to his defence.

‘Oh, not a secondary school?’

‘No, a primary school.’ I reiterated, debating for a second whether to elaborate – and she would so love that piece of educated vocabulary – that it was a special school.

‘So how long has this been going on? It sounds rather soon to be serious.’

‘God, Mum,’ I tempered my irritation with a tone of general question, the way I always did with her judgemental pronouncements, ‘who defines how long something has to be before it’s serious?’ And what even was serious? Shagging each other’s brains out on a regular basis, eating breakfast together every day, talking churches and vicars, or just knowing that this person with flaws and positives fitted perfectly into the gaps around your own personal jigsaw piece?

‘I’m only asking. I worry about you. I don’t want you to get hurt…’

I felt the weight of the unfinished sentence … the way I did. It hung in the air, portentous and ominous.

‘What do you know about him?’

I know he’s a good man. He cares that he’s hurt his ex-girlfriend. He makes me smile.

‘I know he’s my Lego piece. We click.’

Mum looked startled. ‘Now you’re just being silly, Jess. I asked a perfectly normal question. You read about women who meet men online who pretend to be someone they’re not. It often turns out they have wives and children tucked away and they’re leading a double life.’

‘I’m fairly sure Sam doesn’t lead a double life.’

‘I didn’t mean to imply that he did, but you can’t be too careful. How can you possibly know someone in a couple of weeks?’

Oh, but you can. Although six months ago, I’d probably have agreed with you.

‘Look at poor Shelley. She gets through boyfriends faster than hot dinners. Didn’t that last one steal money from her?’

Technically, Shelley had given it to him. She just hadn’t expected him to pass it straight on to his wife to support his three children.

‘No,’ I lied, which was wasted effort as Mum always knew exactly what went on. ‘And you can know someone for years and they turn out not to be the person you thought they were.’

Mum’s face crumpled as if I’d punched her with an Anthony Joshua left hook. ‘If you’re referring to your father, it was fine before he met that woman and threw away a wife and child on a whim.’

My father’s new wife – although not that new, as they must have been married for nearly fifteen years – was still known as that woman. Her name, Alicia, was never spoken. She was the nemesis that had blighted our lives and changed things for ever.

Although I was only eight when it