the car and was backing out of the drive when she came flailing along, barefoot, with a pair of trainers in one hand and an armful of folders in the other. It was so tempting to pretend I hadn’t seen her, to savour a quiet moment with Victor when I could put Smooth Radio on without a barrage of criticism about how I must have been born ‘in the 1900s’ to like this sort of music.
In she scrambled. I fumbled about for some conversation. Anything I could say to Victor about an exciting new beginning seemed hollow and insulting in the face of his loss. I drove to school in a self-conscious babble of ‘the nights will start drawing in soon/bet they’ll be glad to have you on the rugby team/Phoebe’s favourite teacher is Mr Earnshaw, who’ll probably be taking you for Chemistry.’
Phoebe was surprisingly compliant. ‘Yeah, he brings chocolate biscuits to lessons. He’s all right.’
Who knew a chocolate biscuit could make the difference?
When we got to school, Phoebe scuttled off, mumbling, ‘Have a good day’ to Victor and, yet again, I felt a flash of shame that she couldn’t be kinder, put herself out a tiny bit.
I also wished I had some of Ginny’s natural affinity with people. ‘Jo, honestly, if you ask someone loads of questions and let them talk about themselves till their fingers get cramp around the microphone, they’ll think you’re the most interesting person they’ve ever met.’
I’d learnt from her over the time we’d lived together in London, but I still didn’t have that innate self-assurance, that certainty that whatever situation came my way, I’d find the right words to handle it. That was painfully obvious now with Victor walking along beside me. I couldn’t think of a single thing to help him, to give him courage.
I’d never really noticed how white the school was before as I waved to various acquaintances and friends. It must be so odd walking into an environment where he didn’t know anyone and no one looked like him. It wasn’t something I’d given much consideration to around Ginny because she’d always seemed so confident about her place in the world. But suddenly, seeing Victor – this seventeen-year-old boy whose certainty about life had already taken such a battering – walk into school with reluctance and resignation in every step made me want to ask him if he was aware of it too, but I didn’t know how to phrase it in a way that didn’t make me sound weird or racist.
Thank goodness for Mr Sanderson, Head of Sixth Form, coming our way, a smiley bald-headed man who held his hand out and said, ‘Victor? Great to have you on board. Sorry you’ve had such a tough time of it. Come with me and I’ll show you around.’
Victor’s response nearly undid me. ‘Thank you. It’s very nice to meet you.’ All the teachers would love him because he was so well-mannered. I quickly crushed the thought about them clucking out unfavourable comparisons with Phoebe – ‘His real mum did a stunning job’.
Mr Sanderson carried on. ‘Mrs Clark tells me you’re a great rugby player. That’s going to make you very popular. Rugby season starts this Saturday, so we’ll have to get you down for a game.’
And with that, they launched into a conversation about which position he played, a rundown on the school’s arch rivals, and it was time to take my leave. I wandered back to the car, my heart aching. I had such a clear memory of picking Ginny up from the airport when she moved back from Canada with two-month-old Victor, a few weeks before our wedding. I’d expected her to be knackered. But she glowed, as though she’d been flopping about searching for a purpose in life and dropped right into the bull’s eye. And Victor was much bonnier than I’d envisaged. At nearly two months premature, I’d expected a scrawny, sickly scrap. Instead, he seemed contented and robust.
Ginny had laughed. ‘I knew my great big bosoms would be good for something. I’m like a Jersey cow with my super-rich milk. He’s piled on the weight.’ And she’d nuzzled her face into Victor’s little cheek with a relaxed confidence that made me want to applaud her.
As I reached my car, I bumped into Andrea, who had a daughter, Helaina, in Phoebe’s class – ‘Not Hel-ena. Hel-AINA’. I always felt as though my eyebrows needed plucking whenever she was around.