Cory saved the day by turning the spotlight on Mum. ‘So, Gwen, because you were born in England, I insist you talk me through the rules of rugby.’
She flim-flammed about, torn between being the centre of attention and not being able to confound everyone’s expectations by actually knowing them.
Patrick turned to Victor. ‘I bet you know them. Starter for ten, three most important rules in rugby.’
And, good-naturedly, Victor gave us a rundown of the offside and scrum rules, which were in the category of things my brain welcomed in one door and wafted straight out of the other.
As Cory and Patrick split the bill and my mum patted Victor on the head and said, ‘Your hair’s much softer than I thought it would be,’ I wondered if Ginny should have sent Victor to live with her brother after all. Then I chastised myself for falling into my own trap of thinking that as long as he was with someone black he’d fit in. I bundled Mum into her coat and marched her back to her bungalow before she could decide she wanted a nightcap.
Chapter Five
Faye phoned to ask if Georgia could stay at ours after a party in a couple of weekends’ time because she wanted a night away with her husband for her twentieth wedding anniversary. ‘Just up to London for the night, see a show. Pretend we’ve got a life.’
I’d agreed straightaway. ‘I’m picking them up at midnight, though. I’ve told Phoebe she’s not giving me the runaround – I’ve threatened to go in and cause social death if they’re not out on time.’ In reality, I hoped she’d pass the message onto Georgia to take charge of a prompt exit strategy as I knew that I’d never have the balls to march into a party and haul Phoebe off whichever boy was the recipient of her favours. Maybe that was a bit unfair, but the fumble behind the chemistry lab filmed from an upstairs window that made its way round school via Snapchat was etched in my mind forever.
Faye said, ‘I’ll warn her. Honestly, who knew that motherhood would be such a challenge?’
I rang off feeling a bit calmer. Georgia was a good influence on Phoebe, encouraging her to start visiting universities and thinking about possible courses. Because Patrick had gone to a red-brick university, he was a bit ‘Bristol/Durham/Exeter or die’ – a strategy guaranteed to make Phoebe decide that running off with the bloke from the amusement arcade in Bournemouth would be a much better idea. Clearly, in Phoebe’s eyes at least, Georgia at seventeen knew way more than Patrick and me in our forties, but as long as she channelled her in the right direction, I was happy to wear the dunce’s hat.
I judged my moment like a waiter snatching at a fly before it landed in the soup to ask Phoebe if she could wangle an invitation to the party for Victor. I softened her up by making ‘healthy snacks’ for her: gluten-free, dairy-free coconut cookies that were swimming in maple syrup and looked about as nutritious as a fried Mars Bar, splashed out on a shampoo especially for blonde hair, then took the plunge: ‘Could you ask? I’m feeling bad about him staying in all the time.’
She didn’t say no and, for the next week, I refrained from collaring her the second she came in from school to find out whether she’d remembered. Getting Phoebe to acquiesce to the smallest of favours was like attempting to make it across a river with only lily pads as stepping stones.
By Thursday, when I was desperate to have an evening in my own home without feeling as though I needed to put on a show for Victor, I crumbled.
She shrugged. ‘Oh yeah, forgot to say. Matt said I could invite him.’
‘Oh well done, love, thank you. Have you told him?’
She frowned. ‘It’s not that big a deal. I’ll tell him later.’
We both went silent as Victor appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, pausing on the threshold as though he was scared of interrupting us.
‘Come in, come in. Do you want a cup of tea?’ I hoped one day that Victor would be able to exist in our house without me darting about like an over-enthusiastic waitress.
I looked meaningfully at Phoebe, who scowled but turned to Victor and said, ‘You know Matt, the one who’s the hooker in rugby, blonde hair? He says you can come to his party tomorrow if you