LITMIR.BIZ

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wanted to tell her. Why couldn’t he bloody well tell her? Christ.

      ‘What sort of emergency?’ Molly said. She folded her arms across her chest. If anyone else had done that, Ed would have thought it was to cover a naked chest but Molly merely looked edgy. And exasperated. And gutted.

      Ed hated himself. Hated this moment. Hated his mother. Only for a second, but he truly did. ‘I-I can’t say. I— but trust me. I have to take this.’ He squeezed Molly’s hand, silently pleading with her to trust him.

      She held on to his hand. She didn’t want to, but she did it. Because it was Ed. ‘Why don’t you trust me?’

      ‘I do trust you. I do. It’s just …’

      Ed shut up. He sounded like an idiot. But he’d sound even more like an idiot if he actually told Molly the truth. It was such a shameful, wretched tale.

      ‘I’m sorry, Molly,’ he said, picking up the apron. ‘I’m truly, truly sorry about this. Just know that I have to take this call. And I’ll probably have to go home for a bit. It has nothing to do with … with this. With us.’

      ‘Us?’ Molly started to laugh but it caught in her throat. She didn’t want to cry. Well, she did, but she would never forgive herself. ‘Is there such a thing?’ She raised her chin. ‘Go, Ed. Go. Answer your call. Do what you have to do.’

      Ed felt paralysed. He didn’t want to leave this moment. He had a feeling that it was a very significant moment in his life. But he had no choice. He had obligations. Not able to think of a single thing to say that could smooth the waters and make Molly smile again, Ed left the room to take his call. He chucked the apron over his head before he reached the hallway and picked up the phone.

      Ed could barely make sense of the voice at the other end of the line, but it didn’t really matter. Something had been ruined and he had to go and sort out another mess caused by the same hand.

      He put the phone down, went into the kitchen and put his cold, wet passata-stained jeans back on.

      ‘Leaving yet another girl high and dry?’ Jody sneered as he headed past her to the front door.

      ‘Yeah,’ Ed said bitterly, striding past her. ‘It’s what I do, Jody. It’s just what I do.’

      Upstairs, Molly shakily sat down on the bed. Feeling like this once was bad enough. Feeling like it twice was like a punch to the heart. So, lessons learnt. She and Ed should never get that close again. However incredible it felt in the moment, clearly they weren’t meant to be.

      Shattered, Ed opened the front door. He had missed a train, then been forced to get off and change to another line, and then he had walked two miles from the station as he couldn’t get a cab. It was unexpectedly quiet in the house. Eerily so.

      ‘Mum?’

      There was no answer. Opening the door to the sitting room, Ed sucked his breath in. The air smelt stale and pungent. Sick? Urine? Both? The room was dimly lit, only a side lamp providing a small umbrella of light, but Ed was familiar with the scene in front of him. Chairs were overturned, glasses smashed. A picture – nothing special, just a cheap print – had been hurled across the room. It lay at an odd angle against the wall, its frame splintered, the print poking out. A curtain had been torn from its rail and hung shabbily.

      Ed swallowed. He was accomplished enough at clearing up to be able to assess the room and judge how long it would take him to put it to rights. With the furniture damage, and the as yet undiscovered pool of sick somewhere, he was looking at a good three hours or more. He turned to the sofa.

      There she was. Sprawled across it, her legs flopped out at an undignified angle, her skirt bearing a wet stain that to Ed was unmistakable. There was a smear of lipstick smudged from the corner of her mouth to her chin, giving her the air of a macabre, violated doll. Ed leant over and pulled a blanket over her legs. He’d deal with the urine situation later. He grabbed a tissue and wetted it with his mouth, the way a parent does for a child, carefully dabbing at the lipstick until her face looked normal again. Then he sat back on his heels and gazed at her. And here it was. The very reason Ed didn’t ever bring friends – or, God forbid, girlfriends – home. The explanation for Ed’s only-child status. The shameful grounds on which to lie to the person he cared about the most in the world.

      His mother. The devout, committed alcoholic. She had been married to a serial cheat, a husband who had upped and left years ago, abandoning both of them without a second glance. She had fallen apart and turned to the bottle. Ed had followed her around, picking up the pieces and clearing up her mess. Keeping his guilty secret under wraps from everyone, especially anyone who meant something to him.

      He remembered some school friends turning up unannounced years ago, when his father had first left. His mother had been in the throes of a horrendous drinking binge and when she saw Ed’s school friends, she had danced around the garden laughing hysterically, trying to get them to join in. All with her skirt tucked in her knickers. Which was better than her stripping all of her clothes off and falling over on the patio with her legs splayed everywhere. Which she did later, in front of Ed’s friends. He had never been so mortified in his life, and he swore he would never allow anyone he remotely cared for to meet his mother ever again.

      Florrie stirred and opened her eyes with some difficulty. Mascara and tears had seemingly welded them together and she almost had to put a hand to her face to unstick them. Ed found it both tragic and painful to watch.

      ‘Darling,’ she slurred. ‘Where have you been? I went out to look for you. Got a bit lost. Have you been climbing trees again?’

      Ed closed his eyes. ‘Mother, I’m eighteen years old.’

      ‘Of course you are!’ Florrie cackled. ‘I’m forgetful; what can I say?’ She gave him a coquettish smile. ‘Is your girlfriend with you? The lovely Molly? You’re always talking about her.’

      Ed opened his mouth to correct her then thought better of it. ‘No, no, she’s not,’ he said finally. It never ceased to disturb him how his mother seemed to flit in and out of past and present, from vagueness to startling accuracy.

      ‘Where is Michael?’ he asked her, enunciating clearly.

      ‘Michael?’

      ‘Michael. The man who moved in here. Your boyfriend.’

      ‘He’s gone.’ Florrie started to cry. It was a pitiful, child-like sound.

      Ed put his hand on hers. ‘What happened?’

      ‘We had a fight. I had a drink.’ Florrie swallowed. ‘I said some things. Not very nice things. But it was all his fault.’

      Ed nodded. He was well-acquainted with the downsides of an alcoholic with a mean streak. She had once told him she wished she’d never had him, that he had ruined her life and that he could drop dead as far as she was concerned. Not a great thing to hear at the tender age of fourteen.

      ‘He packed his stuff and he’s gone,’ Florrie said, her voice reaching a whiny pitch.

      ‘Maybe he’ll come back.’ Ed tiredly pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘You were in such a good place, Mum. Such a good place. How did this happen?’

      ‘I miss you,’ she said, pulling her lips into a pout. ‘I miss you so much, Edison. You won’t leave me again, will you?’ she pleaded, clawing at his hand. ‘You’re all I’ve got.’

      ‘I’m doing a degree, Mum. I’m trying to make a better life for us.’

      ‘But I need you here.’

      Ed closed his eyes briefly. Here it came. The emotional blackmail. He could barely stand it. He had lived with it for so long now, he knew he should be used to it, but he hated it.

      ‘Time for a sleep,’ Ed told her gently. She resisted for a second, but exhaustion and alcohol soon overcame her and she relaxed against the sofa. Ed tucked the blanket more securely round her, feeling a multitude of emotions rushing into his throat

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