Page 21 of Textbook Romance

‘MUM! IS THAT YOU? MUUUUUM!’

It’s the greeting I get whenever I walk back into this house. I often think that if a burglar walked in, they could literally just reply yes, raid the house and leave and the two teens upstairs would be none the wiser.

‘No, my name is Juan. I’m from Deliveroo. Please can I use your toilet?’

‘Number one or number two?’ a voice says, weaving down from upstairs.

‘Number two. I hope you have enough loo roll.’

There is a cackle from the upstairs landing and Lottie’s head peers over the banister, her blonde curly hair hanging like curtains, the glimmer of her braces catching the light. The blonde is not from me but it’s a glorious mass of curls that are either the best or worst thing about her life, depending on the humidity and whether her hair products like her. She swings off the banister in that way we’ve warned her not to do for years.

‘I wasn’t kidding, by the way…’

‘About the big poo you need to do?’ Lottie enquires.

I laugh heartily. ‘About me being the Deliveroo person. I bring Nando’s.’

Lottie squeals in excitement and hammers a fist on Dylan’s door. ‘Dyl – she brought chicken!’

I remember a time when Peppa Pig brought the same level of excitement. The door opens and Dylan appears in shorts and with wet hair even though it’s autumn and I’m already in boots and a scarf. Dylan is one of those kids who just gets on with life – I never quite know if he’s enjoying himself. He eats, he shares small details of his day, he leaves. He inherited the curls but they’re sandy and usually hiding under a beanie. They thunder down the stairs, following me into the kitchen as I flick on the lights.

‘Did someone load the dishwasher?’ I say, surprised.

Dylan nods. The apt response here is to say I should divorce their father more often if it means they’ll finally get round to those chores I’ve bugged them about for years, but even I know it’s too soon for that. The kitchen is the hub around which this whole house operates, despite having their own rooms: their homework is still strewn about the island, the fridge acts as some sort of social noticeboard, their black puffa coats are hanging on the back of the bar stools. They grab at plates, taking their seats, both with one AirPod still hanging out of their ears in case they miss anything important on TikTok.

‘I’m sorry I’m late. First day back and all that…’ Lottie pushes some chicken my way. ‘It’s cool, I had some already.’

‘With who?’ she asks.

‘A new teacher – his name’s Jack.’

They both pause for a moment, and I realise the implication. Mother, that’s a man’s name. Dad’s moved on and out, maybe I have, too. Except the answer there is no. It’s far too soon, even if Jack was kind, spoke to me in innuendo and I liked the swing of his satchel. I look at both of their faces and feel that instinctive, urgent need to protect them. The day they found out about their dad is still fresh in my mind. A day of seeing such pure sadness from both of them. It still haunts me, and I am conscious that whilst I will never be able to protect them fully, I at least never want to be the sort of person who evokes that sort of emotion in them. I respond laughing.

‘Not like that… he’s a colleague.’

‘Was he fit? Do you have a picture?’ Lottie continues.

‘You see, when I go out and eat, I don’t spend my time taking selfies. I actually just eat,’ I tell her, sarcasm in my tone to match all of hers.

She narrows her eyes at me, but I realise I haven’t really answered her question. I need to lie. He is quite handsome. I did spend a great deal of time looking at his face, fascinated by his features, a little shocked at times that he was choosing to spend his time sitting across from me. You get the feeling he’d slide into the cast of some teen Netflix drama without worry. Good jaw. Do people still look at jawlines? I think this is an oft overlooked physical feature. You want something strong to frame the face and he had a good jaw. I can’t tell my kids that.

‘He was just a very nice young man… that is all.’

Nothing more. And that’s not because he’s over ten years younger than me but because romance and my love life are quite far down on my agenda at the moment. It feels like a complication, something I can’t fathom. I wouldn’t even know where to start with finding love, with nurturing any sort of romantic relationship. If anything, it feels absurd, bordering on hilarious.

‘Was he like a dinner companion, accompanying your old arse to an early bird special?’ Lottie continues. I flare my nostrils at her. These kids will always think me some sort of ancient relic who was born out of a pyramid, telling them stories of how I had to find public phones and carry metal money to contact my parents, and how I made mixtapes by recording songs off the radio. Nothing will ever convince them otherwise.

‘Yes, just like that. He helped me find my glasses so I could read the menu…’

‘That’s nice. I hope he was respectful and called you ma’am,’ Lottie says. Dylan laughs in reply, and I shake my head. Charming. If you want to know, he helped me remember what it was like to smile again, to laugh deeply from within. Sat across from him, over the peri-peri, he helped me feel human, reconnect to myself. But I guess they don’t really need to know about that. They both continue to eat, content with my explanations. At the end of the day, I bought Nando’s and I wasn’t on a date-date so these small details don’t matter. Dylan shovels some rice into his mouth, and I hang around them at the island, debating my next move. ‘And all good? First days back go OK? New timetables work out alright?’

‘Oh my god, I have Mr Weaver for chemistry and the man is literally the devil because if you so much as look out the window, he screams at you and he gave Lewis McFarland a detention for scraping his stool across the floor and I mean, I’d get it if the man could actually teach. He just screams and walks around with his pigeon chest like he owns the place and makes us copy things out of the textbook. I don’t believe he’s qualified. I think they need to double check his paperwork. And then, don’t get me started, double PE on Monday morning. It’s like the world hates me.’

Dylan smirks at me, as if to say, let’s really not get her started. ‘And you, Dyl?’ I ask him to try and get a word in edgewise.

‘Was alright. They’ve stopped doing those paninis at lunch, though.’

And that is all I’ll get from Dylan until parents’ evening when some random teacher will tell me he could contribute more to class but he’s on track for a B in his pending exams which is Dylan all over – not excelling but coasting comfortably. He steals a chip from his sister which means they nudge each other on their chairs. She steals one back. This will either escalate to a headlock or they’ll realise it’s not worth the conflict. I try to act as peacemaker by stealing more chips and notice Dylan leaning into me, resting a head against my arm. I smile to myself.

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