Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“There was no need for that kind of language,” I answer primly.
“He only said ‘the referee’s a wanker.’”
“Enough, Hugh.”
“But the referee was a w-was the worst,” he says, catching himself. “The songs and the rude words are part of the atmosphere,” he adds as though talking to someone who just doesn’t get it. Which I don’t.
“If that’s what you want to do on your birthday, then a football match it is.” I nod decisively and catch our spectator smiling at me.
“Thank you, Mummy.” Hugh’s thin shoulders sag. “We’ll do something else. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” It just won’t be the same, his expression says.
Despite his earlier cheek and this very clear snub, my heart breaks a little for him. This isn’t the first time Tom has let him down, and I’m sorry to think that it won’t be the last. I want to cry at what’s in store for my babies because I’m not going to be able to make this experience better, no matter how hard I try.
“Might I make a suggestion?” Van’s voice cuts through the sudden quiet.
“As long as it’s not a Laddiemouth match,” Hugh replies morosely, referring to a team from a local soccer league.
“How about an Arsenal game?”
“Really?” Hugh’s head lifts, his eyes lighting up like flying saucers. His expression is such a picture, like he almost can’t trust his ears.
“There’s a home game next Saturday.”
“But isn’t Arsenal in London?” As in, not in Scotland, but almost at the other end of the United Kingdom. “Darling, we can’t travel to London for a football game. Perhaps during the school holidays.” I doubt my car would make it, and the train—
“You’re quite welcome to come, but I thought I might take care of the arrangements,” he adds smoothly. For my ears only, he adds, “I’ll even source the spittoon.”
I clap a hand to my mouth to hide my snort. All the manly things? But then I remember why I stormed off earlier.
“Thank you, Van, but we couldn’t.” Could I trust him with my children? My first instinct is that I could, but given the circumstances, I shouldn’t. “We couldn’t possibly impose.”
“Alexander will come, of course.” His attention dips to my son, and he tempers his smile as he adds, “Your uncle, Archie, and your cousin too, if you like?”
“I do like,” Hugh supplies with a rapid nod. “I like that idea a whole lot! Uncle Sandy hates football, but he can’t hate Arsenal. And Wilder is half-American, and they play the wrong kind of football there.”
“So a birthday trip and an educational visit.” Van nods as though intuiting where Hugh was going with this.
“Can I bring my best friend, too?”
“Hugh!”
“There’s room in the jet for a couple more,” Van replies anyway.
“But not for you,” my son adds ungraciously. “Sorry, Mum, but this is a boys’ trip. Flying to London!” he adds, punching the air.
“Perhaps we can arrange for you to meet a couple of the players afterward?”
“Really?” Hugh looks like he’s about to explode from pure pleasure. How am I going to get out of this?
“Van, please.” My words fall on deaf ears as the pair plan out the delights of the day that sounds like the highlight of my soccer-loving son’s young life. With each suggestion, the chances of me stopping this freight train of childish delight diminishes. But how can I deny Hugh? And why is my discomfort matched by warmth as I watch Van indulge in my son’s pleasure?
Indulge or share?
“I’m going to go and tell Archie and Wilder the news.” My boy spins on his heel, pivoting back again. “Thank you, Uncle Van.” He suddenly throws his arms around Van’s waist. “You’re the best honorary uncle ever.” Over my son’s head, I can’t tell if Van is disarmed or alarmed. A fair measure of both, I’d say.
Hugh dashes off.
“I’ll be along shortly,” I call after him. “It’s nearly bedtime.”
He doesn’t turn, though he gives me the thumbs-up sign, and suddenly, we’re alone in the darkened hallway.
“Were you really going back to your room?” My voice breaks the silence, breaks the way we just stand looking at one and other.
He doesn’t immediately answer, sliding one hand into the pocket of his pants as he scrubs the other down his face. His exhale sounds like a low rumbling growl.
“Yes,” he suddenly snaps. “Is that the answer you want? I was hoping to stop myself from following you around like a lost fucking puppy. But I got lost in this labyrinth.” He throws out a hand behind him.
“That’s what happens when an eleventh-century fortress becomes a thirteenth-century castle, and the subsequent inhabitants just keep adding wing after wing. “Come on.” I link my hand through his, disarmed by his sudden frustration. “I’ll show you the way, but please don’t feel like you have to stay there on my account.”