The Stranger Within (10 page)

              He smiles and leads me to a section by the counter. “They’ll love this,” he says, handing me a case.

              I study the cover and immediately notice the sixteen rating plastered across the front. “
Call of Duty
? Are you sure?” It crosses my mind again that my judgement has lapsed and this is all a trick.

              Rhys nods. “Yep. Dillon’s been saving up to get this. Everyone at school loves it.”

I am not convinced. The game is fine for Dillon, as he’ll be sixteen this summer, but Luke is only twelve. But after some hesitation, Rhys’ smile convinces me to give in. If James asks I will tell him I didn’t notice the rating, and by then it will be too late. I’m sure he wouldn’t take a gift from his sons, not when it’s obvious that I’m trying to do something nice.

“Okay, then. I’ll get it. Thanks, Rhys. See you soon,” I say, heading to the till.

I don’t notice where Rhys wanders off to, but I am not expecting to find him standing outside, leaning against the window, tapping something into his phone. I ask him if he is waiting for someone but he shakes his head. “No…I just wondered…I’m supposed to me meeting my friends but they’re late and I’ve got nothing to do. Could I get you a coffee or something? To say thanks for all that food the other day. You know, the sausage roll and dinner…” He looks directly at me, seemingly not embarrassed by his unusual request.

My shock soon disappears as I search for an excuse. The last thing I want is to go for a coffee with a seventeen-year-old boy who isn’t my son. And I am not good company today. But before I can speak, Rhys continues.

“Come on, Mrs Harwell, just a few minutes. My friends won’t be long.” His tone and determined expression exude a confidence beyond his age.

I am about to say no when I realise I can use the opportunity to get him to talk about Dillon. Maybe I can find out where I am going so wrong. But I will have to be direct this time because so far Rhys has not taken any of my hints. “Okay, a quick coffee, then. But you’re not paying.”

Rhys laughs. “I’ve got a job, you know, Mrs Harwell. Helping my uncle out in his shop on Sundays.” And I smile at his determination to be treated as an adult.

Starbucks is crowded, so it is a while before we get a table, our takeaway cups almost empty before we sit down. I feel guilty for letting Rhys pay, but he practically shoved the money at the cashier and I didn’t want to make a scene.

“Don’t worry, Mrs Harwell, they won’t think you’ve made your son pay for drinks. You’re nowhere near old enough. My mum’s much older than you.”

I’m about to thank him for the compliment but then realise something: if people don’t think I’m his mother then who
do
they think I am? Not wanting to explore the idea further, I ask him about school.

“I’ve got a gig in two weeks in the sixth form hall. Loads of people are coming, I can’t wait.” He doesn’t ask if Dillon has told me about it. He must already know how unlikely that is.

“That’s great. Hope it goes well.”

“Come if you like,” he says, taking a sip of his hot chocolate, even though it must be cold, as mine is, by now. “I mean, it will be nice if you can. Everyone’s welcome. Students, parents. It doesn’t matter.”

Nodding slowly, I tell him I’ll try, but there is no way Dillon will want me there. I decide now is the time to ask him about it. When will I have the opportunity again? “Rhys, can I ask you something?”

He leans forward in his chair, an expectant look on his face. “Course.”

To distract myself, I lift my coffee to my mouth, but put it back again. I can’t stomach cold coffee, not even as a defence mechanism. “I, um, was wondering…I know this will sound strange, but does Dillon ever mention me?”

Rhys shakes his head. “I was thinking you might ask me about that.” He hesitates for a moment, moving his cup around the table in small circles. His defence mechanism. And at that moment I know with certainty that he is trying to decide whether to lie or tell the harsh truth. He’s probably wondering how he can soften the blow if he is honest, but his lack of years might not have prepared him for that.

When he speaks, I am horrified to hear his words are soaked in pity. “I’m really sorry, Mrs Harwell, but he…kind of seems to hate you. I don’t understand it. I keep telling him you’re really nice but he doesn’t want to listen.”

I am not surprised but it still hurts, like a punch to my gut.

“Don’t worry, though. It’s just because of his Mum dying and everything, that’s all. He’ll grow up eventually. I mean, I know he’s my best friend but sometimes he drives me mad.”

But I don’t want Rhys to try and ease the blow. It is out there now. Of course I’ve known all along, but hearing that Dillon tells other people how he feels about me makes it a hundred times worse.

“I know this, I just don’t know exactly
why
he hates me,” I say, to stop him trying to make me feel better. And then before I can hold them back, tears are streaming down my cheeks. For months I have held it together, dealt with whatever the boys throw my way, stayed strong for James, but now I am falling apart in front of a teenage boy. I try to swipe my tears away with the sleeve of my jacket but it’s too late; Rhys has noticed.

His eyes widen as he takes in what is happening, but then he leans forward and says, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Come on, let’s get out of here. Where are you parked?”

Outside, it is much brighter and I am not prepared for the glare. Squinting, I follow Rhys as he weaves in between shoppers, expertly avoiding being bashed by huge bags. I am not so skilled at this and get knocked into several times before we get to the multi-storey car park. I can feel the mix of mascara and tears pooling under my eyes and hate to think what a state I must look.

We get to my car and I dig around in my bag for my keys. There are some tissues in the glove compartment and the sooner I get one the better. I give no thought to what will happen now, but Rhys is standing right next to me so I’ve got to say something. “Thanks, I’ll be okay.”

But he doesn’t move. “I can’t just leave you upset like this. How about you give me a lift back and I’ll walk home from yours?”

My instinct screams at me that this is a bad idea, but I’m too upset to argue. Pointing out all the flaws in his plan will take energy I don’t have. “Your friends will be waiting for you,” I say. It is a feeble attempt when he’s already standing by the passenger door.

“Nah, that’s fine. I’ll text them. I kind of feel like it’s my fault you’re upset.”

Can he really be so kind? So different from Dillon and Luke, who would both bask in my tears?

“Okay.” I click the key fob and we both get in. Rhys is being so thoughtful, the least I can do is drive him home.

As soon as we are in the car and heading out of the car park, I expect him to mention Dillon again but he doesn’t. Instead he tells me all the tracks his band are planning to play at their gig, laughing when I admit I haven’t heard of some of them. “But you must have!” he insists. “You’re not old.”

“Rhys, I’m twenty-eight. Almost twenty-nine. To you, that’s old.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. But isn’t Mr Harwell much older than you?”

I only forgive his question because he is distracting me from the thought of going back to the house. I should be looking forward to it. No Dillon or Luke. Nothing to worry about until tomorrow. So why aren’t I? “He’s not that much older,” I say. “Thirty-nine.”

Rhys seems to work this out for a moment before coming to a conclusion. “You’re right, it’s not that bad.”

“Well, I’m glad you approve,” I say, pretending to be serious.

I put on the radio and let him choose a station so that he won’t ask me any more questions. It feels wrong discussing James with him, even a matter as insignificant as our ages.

We reach Wimbledon and are almost at the house before either of us speaks again. Then Rhys lowers the volume on the radio and turns to me. “Mrs Harwell?”

“D’you know what? Maybe you should call me Callie. I mean, you’ve bloody seen me cry now, so I think you’ve earned the right.” I cover my mouth with my hand. “Sorry for swearing.”

“Oh, come off it. I’m not a bloody baby.” We both laugh and it feels good, as if I am releasing some of the tension that seems to be a constant companion.

I pull up outside the house and Rhys continues smiling as if he’s just won a prize. “Okay, so…Callie.” He says it slowly, as if he is testing it out to see how it sounds.

“Thanks for today, Rhys. You shouldn’t have had to see me like that.”

He unclicks his seatbelt and grins. “You make it sound like I’ve seen someone get stabbed or something. I keep telling you, I’m nearly eighteen. I can handle stuff.”

I hold my hands up. “Sorry, didn’t mean to patronise you.”

“I’m not like Dillon,” he says, jumping out of the car and shutting the door.

As I get out, I see Mrs Simmons’ curtains move. The woman never gives it a rest. I know I can’t take her snooping personally – James says it has always been a hobby of hers – but it’s hard not to feel that she is keeping tabs on me. What will she think of me bringing Dillon’s friend back in my car? I will tell the truth if she asks. I bumped into him and have given him a lift back to Wimbledon.

Rhys insists on waiting until I get the front door open and seems offended when I laugh. “Look, honestly, I’m fine. Thanks for everything, but you’d better get home now.”

“Okay, see you soon…Callie.” He turns around but then changes his mind. “You might need this,” he says, thrusting something into my hand before striding off down the road.

The curtains next door twitch again so I head inside and close the door before I dare to open my clenched fist. I already know what I will see when I bring myself to look, and I am right. I am staring at a piece of paper, Rhys’ phone number scrawled across it in slanted handwriting.

There are only two things I can read into his action. The first is that he just wants to make sure I’ve got someone to talk to about Dillon. The second I will not allow myself to consider.

Later, when I’ve relaxed a little at the inevitability of being alone all night, I make myself a sandwich and cup of tea and settle on the sofa to try and do some reading. I get lost in the words, and they offer me temporary respite. My mood has lifted, but I’m not sure why, other than the fact I don’t have to deal with the boys until Sunday night. And even then, I will have the game to give them, although that will bring a different set of problems if James sees the rating.

I text Emma to check on them and she takes a while to reply, but when she does it is a curt message of three words:
They are fine
.

Refusing to let her get to me, I call James to see how his drive to Leeds went. He takes a while to answer but I convince myself this is only because he will be busy setting up equipment and preparing for the photo shoot. “Drive was fine,” he says. “Are you okay?”

I tell him I’ve had a good morning but don’t mention going shopping in Kingston or bumping into Rhys. Then I hear Tabitha in the background, her throaty voice unmistakable.

“Is Tabitha with you?”

He coughs. “Oh, yeah. Her cousin had to go into hospital so she’s just hanging around with me.” It is a strange choice of words, but I tell myself not to panic. “Anyway, better go, the bride’s shooting daggers at me. Talk later.”

Still clutching the phone, I think about Dad. How his paranoia and suspicion drove Mum away. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let his life become mine. I repeat this in my head, like a mantra. But as soon as I stop, something else takes its place.
What if it’s not paranoia?

Chapter Eleven

James comes home earlier than I expect on Sunday. It is not even midday and he hasn’t texted to say he will be setting off, so when I hear a key turn in the door, I stay seated at the kitchen table, expecting it to be Emma bringing the boys back early.

              “Oh, you’re back!” I want to rush over and hug him but something stops me. Nevertheless, I am pleased we have a bit of time to ourselves before the boys get home. “Is Emma still planning to take the boys for lunch?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

Paused in the kitchen doorway, James nods. “Think so. She doesn’t know I’m back yet.”

This is good news. It means I have at least a couple of hours alone with him. I make us both tea and he joins me at the table. I move my course books and the laptop out of the way of our mugs and smile at my husband, hoping he will reciprocate. But his forehead creases and he stares at his hands. I have never realised how nice his hands are. Large and gentle. Comforting.

“We should talk,” he says. He still doesn’t look at me so I know whatever he is about to say will not be easy for him. But I watch him now, clearly uncomfortable, searching for the right words. This must be bad.

As I wait for him to speak, I study his face. There is something different about him. He hasn’t shaved for a couple of days, but it’s not that. I am used to seeing him unshaven. On some men stubble suggests laziness, but on James it’s attractive. I’ve known him for nearly three years, yet today he feels like a stranger.

Paranoia, that’s what it is. Fear that his feelings for you are reflected in his face.