Page 3 of From Now On

‘No.’

‘It must be lovely for your mum and dad to live so close to you and see you regularly.’

There’s a beat before Mum turns to him, a too-bright smile on her face.

‘How’s city life then? I can’t imagine living anywhere so busy.’

‘Same as usual,’ Charlie quickly replies. He had asked Sasha not to mention his forthcoming transfer to New York next month. He doesn’t want to upset his parents before their big night. They don’t need to know yet that he’s here to say goodbye.

‘You made good time this morning? We weren’t expecting you so soon. You must have caught an early train?’ Mum asks.

Charlie glances at Sasha. He doesn’t want her to think he’s a natural liar – he’s not; there had been enough lies in his childhood – but it would hurt his mum immeasurably to learn they’d travelled up last night but had chosen to stay in a hotel instead of here, with her, his family. ‘Blended’ they’d be categorised as nowadays, but Charlie still views them as two separate entities. Them and him.

‘London isn’t too far really,’ Sasha says as she places her hand on his knee, deflecting the question. ‘Not like your trek today. How long does it take to get to Cornwall from here?’

His mum pulls a face. ‘Colesby Bay is about six hours away.’

‘Must be some party you’re going to.’ Sasha tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

‘It’s a gig. On the beach, so we’ll probably freeze but there’ll be a fire and food and fireworks.’

‘That sounds so cool,’ Sasha says. ‘Who’s playing?’

Mum’s eyes flicker towards Charlie before settling on Sasha again. ‘We are.’

‘Seriously?’ Sasha elbows Charlie. ‘You never told me your parents are in a band.’

‘Were,’ Charlie corrects.

‘We have the photos to prove it.’ Mum crosses to his nana’s old sideboard and slides open the doors.

Charlie inwardly shrinks. ‘We don’t want to make you late—’

‘Nonsense.’ His mum cuts him off as she squeezes between him and Sasha, her arms laden with photo albums. ‘Marty isn’t picking us up just yet; besides, if we don’t spend some time with you now, when will we, if you’ve got to rush back to London tomorrow night?’ Her eyes, the same brown as Charlie’s, fix on his. ‘We missed you at Christmas, Charlie.’

‘Sorry.’ He doesn’t offer transparent excuses, instead focusing on softly stroking Billie’s muzzle with his index finger as she bumps her head against his ankles as though, if she doesn’t make a connection every three seconds, he might disappear again for months on end.

Mum opens the album, the photos suffocating under tight plastic, and lovingly smooths out an air bubble with her knuckles before she angles the page towards Sasha.

‘That’s Bo when I first met him.’

‘Wow.’ Sasha’s eyes flicker between the picture of the younger Bo,the tan, his hair falling past his shoulders, sunglasses pushed on top of his head, to the man he has become with his short back and sides and pale skin, his stomach overhanging the waistband of his trousers. The guitar Bo is holding in the photo is plastered in stickers, a peace sign, a cannabis leaf – it was all very seventies, but the fashion was all wrong for that era. ‘When was this?’

‘Eighteen years ago. After… I’m sure Charlie told you about…’ Mum falters.

Charlie gives an imperceptible shake of his head, glances at Sasha, worried she might probe into what his mum is leaving unsaid, but she’s too engrossed in the photos to notice.

‘We went to Cornwall,’ Charlie picks up the story. ‘On holiday.’

Running away.

‘Yes,’ Mum carries on. ‘We’d only been there a couple of days when we saw Bo’s band playing on the promenade—’

‘I’d like to say she couldn’t resist me,’ Bo jumps in, ‘but I think it was the jazz that lured her over.’

‘They were playing “Summertime” and I couldn’t help joining in.’ She begins to sing it, eyes half-closed, back in that day, taking Charlie with her. The screech of seagulls, the smell of hot doughnuts, the warmth of the sun on his skin.

‘I sang with them for the rest of the summer,’ Mum says.

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