The Bad Mother by Isabelle Grey

window seat, deciding how to spend his day. He expected that, as usual, his mates would gather on the green to exchange banter and the occasional cigarette while lounging against the black Napoleonic canons that faced out to sea. Mitch would usually be happy enough to join in the youthful attempt to project a dangerous rural machismo, except that today he was apprehensive lest Tamsin walk past, observe their posturing, and judge them pathetic.
    On the other hand, she might not even be in Felixham. In which case, why rot alone indoors? He could go over and see his dad, but he felt constrained about that too. Mitch liked Nula, she was no stress, and he was pleased for Sam. Although Mitch sometimes wished his dad would just grow up a bit, Sam was far more cheerful these days, far more normal . When he’d first come back from London he’d been so stagey , as if he were acting the part of a dad rather than just hanging out like he used to when he stilllived at home. Mitch had never figured out why Sam had left home in the first place: it wasn’t as though he and Tessa had shouted and fought, like he’d heard friends talk about their parents, and they’d gone on being just as friendly as they had before. Though Mitch knew that couldn’t last, not now Nula was around.
    Nothing could take away the sick feeling he had every time he crossed the line from one parent to the other. If anything, the fact that Mum now knew about Nula made it worse, because he could no longer kid himself she wouldn’t mind. And the way she pretended not to be upset only proved that she minded a lot .
    He ought to cycle over to pay his grandparents a visit. Grannie Pamela always did lots of baking to celebrate the start of every school holiday, and she was probably expecting him. But every time he thought about what Tessa had said about Hugo not being his real grandfather any more, everything felt wrong and he didn’t want to deal with it.
    He’d drawn up his revision timetable and sorted out all the books he needed to prepare for next term’s exams, but it still stressed him out to sit in his room and look at the pile of work he’d have to do. Maybe he’d just go for a spin on his bike. He didn’t have to stop and hang out with his mates. But he might go around by Tamsin’s house. In which case, he’d clean his teeth before he set out, and maybe wear different jeans.
    Twenty minutes later, after a fierce burst of speed along the main road and back to burn off his restlessness, Mitchrounded the corner of the narrow street that led towards Tamsin’s house. He leant back in the saddle, steering the bike nonchalantly with one hand. When he saw her standing there, waiting for the Dalmatian puppy to finish peeing against a fence post, he put his other hand back on the bar to correct a potentially fatal wobble. She looked up, saw him, and smiled. He drew to a halt beside her.
    ‘Hi.’ He hoped she’d assume his breathlessness was due to physical exertion.
    ‘Hi, Mitch.’
    Ecstatic that she remembered his name, he smiled back, and was repaid by an answering look of relief. He remembered his vow to be Hemingway, not Fitzgerald, to behave as if her glamorous background were of no importance. ‘Have you broken up already, then?’
    ‘Yes. Thank goodness!’
    ‘So? You here for the holidays?’
    ‘Yes. The whole time. I was going to go see my mum, but she can’t have me.’
    ‘Your folks not together?’
    ‘They are – it’s just she’s on a project in LA.’ Tamsin shrugged, the ends of her straight honey-coloured hair brushing her collarbones.
    ‘Sorry. Mine are splitting up,’ Mitch told her. ‘Pretended for ages it wasn’t happening, but now they are. Really sucks.’
    She looked at him anxiously. ‘Mine aren’t splitting up. Mum was offered work she really wanted, and it’s taking longer than expected, that’s all.’
    ‘You must miss her.’ Mitch corrected his blunder and was relieved to see her smile return.
    ‘Dad’s