Page 83 of The Second Chance Supper Club

‘Mum, there’s no need … I-I’ll be fine.’

‘No, you’re not fine.’ She was certain of that.

‘Ah shit, I knew I shouldn’t have rung. My bad. I’ve got you all worried now.’

‘Well, I’m glad you did.’ That he’d at least reached out to her; surely that was a good sign. ‘And I’m coming, whether you like it or not.’

She heard him groan.

She was actually already on her way up the stairs, ready to remove her cosy PJs as quick as she could, pop on some clothes and chuck a few things in an overnight bag. She’d seen the ‘Three Dads Walking’ recently on the BBC news, dealing with the aftermath of their daughters’ suicides. So dreadfully sad. She wasn’t going to risk anything. She had to go and see him … she had to be there with him. See the emotions in his eyes, feel the warmth of his hand. Share a hug.

‘I’ll just grab a few essentials,’ she explained, still on the line for now. ‘And I’ll call you back shortly from the car. Adam, are you sure you’ll be all right? I can keep talking if you like …’ ‘Mu-um, I’m o-kay,’ he slowed the words, for emphasis.

‘I think … you might be o-ver dramatising this …’ He drawled, then gave a hiccup.

‘I’m on my way …’ Her mind was buzzing into action … She could get a late-night Travelodge down there or something. Even better, the flat’s sofa would do, where she could keep an eye on him. If he’d drunk that much, he might be sick or anything. In less than three minutes, she was locking the door and dashing for her Mini. Her mind flashing up scenarios, as she revved up the winding hill to the moorland that led to the A1.

The road that led to her son. She prayed he would be all right in the meanwhile.

She was doing the only thing she could … go to him.

Though it had turned into a midnight dash, this was no Cinderella moment. They’d been chatting on the phone as Cath made her way down, and Adam still seemed okay, though he’d sounded a bit pissed off with her the third time she called, saying he just wanted to be left alone and sleep.

She navigated the city streets, and found a parking space on the roadside in Kirkstall – satnav telling her she’d got to the right spot – reverse parking in a rush at a slightly odd angle, but she left it anyhow. She’d sort it out in the morning. A parking fine was the least of her worries.

There it was, Carlton Towers. A bland beige-brick five-storey tenement. She found the main door, and beside it a grid of numbered steel button buzzers. Which flat … ? Shit, she didn’t even know. Why the hell hadn’t she been here, yet? Yes, they’d chatted regularly, but it was almost six weeks since he’d moved into the flat, after all. Guilt bit at her. She’d been too damned wrapped up in her new country life, that’s why. And yes, another voice added, she was afraid of having to face Trevor and the new girlfriend … of coming face to face with the wreck of her old life. She hadn’t felt ready for that. But … at the expense of Adam, she now realised.

Right, the flat, which one? Something A, came to mind. Well, that was useful … she scolded herself. Six, seven? She pulled out her mobile, and called him. No answer this time. Crap. He was probably asleep now, dammit. Hopefully, asleep … Don’t even go there. She swiftly scrolled back through a plethora of chit-chat messages to find the one with his new address. There, finally … Seven A, phew … She was just about to try the buzzer when an Asian guy headed towards the glass door, coming out of the building. She took her chance, smiled sweetly, faking an air of confidence, and he held the door open for her. Yes!

She bounded up the drab concrete stairs that felt more like they belonged in a multistorey car park than a residence, now passing four, five, six, six A … damn, another floor to climb then, up to Seven A … and there it was. The silver figures stuck onto a depressing black-paint-chipped door that had seen better days. She pressed the doorbell – a plastic rectangular square with a button, that had been re-stuck to the door with thick blue electrical tape – and hoped the bloody thing worked.

Come on, come on … It was taking far too long. Come on, Adam, open the door.

She pressed again, hearing the faint buzz from the other side and then rapped out a knock. Cath was so damned relieved to hear the disgruntled, ‘O-kay, okay … I’m coming.’ Adam’s voice. Ooh, thank phew, thank fucking phew.

The door cracked open, Adam standing bleary-eyed. ‘Jeez, you’ll wake up the whole building at this rate.’

Cath really wouldn’t have cared if she had. He was there. He was fine, if looking frail. Her gorgeous son. Her heart pulsed with relief. ‘Oh, Adam.’

She gave him a massive hug. He emitted a half-protesting groan, but then melted into her arms, smelling of baked biscuits, a little musky of sweat and the smoky whisky sharp on his breath. Yes, he was grown up, an adult in the eyes of the world. But that tie remained between them, no matter what … he would always be her little boy. Oh, Adam. Tears were misting her eyes.

In the lounge now, shabby grey curtains half-heartedly drawn, a dim table lamp only serving to highlight the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels with a used tumbler beside it. Adam slid himself down wearily onto the worn maroon velour sofa.

Cath sighed. ‘This isn’t the way to make things better, Adam …’ But she wasn’t angry, just so very sad. Guilt was sitting heavy within her. How didn’t she know? How hadn’t she realised things were this bad for him? Had they, she and Trevor, and the whole shit-show between them, had it a lot to do with messing him up? No doubt. Oh yes, their family was well and truly broken. Cath bit down on her lip.

‘Maybe … maybe not. It felt pretty good at the time …’ Adam was still evidently very drunk at this point, giving a wonky smile, which slid into a grimace. ‘Ugh … don’t feel so good now …’

‘Are you going to be ill?’

‘Just need a mo.’ He sat still, then closed his eyes, as if trying to anchor himself.

Cath stayed with him, a hand gently rubbing his back, monitoring him. Oh, but if he was going to be sick then she might need a bucket … or yes, in absence of that, a washing-up bowl. She found it in the tiny kitchen, removed a couple of used mugs, swilled it out and returned with that and a pint glass of water, which she placed in front of Adam.

Now was not the time for a lecture, or more reasonably, a talk about what was underlying all this. That could wait until tomorrow and the chance for him to clear his head.

After checking he didn’t need to be sick, making him drink the water, and then waiting ten minutes more, while she chatted generally, she suggested getting him to bed. The pair of them trundled in a little zig-zag to his student-style bedroom. She sat him on the bed and got him undressed down to a T-shirt and boxers.

‘I’m okay,’ he managed to slur, ‘I can do this.’ Evidently trying to hold on to some modicum of decency, but nearly sliding off the bed.