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“He has. All that business about a degree being so important, everyone must have some…what is it? Everyone must have something before they continue in life?”

“Solid ground.”

“Solid ground.” She says it like it tastes bitter. “Richard Fox and his solid ground. I’ve never understood that man’s problem with freedom of expression. Never did. Too closed-minded, always was, even when we were young, and he was dating your mother.”

I don’t disagree with her. I don’t tell her I’m only doing it for a year to get access to the first part of my Trust, then run back to LA. I’m not sure she’d approve of that plan either and right now, I can’t be bothered to argue with her. My head is beginning to spin from the complicated web I’m forming with the people around me. But soon, it’ll all be smooth and untangled.

She hums, which means she’s decided to let it go. For now.

I drink my tea. Outside, someone on the street is reversing badly into and out of a parking space, and we can both hear it, and Mabel shakes her head without looking up from her mug.

“Probably Kim’s car,” she mumbles.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

I stay for another forty minutes. We don’t talk about the hospital again, or the band, or anything important. We talk about a documentary she’s been watching, and whether the tiles in the bathroom need re-grouting, and she tells me another story about the 80’s and how she and her bestie Karen went to Ibiza once.

“And we had the most magnificent perms! And everything was free then. Everyone was a little more fun.” She huffs.

I laugh and feel lighter than when I came in. It’s always the effect Mabel has had on me.

I’m pulling my jacket off the hook when she holds my arm gently.

“You haven’t told anyone?”

I turn around.

She’s leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded and her chin up.

“No,” I insist. “No one.”

She nods once, satisfied. “Good. I don’t want the fuss.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, Callum. I don’t want people giving me sad eyes every time I walk into a room. I’m sick, I’m not dead.” She pauses. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Mabel.”

“I’m joking.” She bats my arm away. “The point is, I’m still me. I’d like to be treated like it for as long as possible. I don’t want pity from anyone.”

Especially my mother. Mabel practically raised my mother. I’m still not 100% sure what happened that led them to fall out so badly, but I’m just grateful that Mabel kept seeing me and Drew, even if she and our mom don’t talk anymore.

“She won’t hear it from me,” I say. “She never will.”

Relief floods her face, and she nods once. “Good.”

When I leave, she squeezes my hand at the door, brief and firm, the way she always has.

“So, you’re really studying? Not just partying?” she says.

“Yep. Well, a little partying.” I give her a sideways grin.

“Good.” She lets go and nods. “But don’t forget where your heart is. You’re an artist, Callum.”

Chapter Eight

Cal