“Maybe I should do the same to you.”
“You wouldn’t,” he offers quite happily. “Violence isn’t the answer, you always say.”
“Sometimes it’s the question,” Van offers obliquely.
“What?” Hugh’s expression scrunches.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.”
“Mobile phones are portable, you know. The hint is in the name. Mobile.”
“Yes, thank you.” He smiles at Hugh’s attempt at humor. “I left it in my room on purpose. I’m not sure whether the mobile phone is the best or the worst of inventions.”
“They’re good for playing games,” Hugh answers, beginning to bounce the ball on his knee in a game of keepie-upsies. Check me out; a mother in the know. He bounces it once, twice, three times. “But the worst for horrible calls.” Four, five, then the ball hits the corner of his childishly bony knee and heads straight for Van.
“Oh—”
Before I can add anything else, Van dips and lithely catches the ball on the back of his neck. He balances it there for a moment before he moves, the ball then bouncing off the top of his head. Once, twice—this move is called a header, I’ve learned—before he repositions it, dropping it to the top of his foot. He begins to bounce it from one foot to the other, all without taking his eyes off me.
I roll my eyes, unimpressed. We’re not in school; the dinner jacket and the scruff on his cheek are a bit of a giveaway. On the other hand, the way my heart trips… Is there anything this man isn’t good at? And suddenly, I’m annoyed again.
“Disappointing calls are the worst,” Van agrees, continuing to bounce the ball between his feet. “But cell phones have their uses. Say, for instance, you want to order some signed jerseys.”
Hugh gasps with delight, his astonished gaze swinging my way. Until Van does this fancy thing where he kicks the ball over his head, catching it on his heel behind him to send it spinning once more to my son.
“Can you really do that?” Hugh returns to the knee-bouncing thing.
“I can, and I have. One for you, Archie, and Wilder. Signed by Arsenal’s number one striker.”
“Wow! Did you know Uncle Van owns a stake in Arsenal Football Club?”
“Until a couple of minutes ago, I didn’t even know you had an Uncle Van,” I murmur.
“Silly you.” My son pokes his tongue out of the side of his mouth, concentrating on the ball rebounding from his knee. “Uncle Van is Uncle Sandy’s best friend.”
“Yes, I know that, darling.” No rolling eyes this time, just the tiny quirk of one brow.
“It’s an hon—” More poking tongue and increased concentration. “An honorary title. Uncle Sandy said so.”
My brow arches a little more.
“Not quite the same as honorable.”
“No, it wouldn’t be with you,” I answer in response to his wry tone.
“More honorable than my father,” Hugh interjects. “I bet he forgets to get me a birthday present.”
“Hugh!” We don’t wash our dirty laundry in public, child. And he does have a gift for you. I made sure of it by buying it myself!
Catching the ball in both hands, my son clasps it to his stomach. “Well, what would you call a man who goes to Paris with his stupid girlfriend on his eldest son’s birthday?”
“That’s not very respectful,” I utter in a warning tone.
“That’s what I’m saying.” My son slides me a look as though I’m taking his father’s side. Divorce is a minefield to navigate, and while I don’t have very many nice things to say about my former husband, I try to keep that to myself.
“Don’t twist my words.” For goodness’ sake, the boy has barely reached double digits, and he’s already running circles around me. I’m not looking forward to those looming teenage years.
“He’s supposed to be taking me out to celebrate.”
“Well, you’ll just have to make do with me,” I mutter, pushing myself up to stand. Van holds out his hand, but I wave it away, the independent woman that I am.
“You’re no one’s second choice,” he offers smoothly. “I’m sure Hugh agrees.”
“We were just going to do man things,” my son mutters sullenly. “I’m going to be ten, you know.”
“Unless you’re talking about peeing standing up, there’s nothing I can’t do that your father can.”
Hugh actually guffaws, though he presses his hand to his mouth to smother it.
“What are you laughing at? What can your father do that I can’t?”
“It’s not what you can’t do,” the little sh-darling says. “It’s just that you’d probably rather not.”
“Try me,” I demand. Was that the suggestion of a longing sigh I just heard from Van, or was it my imagination?
“He was taking me to a football match. The last time you went to a football match, you wore earplugs, and the time before that, you complained about the rain, and you told off the man behind us for swearing.”