way.”
Faye had shrugged one of her you-may-think-you-know-best-but-I’m warning-you shrugs and hadn’t mentioned it since. But the damage had been done. Into Rachel’s otherwise liberal, logical and intelligent brain, Faye (not to mention Adam) had sewn the seeds of doubt. It wasn’t that Rachel had suddenly become homophobic. She hadn’t. Even her ongoing hurt about the way Joe had allowed their marriage to carry on under false pretenses for so long before upping and leaving her hadn’t affected her openhanded, prejudice-free position on gays. If Sam grew up to be gay she knew it would take her time to get used to the idea, but she didn’t doubt she would be there to love and support him. But what, she found herself thinking from time to time, if she was wrong and her mother was right? Maybe people—particularly vulnerable, impressionable children—could be “turned” gay. What if Joe and Greg were encouraging Sam to “develop his gay side”?
So ashamed was she of what she considered to be her newfound bigotry that she hadn’t dared voice her thoughts, even to Shelley.
Now she came into the room and stood in front of her son. “So, Sam, what do you fancy for supper?” she said.
He lifted one headphone off his ear and looked up at her. “What did you say?” he said.
“Supper. What would you like?”
“Dunno,” he said, shrugging.
“Come on, you must feel like something. What about sausages and chips, or I could grill you a burger.”
“Yeah, OK.”
“Which?”
“The sausages. By the way”—he pulled the headphones down so that they hung round his neck—“Greg cooked these brilliant herby sausages on the weekend and then afterward we had all these different cheeses from France and Italy with this sweet jelly stuff you put on top. The cheese was all runny and smelled gross, but I still tried it ’cause Greg said it was time I started to educate my palate. He said that meant getting your taste buds used to posh food. The cheese was OK, but the jelly stuff was dead nice.”
“So what was it called, this jelly stuff?”
“Dunno. Can’t remember. Kwi . . . something, I think he called it.”
“What, you mean quince? . . . Quince jam?”
“Yeah, that’s it, quince jam.”
“Quince,” she muttered. “He’s got you eating French cheese and quince jam.”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“No, no, nothing,” Rachel said through a forced smile. “Really. It’s fine. Couldn’t be finer, in fact.”
Sam shot her a puzzled look. Then he turned on his ghetto blaster, put his headphones back on and broke into “Second Hand Rose.”
CHAPTER 5
“No, honest, Adam,” Rachel said, holding her mobile in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. “I love it. Really. It’s a sweet, sweet thought . . . and to have sent it by courier from Manchester. Heaven only knows what that must have cost.”
“A fortune. But who cares? It was for you.”
“So where did you find it?”
“I was in John Lewis in Cheadle,” he explained, “looking for a new sock net for the washing machine, when I saw it and I thought ‘that is just so Rache.’ ”
“Oh it is, it is,” she enthused diplomatically.
“It did occur to me,” Adam said, his tone a tad uneasy, “that you might have preferred flowers. . . .”
“Adam, believe me,” she said gently, “it’s great. Flowers would be dead in a week. A plastic shoe rack is something I can cherish forever.”
Naturally, she would have preferred flowers or chocolates, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him and hurt his feelings.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Adam went on, relieved. “I mean, we’re past all that sloppy romantic stuff now, aren’t we?”
“Oh God, yeah. Absolutely,” she said firmly. “Look Ad, I gotta go. I’m just pulling up outside Mum and Dad’s. I’ll ring you tonight when I get back.”
“Right. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
* * * * *
Rachel turned off the engine and picked up
Faye had shrugged one of her you-may-think-you-know-best-but-I’m warning-you shrugs and hadn’t mentioned it since. But the damage had been done. Into Rachel’s otherwise liberal, logical and intelligent brain, Faye (not to mention Adam) had sewn the seeds of doubt. It wasn’t that Rachel had suddenly become homophobic. She hadn’t. Even her ongoing hurt about the way Joe had allowed their marriage to carry on under false pretenses for so long before upping and leaving her hadn’t affected her openhanded, prejudice-free position on gays. If Sam grew up to be gay she knew it would take her time to get used to the idea, but she didn’t doubt she would be there to love and support him. But what, she found herself thinking from time to time, if she was wrong and her mother was right? Maybe people—particularly vulnerable, impressionable children—could be “turned” gay. What if Joe and Greg were encouraging Sam to “develop his gay side”?
So ashamed was she of what she considered to be her newfound bigotry that she hadn’t dared voice her thoughts, even to Shelley.
Now she came into the room and stood in front of her son. “So, Sam, what do you fancy for supper?” she said.
He lifted one headphone off his ear and looked up at her. “What did you say?” he said.
“Supper. What would you like?”
“Dunno,” he said, shrugging.
“Come on, you must feel like something. What about sausages and chips, or I could grill you a burger.”
“Yeah, OK.”
“Which?”
“The sausages. By the way”—he pulled the headphones down so that they hung round his neck—“Greg cooked these brilliant herby sausages on the weekend and then afterward we had all these different cheeses from France and Italy with this sweet jelly stuff you put on top. The cheese was all runny and smelled gross, but I still tried it ’cause Greg said it was time I started to educate my palate. He said that meant getting your taste buds used to posh food. The cheese was OK, but the jelly stuff was dead nice.”
“So what was it called, this jelly stuff?”
“Dunno. Can’t remember. Kwi . . . something, I think he called it.”
“What, you mean quince? . . . Quince jam?”
“Yeah, that’s it, quince jam.”
“Quince,” she muttered. “He’s got you eating French cheese and quince jam.”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“No, no, nothing,” Rachel said through a forced smile. “Really. It’s fine. Couldn’t be finer, in fact.”
Sam shot her a puzzled look. Then he turned on his ghetto blaster, put his headphones back on and broke into “Second Hand Rose.”
CHAPTER 5
“No, honest, Adam,” Rachel said, holding her mobile in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. “I love it. Really. It’s a sweet, sweet thought . . . and to have sent it by courier from Manchester. Heaven only knows what that must have cost.”
“A fortune. But who cares? It was for you.”
“So where did you find it?”
“I was in John Lewis in Cheadle,” he explained, “looking for a new sock net for the washing machine, when I saw it and I thought ‘that is just so Rache.’ ”
“Oh it is, it is,” she enthused diplomatically.
“It did occur to me,” Adam said, his tone a tad uneasy, “that you might have preferred flowers. . . .”
“Adam, believe me,” she said gently, “it’s great. Flowers would be dead in a week. A plastic shoe rack is something I can cherish forever.”
Naturally, she would have preferred flowers or chocolates, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him and hurt his feelings.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Adam went on, relieved. “I mean, we’re past all that sloppy romantic stuff now, aren’t we?”
“Oh God, yeah. Absolutely,” she said firmly. “Look Ad, I gotta go. I’m just pulling up outside Mum and Dad’s. I’ll ring you tonight when I get back.”
“Right. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
* * * * *
Rachel turned off the engine and picked up
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