same. She smiled broadly to herself and, as the car slowed to join the queue at the traffic lights, she realized an entire grumpy bus queue was staring at her and judging her to be mad. One member of the queue was Ben, the school-bound son of her neighbour, Perfect Patty. As the car drew level, the boy glowered at her, slouching his shoulders into habitual teen sullen mode, but then suddenly he smiled back at her in recognition. Astonished at this transformation from hunched hostility, Mel waved, lowered the window and called to him, ‘Ben! I’m going past your school, would you like a lift?’
The boy flung his scuffed bag into the car and folded his long self in after it. He brought with him the scents of a recently smoked cigarette, hair gel, and a lemony tang of deodorant. He was only a couple of years younger than Rosa, approaching A levels next year, Mel guessed, but, as his school still demanded the wearing of a uniform right through to the bitter end, he looked a lot less grown-up than Rosa had at that age. No wonder he usually seems so surly, Melanie thought with sympathy, it must be tough being seventeen and having to face the mean suburban streets each day in a red and black striped blazer.
‘You going to the gym? That one behind St Dominic’s?’ he asked, glancing at her Nike bag on the back seat.
‘I am. But I don’t go as often as I should.’ She laughed and prodded her thighs, encased like overstuffed sausages in workout leggings. ‘In my job there’s too much opportunity for sitting around and letting the legs spread.’
Oh God, why had she said that? She could feel herself going ludicrously pink. Perhaps (vain wish) he’d passed that age when just about anything was remotely
double entendre
-ish? Unlikely, especially a boy at a single-sex school without the scornful but essentially more mature presence of girls. Or perhaps the comment had passed him by. A woman of her age, well, probably he wasn’t even listening. Teenage boys were a bit of a mystery to her. The only one she ever had any dealings with was her nephew William, but he was only fourteen and not communicative unless a conversation contained the word ‘PlayStation’.
‘So wassit like down the gym? D’you do weights and stuff?’ Kind boy, she thought – he couldn’t possiblycare less what she inflicted on her flabby body in the gym. Patty and David had obviously passed on to him their good-manners genes.
‘Well, I usually start off with the bike for twenty minutes, then do a circuit of various machines, some stretches on the mat and then if the pool’s not too crowded I have a swim.’
‘Is there a sauna?’
‘There’s two, one in each changing room.’
‘In each?’ Ben looked puzzled.
‘Men and women. Separate.’
‘Oh. Right. Yeah well I suppose they would be.’ She’d reached the roundabout where commuters were doing their daily resentful battle with school-run parents, and couldn’t take her eyes off the teeming road to glance at his face, couldn’t guess whether he was laughing (at her?) or (his turn) blushing.
‘Well, this isn’t Sweden,’ she teased.
‘Nah, shame.’ He
was
laughing.
The traffic thinned as they left the main London-bound road. Assorted boys in the same red and black as Ben sloped along reluctantly towards their school day. Some hung about in groups in shop doorways, swigging from drinks cans like the winos on the Green. Younger ones play-punched each other and chucked their bags around. Next to her, Ben watched them. ‘Pathetic,’ he murmured at the scene in general.
‘Where do you want me to drop you? Somewhere safely past the school gates?’ How uncool it was, or not, to be seen in the company of a middle-aged woman (who looked decidedly early-morning and
sans
make-up) she had no idea.
‘No, the gates are fine. I don’t have a problem beingseen with you . . . unless you do of course . . .’ He was openly mocking her now.
‘I’ll get over it,’ she told him,
The boy flung his scuffed bag into the car and folded his long self in after it. He brought with him the scents of a recently smoked cigarette, hair gel, and a lemony tang of deodorant. He was only a couple of years younger than Rosa, approaching A levels next year, Mel guessed, but, as his school still demanded the wearing of a uniform right through to the bitter end, he looked a lot less grown-up than Rosa had at that age. No wonder he usually seems so surly, Melanie thought with sympathy, it must be tough being seventeen and having to face the mean suburban streets each day in a red and black striped blazer.
‘You going to the gym? That one behind St Dominic’s?’ he asked, glancing at her Nike bag on the back seat.
‘I am. But I don’t go as often as I should.’ She laughed and prodded her thighs, encased like overstuffed sausages in workout leggings. ‘In my job there’s too much opportunity for sitting around and letting the legs spread.’
Oh God, why had she said that? She could feel herself going ludicrously pink. Perhaps (vain wish) he’d passed that age when just about anything was remotely
double entendre
-ish? Unlikely, especially a boy at a single-sex school without the scornful but essentially more mature presence of girls. Or perhaps the comment had passed him by. A woman of her age, well, probably he wasn’t even listening. Teenage boys were a bit of a mystery to her. The only one she ever had any dealings with was her nephew William, but he was only fourteen and not communicative unless a conversation contained the word ‘PlayStation’.
‘So wassit like down the gym? D’you do weights and stuff?’ Kind boy, she thought – he couldn’t possiblycare less what she inflicted on her flabby body in the gym. Patty and David had obviously passed on to him their good-manners genes.
‘Well, I usually start off with the bike for twenty minutes, then do a circuit of various machines, some stretches on the mat and then if the pool’s not too crowded I have a swim.’
‘Is there a sauna?’
‘There’s two, one in each changing room.’
‘In each?’ Ben looked puzzled.
‘Men and women. Separate.’
‘Oh. Right. Yeah well I suppose they would be.’ She’d reached the roundabout where commuters were doing their daily resentful battle with school-run parents, and couldn’t take her eyes off the teeming road to glance at his face, couldn’t guess whether he was laughing (at her?) or (his turn) blushing.
‘Well, this isn’t Sweden,’ she teased.
‘Nah, shame.’ He
was
laughing.
The traffic thinned as they left the main London-bound road. Assorted boys in the same red and black as Ben sloped along reluctantly towards their school day. Some hung about in groups in shop doorways, swigging from drinks cans like the winos on the Green. Younger ones play-punched each other and chucked their bags around. Next to her, Ben watched them. ‘Pathetic,’ he murmured at the scene in general.
‘Where do you want me to drop you? Somewhere safely past the school gates?’ How uncool it was, or not, to be seen in the company of a middle-aged woman (who looked decidedly early-morning and
sans
make-up) she had no idea.
‘No, the gates are fine. I don’t have a problem beingseen with you . . . unless you do of course . . .’ He was openly mocking her now.
‘I’ll get over it,’ she told him,
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