Lifesaving for Beginners

worked.’
    Faith says, ‘Give it time. We’ve been here only a couple of days.’
    In a way that is not meant to be kind, Celia says, ‘It feels like you’ve been here for weeks.’
    One of the doors into this cavern of a room bursts open and a boy runs in. He is wearing goggles. There are swimming trunks over his jeans.
    When he sees me he stops and takes off the goggles. ‘Hello. You’re Kat. I saw you on the telly.’
    I find myself smiling. ‘You must be Milo.’
    ‘I am.’ He walks towards me and reaches his hand out.
    I take it. ‘You have a good handshake.’
    He smiles. ‘How’s Ed?’
    ‘He’s much better. He got home from hospital yesterday. Or the day before yesterday, I think.’
    Faith says, ‘Milo told me he had an operation.’
    I look at her. Force my voice to sound ordinary. ‘Yes. On his heart. He had a pacemaker put in.’
    Celia says, ‘He’s the autistic boy, isn’t he?’
    ‘Ed is my brother. He’s got Down’s Syndrome.’
    Milo says, ‘He’s brilliant at Super Mario Galaxy.’ And now I know what Dad meant when he said that Milo was one of those kids you’d want on your team. I smile at him again and he says, ‘Would you like a cup of tea and some chocolate?’
    I look at Faith and she looks at me and nobody says anything, and then Faith says, ‘Could you make a pot, Milo?’
    Faith’s father chimes in, ‘And some Christmas cake. There’s some in the cupboard.’
    Celia says, ‘You’re not supposed to eat Christmas cake, remember?’
    ‘It’s not for me, darling. It’s for everyone else. It’s Christmas Day, after all.’ He smiles a tight, tired smile that slides off his face as soon as it reaches it.
    ‘Well, Kat doesn’t look like the type of woman who eats cake.’ Celia looks at me. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Kat, do you?’
    ‘That’s my name. And I happen to love cake.’ This is not strictly speaking true. I love cigarettes and I love red wine, but in the absence of both, then Christmas cake and tea made by a ten-year-old boy will do. Besides, Celia is the type of woman who makes me want to disagree with everything she says.
    ‘I’m Hamish, by the way. Faith’s dad.’ I shake his hand. I like that he doesn’t say ‘adopted Dad’. Or ‘adoptive’ or whatever the right word is. He just says ‘Faith’s dad’. And he says it in a way that brooks no argument. Not even from Faith, who, I am guessing, might be the argumentative type. ‘Sit down, for goodness’ sake.’ He puts his hand right into the hollow at the small of my back, the way men of a certain age and disposition do, and leads me to the table, where he settles me into a chair. It’s one of those chairs that’re all style and no comfort. White and hard. Faith is standing at the door, as if she is about to leave. I have to think of something that will make her stay. And I have to try to get rid of Hamish and Celia. Even though I don’t know what to say to Faith, I do know that there are things I need to say. I am hoping these things will come to me when the moment arises.
    There’s a period of about thirty seconds when no one says anything. It’s excruciating. It’s like writer’s block, only worse. Page one of one. The blank page.
    Say something.
    I can’t think of a thing.
    That’s when Hamish pipes up with a timely, ‘So, tell us a little something about yourself, Kat.’
    ‘Well . . .’ And that’s when Minnie says, ‘They don’t want to know your favourite colour, Kat.’
    ‘I had Faith when I was fifteen.’
    I see Faith’s fingers tighten round the handle of the door, but before she can open it and leave the room Celia smiles and says, ‘We had a name for girls like you in school.’ And I nearly kiss her because Faith releases the handle from her grip and approaches the table. She doesn’t quite sit down but she hovers beside a chair, as if she might.
    In my head I’m saying: ThankyouCeliathankyouCeliathankyouCelia. In real life, I say, ‘I thought I was in love.’
    Celia makes a sort of snorting noise. Faith pulls the chair out and asks, ‘What was his name?’
    ‘Elliot. Elliot Porter.’ It feels strange. Saying his name out loud like that. After all these years. I feel nothing. I thought I would feel something. But I don’t. He was only sixteen back then. Just a kid. Maybe he’s changed. People change, don’t they?
    If Thomas could hear what I was thinking, he’d say, ‘You’ve changed.’ I’d deny it but he’d say, ‘You