Mum’s go. She puts an E at the bottom of the AT, an L at the bottom of BE, and then continues it to spell ELIXIRS.

  ‘Sixteen, plus fifty for putting all my letters down, and eight for the ATE and the BEL. Seventy-four. Not as good as Dad’s but I had rubbish letters.’

  Yeah, rub it in. Then it strikes me.

  ‘Bel’s not a word. It’s two Ls.’

  ‘It’s not that kind of bell, dear. It’s ten decibels.’

  I go online. She’s right. How does she know that? God, I hate Scrabble players and their stupid little three-letter words. Any three letters they’ve got on their rack is a bloody word. UJK: A springtime hat worn by a Cossack. GBY: the left testicle of an ageing goat.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter.

  ‘Well,’ says Dad. ‘Maybe if you spent a bit less time thinking about your abs and a bit more reading a dictionary—’

  ‘Really, nothing to aspire to.’

  ‘It is if you want to be good at Scrabble.’

  I don’t. I don’t even want to be playing Scrabble. Besides, I have no abs, so who looks stupid now?

  By the end of turn two, Dad’s on 120, Mum’s hit 134, I’m on 22. This is exactly why I don’t play. I’ve got better things to do with my free time than being emasculated by my parents. Then it strikes me; there must be some kind of app or website for this. Something that gives you words if you type in the letters.

  It feels slightly wrong, but deep down I convince myself it’s not. They may be better at word games than me, but I am a man of my time. I have the weapon of technology. If you were attacked by a bear you wouldn’t hesitate to use a Kalashnikov just because the bear didn’t know how the trigger worked.

  I excuse myself and go to the loo, desperately trying to remember my letters.

  The door locks. Google Search – there it is: scrabblecheaters.com. That’s not actually the name of the website, but if someone hasn’t snapped it up I’m buying the domain first thing tomorrow.

  I type in the letters – seven letter anagram. There it is. I look it up, find the meaning, and I’m ready to go back.

  I don’t even bother to flush the loo on my way out.

  ‘Right, my go,’ I declare as I reach the table. After a bad soap opera-level performance of ‘hmm… I don’t know what to do,’ I drop the bomb. Seven letters descend onto the board like an MC with a mic. QUINATE. Boom. Sound of reverb. I’m out of here.

  A silence fills the room and it almost feels like my gazumples are growing back.

  ‘Quinate? That’s not a word.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it is. It’s a salt of quinic acid.’

  Dad raises his eyebrows.

  ‘I’ve been reading a little organic chemistry recently.’ All about the follow-ups.

  ‘Well, that’s surprising.’ Mum’s getting involved now too.

  ‘I’m trying to be a more well-rounded person.’

  ‘No, it’s surprising it was in a book on organic chemistry. Quinic acid is not an organic compound.’ My mum did a degree in biochemistry sometime around the invention of the motorcar, and every so often pulls out a science fact. It’s her one area of expertise: an island of knowledge in a sea of ignorance and uninformed opinions. I change the subject.

  ‘OK, let’s look it up then.’ I pull out my phone, careful to make sure I’ve closed scrabblecheaters.com and start to type in ‘quinate’. Dad is having none of it.

  ‘You can’t use the Internet. It’s the Wild West out there. Everything’s a word on the Internet.’ Yeah, like fucking ‘bel’. ‘We’ll use the proper dictionary.’

  ‘I don’t have a dictionary.’

  Dad shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous, ‘We brought ours.’

  He goes to his bag and pulls out a dusty hardback tome that is their official Scrabble dictionary. Not the official Scrabble dictionary. Their official Scrabble dictionary. A cloud of dust rises around it as he puts it on the table, like it’s been pulled out of Gandalf’s bloody library.

  ‘You can’t use that,’ I protest. ‘It’s completely outdated. It wouldn’t have the word ‘computer’ in it.’

  He turns to C to prove a point.

  ‘Computer: A person who computes.’

  ‘OK, well, iPhone then.’

  Mum interjects, ‘That’s a proper noun.’

  ‘I don’t care that it’s a proper noun. That’s not my point. The point is – just because Scrabble was invented in bloody 1938,’ another fact from the Scrabble cheaters’ website, ‘it doesn’t mean you need to use a dictionary from the bloody period.’ Hmm… 1938. Right before the War started. Coincidence?

  ‘Look this is the official family Scrabble dictionary, so if it’s not in here, it doesn’t count.’ He turns to Q.

  ‘…no, not in here. Therefore: not a word.’

  I can’t take any more. This is a farce. I think about flipping the table, but I remember it was actually quite expensive and I may have to sell it if we end up moving to a smaller flat. Instead, I stand up, managing to maintain a minimal level of dignity.

  ‘Sorry guys; I’m just really tired from looking after the kids and the parents’ night out. Think I’ll get an early night. Hope I haven’t messed things up with the trophy.’

  ‘That’s fine, love.’

  Mum smiles and I head straight to the bedroom, so I can get in three hours of stewing before I go to sleep.

  At 11:00 pm I get a text, which I assume is from Claire. ‘Enjoyed last night. Shame you couldn’t stay.’

  I text back something flirty, hoping to God I’m right. It’s also possible I just sent an erotic message to one of the cycling dads – I should have gone with something about rubber so both possibilities would have been covered.

  We text back and forth for an hour or so. I’m relieved she’s got in touch – I realised this afternoon I didn’t have her number. I was thinking of dropping a note through her door but it seemed a bit stalker-y. She must have got mine off the parents’ contact list. Maybe if this thing turns serious, I can ask her to forward it to me.

  She asks what I’m doing tomorrow and I say I’ll call in the morning. Maybe we could meet up? I’ve got the kids but maybe she’s got hers too. How much better would that be? Having someone I fancy at the playground with me.

  But then I remember it’s Oliver, and suddenly I’m not so sure…

  Sunday

  I wake up in the midst of a full on D-Day attack from the kids, who’ve been sleeping on the floor of my room due to my parents’ hostile takeover of their bedroom. After an hour of stories I manage to redirect them towards Mum and Dad for a bit while I put some breakfast on. I’m making French toast as I want Arthur in a good mood. I’ve got something I want to chat to him about.

  In the kitchen, I notice my parents’ dictionary still out on the side. I figure if I take my parents in some tea, I can undo my behaviour last night, so I browse through the archaic entries while I wait for the kettle to boil. This thing really is a joke. I mean, it’s from 1973: it lists ‘flares’ as ‘fashionable wide-bottomed trousers.’ A few more random entries later, and I find myself in the Q section. Q. As in ‘quinate’. And I suddenly have the desire to check whether it’s actually there.

  I feel ridiculous – it’s not like my father would lie. He’s a grown man. That’d be like… going into the toilet to get Scrabble words from the Internet.

  I turn to the page. And there it is. In black and… musty-smelling yellow. Quinate.

  I can’t believe it. My dad. What a bloody role model. I’ve got to remember to never be like this with my kids. Especially in bloody Scrabble. I need to set a standard of behaviour that is inspirational and aspirational. I need to be bigger than this. I will still take my parents tea.

  Although I might leave my dad’s bag in. He hates it when it overbrews.

  After Breakfast

  The whole family are in a maple syrup and white carb-induced stupor. That’s the thing with French toast – it’s delicious at the time, but it’s no way to fuel a morning. No wonder the French have got such a weird culture. If your whole country is in a low blood sugar delirium by 11:00 am, it’s only a matter of time before you come up with post-structuralism and MC Solaar.

  My parents are packing their bags with assistance from Carrie, and Arthur’s on the sofa playing with his Batman, who seems particularly sluggish today. Maybe French toast is his kryptonite. Get the Joker to introduce that into his diet and suddenly Gotham is a lot more vulnerable to crime. Still, it seems like a good time for Arthur and I to have our chat.

  ‘Hey Artie. How you doing?’

  He makes a noise like a zombie that’s overindulged on brains.

  ‘Just wondering… how are things going with you and Oliver? You seemed to be getting on a bit better after I… fought his dad.’

  ‘I don’t like him. He still pushes me at break time,’ says Arthur.

  ‘But he’s got better, yeah? He’s not as bad as he was.’

  ‘He’s worse. He spat at a teacher the other day.’

  ‘God, that’s…’ I’m a bit lost for words. Jesus, why do I want to shag this awful kid’s mum?!? ‘Do you think maybe he’s just a bit… misunderstood? Perhaps he just isn’t good at making friends, so he bullies people to make up for it.’

  ‘He’s got loads of friends. He’s friends with the other bullies.’

  ‘Right. But I guess… he doesn’t really have a positive male role model… like you,’ says the man trying to manipulate his child into seeing an idiot with a hot mum. ‘His dad’s a bit of a…’ – dick – ‘…silly…’ – dick – ‘…billy.’

  Arthur thinks about this. ‘I don’t know what a “positive male role” thingy is, but his dad is definitely a dick.’

  ‘Arthur, don’t say that.’

  ‘You said it.’

  ‘I thought it; I didn’t say it.’

  ‘Not now. Before.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You always say it.’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t. If Daddy had a daddy, he’d be telling him off all the time.’

  ‘But you do have a daddy – Grandad.’

  ‘That’s different; he’s a…’

  ‘Dick? That’s one of the people you say it about.’

  This conversation isn’t going as I hoped. And my expectations weren’t great to begin with. I move onto my closing statement.

  ‘Well, look. I think maybe the best thing we can do is to go to the playground today, and invite Oliver to see if we can’t patch things up between the two of you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Because he’s got a hot mum. ‘Because we should try to deal with problems head on rather than just ignoring them.’

  ‘But I don’t want to!’

  ‘Well, we’re going to.’

  ‘Fine,’ says Arthur, meaning exactly the opposite. He throws down his toy in frustration and storms out of the room.

  God; that was worse than anything my dad ever did. What happened to a standard of behaviour that was inspirational and aspirational?

  I notice Dad standing in the doorway with a couple of packed bags.

  ‘Any other names you call me in front of my grandson?’

  ‘Nah. You’d probably lie about whether they were in the dictionary.’

  Afternoon

  With my parents packed off back to Birmingham, we head down to Battersea Park to meet Claire and Oliver.

  Arthur’s still in a foul mood about the whole thing, but Carrie’s just happy to be out. We’re late, due to it taking twenty minutes to find a parking space, so when we get to the café, Claire is looking a bit annoyed and Oliver is throwing stones at a pigeon.

  ‘Sorry we’re late, I couldn’t find a space.’

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.’

  There’s a flicker of forgiveness on her face. I go in for a kiss on the cheek, but Claire leans her head and a second later we’re snogging. It only lasts for a couple of seconds, but when we stop the kids are all looking up at us with their mouths open.

  ‘What did you just do to my mom?’ asks Oliver.

  You don’t know the half of it kid. You don’t know the half of it.

  We get some coffees and head down past the boating lake. Apart from the odd looks we’re getting from the kids, it almost seems… romantic. Kind of like when you see married couples in films and they’re not worrying about paying their bills and their kids’ behavioural problems and they look like they’ve slept properly for more than two nights in a row. The weirdness from the kids quickly disperses when they see the playground. It’s been about six months since we were last at this one and they’ve forgotten how epic it is.

  A few seconds later and Arthur and Oliver are discussing what they want to go on first. They decide to climb up this weird slope-like thing and they run off with Carrie trailing behind.

  ‘See, it’s not so bad is it?’ says Claire. It’s really not. It’s not bad at all. It’s kind of great.

  She grabs me and starts to kiss me again. Maybe this is how it always is at the start of relationships. Not that I’m complaining. I really like kissing her. It’s setting off something in my body that just makes me instantly turned on. I feel like a teenager again. Albeit a teenager who has to keep breaking off mid-kiss to check his children aren’t doing anything stupid.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, grabbing me by the lapels and dragging me up against a wall and into a snog.

  I break away. ‘We need to watch the—’

  She shuts me up by putting her lips on mine, so I start kissing her neck and she arches her head backwards.

  ‘I like that,’ she says, clearly excited that I’m taking the lead as I pull her towards me and twist her round. I haven’t the heart to mention it’s 100% motivated by me trying to keep eyes on Carrie, who’s two metres up a climbing frame.

  As it starts to get dark, we go and get the kids some pizza from the café. It’s freezing cold, but we sit outside because it’s nicer. Arthur and Oliver argue a bit, but when the pizza arrives harmony is restored. It’s only 4:30 pm so I invite them all back so the kids can watch a movie.

  We head back towards the cars, chatting and holding hands. In my head I’m starting to fantasise about where this could go. Could this actually turn into something serious? I hardly know this woman, but we’re getting on great. Sure, Arthur and Oliver have been butting heads pretty much non-stop, but there’ve been moments where they seemed OK. Could Claire end up as my girlfriend, or… more? Could she be the kids’…

  ‘Mummy!’

  It takes me a second to register that it’s Arthur and Carrie that have shouted it. Surely they can’t have bonded with Claire that quickly?

  I turn round in the direction they’ve run and there she is: Sally, bending down and hugging them. She looks up and sees me. She’s obviously as surprised as I am.

  ‘Oh, Tom…’ she says. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Just taking the kids to the playground.’ I notice a guy hovering behind her. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m…’ she says, but Claire comes up and takes my arm, stopping Sally mid-sentence.

  ‘Sorry,’ I explain, ‘…do you know Claire?’ This is really awkward.

  ‘Oh. Yeah. From school. Are you two...?’ She seems tense. Even… jealous?

  I’m about to say something non-committal, but Claire beats me to it. ‘Yeah, we are.’ She kisses me on the cheek as if to provide a visual aid. I’m not even sure what Claire thought Sally was going to say. Going out? Shagging?

  ‘Oh, right,’ says Sally. Hovering guy is edging closer. He’s keen to get involved, but Sally’s more interested in what’s going on with me and Claire. ‘I didn’t think you’d be seeing anyone yet.’ What’s she talking about?!? It’s been over two months since she left. She was seeing someone mid-relationship.

  Sally’s shadow decides to step forward. ‘I’m Austin,’ he says in what I assume is a Canadian accent. It sounds the same as American to me, but how would I know? He puts his hand out to shake. I don’t take it.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ says Claire, breaking the tension. ‘We’re going back to watch a movie.’

  ‘Oh right. To your place?’ Sally asks Claire, trying to make it seem offhand and casual.

  ‘No. To… your place,’ says Claire, far more pointedly than is necessary.

  Sally winces slightly like she’s just been winded. Claire takes my arm and starts to turn me away.

  ‘Come on,’ I say to the kids.

  They hug their mum and I hear Sally say to them, ‘Don’t worry – you can come and live with me soon.’ I start to say something, but stop myself. Now’s not the time. I’m seeing the lawyer on Thursday. After that, I’ll know where I stand.

  As we walk away, Claire looks up and smiles at me like I should be pleased. I mean, I sort of am. But I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a big pussy, but I don’t feel good making Sally feel uncomfortable. I like having the moral high ground. Claire can clearly see some reticence in my face. She nudges me.

  ‘And don’t worry about that guy she’s with – you’re far hotter than him.’

  Thirty Minutes Later

  Back at the flat, we chuck the kids in front of Trolls and run into the bedroom. Everything’s a bit of a blur so although I’m pretty sure it’s the Justin Timberlake movie, it may be some new HBO series about people who are just really mean on the Internet.

 

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