The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman by Julietta Henderson (sci fi books to read .TXT) 📗

son to the brink of a smile with a promise that had come so easily she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it sooner. Because wouldn’t she do anything to make him happy? It wasn’t until the third night, as I was hovering around the mezzanine of sleep, that things took a decidedly sharp turn in the direction of reality. So whatcha got, Sadie?

The hiss in my ear was so pin-sharp my head bounced off the pillow and straight into the corner of my bedside table as I was compelled almost vertical. I really should have known better than to be fooled by a couple of good nights’ sleep. I half lay, half sat awkwardly, with my head pounding and one leg hanging off the side of the bed and thought about promises. Not by choice, you understand.

I’ve probably made about the average number in my time, including quite a few I never had any intention of following up. And no harm done, I’d say. But, hand on heart, I’ve never made one to Norman that I didn’t absolutely mean to keep at the time. So there I was on night number three, with no hope of climbing back aboard the sleepy express and the full slap-in-the-face truth of what I’d promised my son becoming uncomfortably clear.

Because, naturally, I didn’t have even the faintest clue as to how to go about getting Norman a spot to perform at the bloody Edinburgh Fringe, even if I hadn’t known it was less than a month away. Which, by the way, I definitely hadn’t when I opened my mouth. And as for the logistics of tracking down a month’s worth of one-night-ish stands from nearly thirteen years ago, well, think about that for a minute or two then try and get yourself back to sleep. Every time I even considered trying to get horizontal again there was a tug on the strings from my invisible puppet master and I was jerked bolt upright and wide awake. After about twenty minutes of tussling I gave in, climbed out of bed and scuffed my way up the hallway to a well-worn spot.

Whenever I needed to work through some hard stuff (because, let’s face it, you don’t get to work for Dennis Pearl for six years without a few existential crises along the way), sitting on the floor outside Norman’s bedroom had always been my favourite place to think. Even after so many years, I’d never quite got to grips with living in an actual grown-up house that I paid an actual grown-up amount of rent for, and I still always felt like the teenager who’s moved back in with their parents. Except in that one spot. I feel different there. Safe. Grounded. Because behind that door is a boy who needs me.

When I leaned my head up against the cool plaster I’d sometimes fancy I could hear Norman’s faint, small-boy breathing beyond the wall. I’d close my eyes and slow my own breath until it measured the same steady pace, and it didn’t matter that the walls were a solid two inches thick and the sound was probably the wind. He was there and so was I.

But that night, as I pressed my back against the other side of Norman’s bedroom wall no amount of closing of eyes and counting of breaths could help me. As quickly as I played out a new possibility of how I was going to come good on my latest promise, it was swatted away. I mean, the only thing I’d really been put in charge of for the past few years was Pearl’s staff Christmas party. And with the limited budget Dennis gave me to work with, there really wasn’t all that much involved beyond putting a nominal sum behind the bar of the pub next door and keeping up the supply of smuggled-in packets of Tesco crisps.

But now, here I was, putting myself in charge of what felt like your classic garden-variety mission impossible. And I think you can give me that one. Norman had two weeks left of school before the summer holidays, after which I’d basically guaranteed him a spot at the world’s biggest comedy festival and a delivery of a long-lost father, to boot. As you do.

I sat outside Norman’s room for the longest of long times and as a sliver of first light nudged its way along the hallway I stretched out a numb leg and caught a glint of something near my foot. I reached forward to pinch the hair between my fingertips and felt a low hum of electricity travel up my arm to the back of my neck. Not one of the identical mousey browns Norman and I left behind in our communal brush in the bathroom. Blond. Golden, even. Bad-boy length.

As the sliver of light bled into the dawn of the fourth day after I made my promise to Norman, I wrapped the thread of Jax’s hair around my index finger and thought about the bloody Rolls-bloody-Royce of bloody best friends. Feet first, break the door down and damn the consequences.

Down in the kitchen, I made tea in the red-and-white pot Norman got me from a charity shop on my last birthday. ‘Keep Calm and Drink Tea,’ it advised me every morning. Although not usually this early. After rummaging through a couple of drawers I found the lined A4 notebook I’d bought to write out my favourite Come Dine with Me recipes. ‘Keep Calm and Write Lists,’ I scribbled on the front. Then I sat down at the table, took a swig of tea and brushed my hand across the paper several times, clearing away the invisible dust to prepare for the brilliance that was surely about to emerge. And, surprisingly, I did feel rather calm.

But it didn’t take me long to realize this was going to be a whole different ball game to Pearl’s Christmas party. Every time I was sure I’d thought of everything, I thought of something