Joshua is six months old. It’s a hot day, one of those September afternoons that refuses to let go of summer, that won’t let in even a whisper of autumn. I’m going to get my hair cut and so I am leaving Joshua with Daniel, who assures me that he is more than capable of looking after our son.
I take Joshua’s chubby curled hand in mine across his yellow highchair table, and I kiss his smooth cheek that is stained with impossibly bright carrot juice, and tell him that I will be back soon.
‘It’s the first time he’s having carrot,’ I tell Daniel, who is sitting at the table, and doesn’t look up from his laptop, but reaches out and strokes my thigh absentmindedly as I speak. ‘I don’t think he’ll be allergic, but if he is sick or anything and you want me to come back then I have my phone, okay? I shouldn’t be too long.’
‘Hmm. Yep. Got it.’
‘You need to watch him,’ I say to the side of Daniel’s face, trying to keep my tone light. ‘You can’t not watch him while he eats.’
He looks up then, finally, and I laugh at myself.
‘Got it. Watch him eat the carrot.’ Daniel shuts his laptop and pushes it away, moving his chair closer to Joshua, who squeezes his puree with his fat little fist.
***
I think about the carrot, and tomorrow’s potato and swede that I need to take from the freezer as the hairdresser chops and chops, black strands decorating my shoulders like feathers. I don’t hear a distant rumble, or the crackle of something about to catch alight and rip through my world in a furious blaze. I sit there, staring at my own face in the mirror, thinking about how it is too hot and how I am looking forward to winter: candles and blankets and long winter walks; cinnamon coffee and satsumas in stockings; Joshua’s first Christmas.