‘What about a winter break?’ Richard says that evening as we eat dinner together. ‘We could get a cheap flight, a late hotel booking and get away before Christmas.’
I smile. ‘I’m not sure, love, it all feels a bit… forced.’ I know he’s trying to think of nice things we can do together, and I really appreciate it, but I’m not ready to go off on a plane and be in a different country from Amy. Doesn’t he realise the separation is bad enough without adding air miles to my agony. ‘Let’s do something in the spring,’ I say, before adding, ‘perhaps.’
It’s Thursday and he’s finished the week early because he’s off on a golf weekend in the morning. I suspect all this talk of holidays is because he feels a little guilty at leaving me, but I don’t mind. I’m excited at the prospect of a weekend with Amy, and it gives me more time to prepare for her visit. I also have plenty of overdue work to finish so can spend my alone time wisely.
‘Amy might come home tomorrow, or even Sunday,’ I remind Richard. ‘She’s got some study leave on Monday and Tuesday and I said I can drive her back to uni on Wednesday.’
‘It’s a long drive,’ he says, looking at me. ‘Wouldn’t you be better just dropping her at the station and letting her take the train back?’
I look at him, and he registers his realisation with a smile; he knows that where Amy’s concerned, no drive is too long, just as no shopping list is too decadent.
‘If she’s home tomorrow you two can catch up without me in the way,’ he sounds relieved, like he’s just found a babysitter – for me. As lovely as it is for me to work from home, since Amy left, some days I only speak to Richard or Zoe, and I think he sometimes feels the weight of responsibility, especially on days when I don’t see my friend – on those days he’s usually subjected to me talking his socks off about everything and nothing as he walks through the door. After a tough day, Richard tries so hard to be engaged in my diatribes about work, global injustice and how many gentlemen callers Mrs Dorridge, our neighbour, has entertained that day. Richard, along with not being very good at celebrity gossip, also isn’t interested in neighbourhood scandals, and often just sits and listens, but I know he’s not really taking it in. Amy’s like me, she loves the juicy gossip, which reminds me, I must tell her about Mrs Dorridge’s new ‘lodger’, a man ten years younger.
I think for a millisecond about sharing this juicy titbit with Richard, then decide he really wouldn’t be interested. So I take out a pen and start a shopping list, a slightly decadent, celebratory line-up consisting of smoked salmon, Prosecco, avocados and chocolate flakes – Amy’s favourite things.
‘She jokingly complains that living as a student involves too much soup and spaghetti,’ I say, ‘so along with the fancy stuff there’ll be plenty of vegetables on my shopping list this weekend.’
He nods. ‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘And, as she only has a shower at uni,’ I continue, ‘a bath is the ultimate luxury for her at the moment. She said it’s the main thing she’s looking forward to when she comes home, so I’ll buy her a bath bomb from her favourite shop.’
‘Mmm. She’s got a couple of weeks to make up for since she last came home and took over the bathroom.’
‘Yeah, she could be there for days.’
‘And no doubt be like a prune when she’s finished,’ he adds, and we both giggle at the thought of her soaking for hours, filling upstairs with the heady scent of flowery, fizzy lavender, just like when she used to live here.
Richard puts down his fork and pats my hand. ‘So a holiday in December is perhaps a little ambitious, but perhaps you and I could have a weekend away before Christmas,’ he says, going back to his original conversation and dragging me away from flowery bath mists.
‘Yes. I have a few articles to finish, but, yes, that would be nice. We could go to Wales and call in on Amy…’ I stop talking when I see the expression on his face. ‘What?’ I ask, knowing full well what he’s about to say.
‘How about we have a weekend, just us? You’ll never get used to her being away if you go there every chance you get. And Amy might not want us dropping in, darling.’
‘We wouldn’t be dropping in…’ I start, a flush of anger rising in my chest. ‘Honestly, Richard, I feel like I’m being chastised for wanting to see my own flesh and blood.’
‘No, not at all. I just think we need to let her settle. She was home only a couple of weeks ago and you do talk to her every day on the phone.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ I say indignantly. ‘I hate it when you try and make out I’m too much, like I call her every day and can’t leave her alone. Amy texts me or calls me to say she’s okay, because she knows I’d worry if she didn’t, it’s how I brought her up – to be considerate,’ I say pointedly.
‘I’m not saying—’ he starts. As a lawyer he’s usually better than me in an argument, but my anger is louder and I shout him down.
‘And we don’t talk every day – sometimes she just texts or calls to say “hello, Mum”.’ Having spent every day with Amy for eighteen years, I find the prospect of not even hearing ‘hello’ from her unbearable and just a quick call or text to say she’s fine is all I ask. ‘I don’t think that’s excessive, and I resent the implication that it is,’ I snap.
‘I’m not implying that at all, I’m just saying you’ll get used to her being away and she’ll settle if you put some space between you both,’ he says, his eyebrows raised, like he knows better than me – her own mother.
‘Richard, this is my daughter we’re talking about, and whatever you might think, I have no intention of “putting some space between” us.’
He shrugs and goes back to his chicken. ‘The truth is, you wait every day for Amy’s call, and you don’t even want to leave here unless it involves seeing her,’ he says, before taking a mouthful.
‘I do… I go out.’
‘Yes, grocery shopping. That’s it. Since Amy left, you haven’t really done anything except work and spend hours with Zoe, even then it’s always her coming here, you don’t go out.’
‘I don’t want to… and I’m busy. I have loads of work to do for the magazine.’
‘It’s more than that. You don’t want to go on holiday, you don’t want to go out for dinner anymore, when I’ve suggested it recently you’ve said “no, let’s stay home, get a take out”. Kat, it’s like… like you’ve changed since Amy left… you can’t bear to leave the house. You sit in her room, fold her clothes, dust her photos. I’ve watched you.’
‘I simply want to keep everything nice for her, for when she comes home. There’s nothing wrong or weird about the way I behave, the way I feel.’
‘I disagree. Your life’s on hold, Kat. You refuse to go away in case Amy suddenly decides to come home at the last minute. I think you’re being unfair on yourself, on us. And it’s a bit weird…’ He tries to make this last bit sound jokey, but I don’t like how he’s making me feel. I respect him, I trust his judgement, but what he’s saying suggests my reaction to Amy leaving is unhealthy, but instead of telling him this, I lash out.
‘Richard, you’re making it sound like I’m obsessed!’ I say, raising my voice in horror at his comments, at the same time asking myself if this is really who I am. ‘Okay,’ I admit, ‘for the first few months I want to be here for Amy, in case she suddenly gets homesick and wants to come home. And yes, I do go into her room because it makes me feel close to her.’ I don’t add that some days I feel like a drug addict withdrawing and in my cold-turkey state Amy’s room is my only relief. ‘This isn’t just about me, Richard. When she first started uni she was in tears, she was homesick and asking to come home, she didn’t want to stay there. I just worry she’ll have another blip like that,’ I add for dramatic effect, because in truth she’s over the homesick stage now, and she seems very happy.
‘All kids feel homesick when they leave home… and, yes, she will at some point probably feel like that again.’
‘But she isn’t “all kids”. She’s Amy, she’s my daughter and I’m worried about her, I always will be after… everything.’ I give him a meaningful look, a reminder that I have every reason to fear for my child’s wellbeing.
‘I understand,’ he says, a look of sympathy softening his face. ‘But you can’t sit here waiting, you can’t stop your own life. She’s doing great, she’s building her life, and you need to rebuild yours. Trust me, if you tell her we’re going away for a weekend, she won’t collapse in a heap of tears and think you’re a terrible mother – and nor will anyone else.’
Okay, I have to admit that Richard’s probably right. I do have this need to be here for her, just in case. And yes, I am a rather ‘hands on’ mum, but there’s another reason I’m feeling this way. When Amy was last home she asked me about what happened with me and her father. In an attempt to hide the truth I became quite defensive, and we had a few words, and since then I’ve felt bruised and I want to make it up to her. It’s making me even more clingy than usual, and even though we’ve spoken on the phone, and on the surface we’re fine, I just need to see Amy. I can never tell her the truth about what really happened between me and Tony, her dad – but I’m hoping this weekend we can at least clear the air. Meanwhile, I can’t tell Richard about us falling out because he’d be all over it in true criminal-lawyer fashion, asking his own bloody questions – and I don’t need that.
‘I’d better do some food shopping first thing,’ I say, moving away from this conversation.
Richard has that look on his face, like he’s going to start probing, and I don’t want to slip up and say something I shouldn’t. In the fifteen years since we met I’ve kept the truth to myself, and I’m not about to slip up now.