It was barely midday. I opened the fridge and peered inside. There was milk, butter, four eggs, half a jar of green pesto, some Parmesan, a bag of salad leaves and a little bowl of mashed potatoes – left over from supper that Aidan had cooked, weeks ago. It must have gone off by now. I peeled away the cling film and dipped a finger into the mash. It had definitely gone off. I threw it in the bin then stared around. I wanted to do a binge tidy of the kitchen, but everything was clean and in its proper place. I might not be an amazing cook, but I was a good tidier and cleaner. Like my mother, like my grandmother. Women down the generations washing, sorting, folding, putting away, bringing order to mess and to chaos.
I looked around the large downstairs room. There was a damp patch spreading above the skirting boards that needed attention. The fridge was old – bought second-hand and failing already – and through the winter the heating had been inadequate. I worried about the leftover money from the Brixton house leaking away. I worried that this place wouldn’t feel like home to Poppy, that she would prefer to be with her father, in a house with many rooms and a larger garden, full of the comforting clutter that had been built up over the years.
I went into Poppy’s room, adjusted the covers on her bed unnecessarily, opened her drawers and peered inside at the bright-coloured tee shirts, the paired socks. I thought of Poppy at school. It would be lunchtime now, and I pictured her tearing round the playground with her red hair flying, her pale face and shining eyes, that look of ferocious joy on her face.
I pictured her shouting at her teacher, biting her friend, making Jake distressed, and had an impulse to run to the school now and pick her up and carry her home where she was safe. But today Poppy was supposed to be going to Jason’s again: he was only having her for a few days over the half-term week, so we had arranged long ago that this weekend she would stay with him from Friday to Saturday afternoon.
The thought of not seeing her until tomorrow afternoon was unbearable. The thought of her being with Jason, in that house full of new people and old memories, impossible. Something might happen; she might come back freshly traumatised.
I paced through the flat, unable to keep still. On an impulse, I snatched up my mobile from the kitchen table and wrote a text to Jason, pressing ‘send’ before I had a chance to read it over or change my mind:
Really sorry for late notice, but Mum has arranged some kind of treat for Poppy tonight – she didn’t tell me until now! Hope that’s OK.
I looked at the sent message, frowning, then added: I am sure you’ll understand.
I pressed ‘send’ and then regretted it because after our last meeting it sounded so patently false. I added a postscript.
Will pick Poppy up from school.
It occurred to me that when he next saw her, Jason might ask Poppy about the treat. I found my mother’s number on my phone and rang it, but it was engaged. I cursed and went online to search for kids’ event in Abingdon over the weekend – after all, it had been weeks since Poppy and I had visited my mother, so this was an opportunity to turn the lie into the truth. There was a puppet show on Saturday morning. I opened the link, while trying the number again.
My mobile rang as I did so, startling me. Jason.
‘Hi,’ I said breezily. ‘Sorry about the mix-up.’
‘So your mother’s taking Poppy somewhere this evening?’
‘Yes.’ There was a silence and I filled it, like I always did. ‘Apparently she arranged it ages ago, but she only just let me know.’ I gave a brittle laugh. ‘Typical.’
‘Is that so?’
Something about his tone sent a spike of unease through me.
‘I told you as soon as I heard. I know it’s a bit irritating, but you saw Poppy a couple of days ago and you can have her for a day next weekend. Is there a problem?’
‘I think I’d call it a problem.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve just come off the phone to your mother.’
Sweat was breaking out all over my body.
‘Why were you talking to my mother? I mean, you never talk to my mother. You don’t even like her.’
There was another silence. I thought of throwing the mobile away and unplugging the phone and closing the curtains and curling up in a small ball of shame.
‘I rang her,’ said Jason eventually, ‘because I wanted to know if she was expecting Poppy this evening.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ I had closed my eyes, as if being in the darkness would make my humiliation easier. ‘You had no right,’ I added uselessly.
‘She was very surprised to hear from me, and very surprised to hear that she was taking her granddaughter out this evening.’
‘OK. I lied.’ I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I want to have Poppy this evening.’
‘She’s coming to us. As planned. Emily will pick her up from school.’
‘Please, Jason. I just need to have her with me tonight. She’s not her usual self. I won’t keep doing this. I shouldn’t have lied. But I knew you’d say no if I just asked.’
‘You were right. I am indeed saying no.’
‘I’m worried about her.’
‘And I’m worried about you.’ He was enjoying this, I thought; he liked hearing me squirm. ‘Have you thought of talking to someone?’
I wanted to shout, to hurl the phone into the garden, to scratch his handsome face.
‘You don’t get to say that to me. Not anymore.’
‘I’m just looking out for my daughter. I’m sorry for whatever it is you’re going through, Tess, but I don’t want Poppy to suffer.’
I went for a run, sprinting as fast as I could down the little side streets, into London Fields, relishing the pain in my calves. I had a long shower. I wrote two more reports, then sat at my sewing machine, feeding Poppy’s golden witch cloak through the steadily ticking needle. I picked up my mobile to call Aidan because I needed to hear a kind voice, I needed someone who was definitely on my side, then put it down again.
I picked up my jacket, my keys, and walked swiftly towards Poppy’s school, ignoring the voice inside me that was telling me it was a bad idea. I stood under the plane tree and watched as Emily arrived, looking so pretty in a flowery dress, her dark blond hair falling round her face. I watched as Emily greeted Poppy, leaning down towards her, and there was my sprightly little daughter in her yellow cotton skirt and her red hair flying, holding on to Emily’s hand, dipping and weaving and skipping along beside her as they left. I felt ready to cry with tenderness, with jealousy.
I was being stupid. Stupid stupid stupid stupid.
Jason had lied to me and he had had an affair – or probably affairs. Poppy had been going through a bad patch. And I was behaving like a madwoman.