She had been in the playground, squatting in the damp sandpit with Callum, distracting herself with the memory of that night, the feeling of her head resting on his shoulder in complicit silence in the back of the cab, when her phone pinged a few weeks later.
Gabriela, it’s Ivan. I’ve been in Moscow but I’m back for a few weeks and would love to see you. Let me know.
Her heartbeat quickened as she stared at the screen, stuffing the phone back in her pocket as she heard Tom and Sadie approach.
‘There was no toilet roll and Sadie needs a poo so we’d better go,’ he said and she nodded, standing and picking up Callum who screamed, arching his back so that she practically had to wrestle him into the buggy.
‘We could watch a film later,’ Tom said on the way home and she nodded, trying to smile, trying not to think about the message from Ivan warming her pocket, suppressing the butterflies that fluttered in her chest when she pictured his eyes watching her.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Why not?’
She didn’t reply at first, not for a few days. But then, the following Saturday, after another round of extracurricular activities rounded off with a passive-aggressive stand-off with Tom over whose turn it was to do the dishes, she found her fingers hovering over his message.
She had drunk a glass of wine or two and Tom, who had been out at a gig the previous night, was already asleep upstairs.
Hey. How was Moscow? How long are you back for? she typed, the thrill of it making her squirm.
His reply was almost instantaneous, and it was only once it landed on her screen that she realised that she had crossed another line.
I’m going back on the 23rd.
When she didn’t answer, a few seconds later, he sent another:
I was thinking of going away somewhere in the countryside next weekend, will you join me?
I can’t.
Why not?
Her fingers hovered above the buttons. Why not? There were so many reasons, every reason, as to why not.
Her hesitation spurred him on.
Come on, Gabriela, please … Do I have to beg?
From upstairs, she heard a floorboard creak and her chest tightened.
I can’t. I’m sorry, she typed, before turning the phone to airplane mode and switching on the television to distract herself from the sense that a storm was gathering and there was nothing she could do to step out of its path.
‘Saoirse and Jim have invited us to stay next weekend,’ Tom said the following day.
She couldn’t be sure why she was so taken aback.
‘Really? Saoirse hasn’t mentioned it,’ she said, though as the words formed, she realised she couldn’t remember the last time they had talked.
‘I was speaking to Jim and it came up. They’re desperate to see the kids. And anyway, maybe Saoirse thinks you’re always busy …’
He lifted his paper as he said the final words, as if protecting himself from a potential shower of bullets. But for once she wasn’t on the attack.
Saoirse. Gabriela felt a twinge when she thought of her now.
Even before their bust-up on the evening of Sadie’s party, their lives had long since started to diverge. It was hard enough keeping up with friends who had children of the same age, who were running the same treadmill within a square mile of where they lived. Saoirse and Jim, on the other hand, were leading a child-free, seemingly untethered existence in rural Devon – and so it was natural that the weekly meet-ups with the woman she once considered her closest friend had slowly given way to monthly phone calls, fading to occasional dinners and then texts berating themselves for leaving it so long and promising to catch up soon. Just as soon as things settle down a bit.
And then, things were said that were impossible to come back from.
It made it easier, though, the increased distance between them, given everything that would follow. She could admit that much to herself now. Would the events that had unfolded ever have come to pass if Saoirse hadn’t moved away? If anyone could have seen through all of this and made Gabriela hold herself to account, it would have been Saoirse.
‘Next weekend?’ she said thoughtfully before interrupting herself. ‘Oh actually, I can’t. It’s Madeleine’s birthday party, and I can’t miss it. You go, take the kids. They’d love it.’
Even as she said it, she felt like a traitor. What kind of person willingly ignored their best friend?
Tom paused as if he wanted to say something more, but then he sighed. ‘OK, I’ll tell them.’
He was in the bath half an hour later when his phone rang in the pocket of his coat. Ordinarily, Gabriela would have ignored it, but the ringer was so loud that she pulled it out to silence the sound.
When she looked at the name flashing on the screen, something inside her made her answer.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, sorry, I—’
‘Hi, Harriet,’ she said.
There was a pause the other end, then Harriet replied, lightening her voice.
‘Hey, Gabriela, good to hear you! Sorry to ring so late, only Millie was asking if Sadie could come over on the weekend and I …’
Her words petered out.
‘Right,’ Gabriela said, as Tom emerged at the top of the stairs in a towel.
‘Who is it?’
She looked up at him and spoke pointedly into the phone receiver, without letting go of his gaze. ‘Tom’s here now, Harriet. I’ll just pass you over.’
She slid the phone through the bannisters, placing it on the tread by his feet, hearing him speak unnecessarily brightly into the receiver as she walked into the kitchen.
‘You all right?’ he asked a couple of minutes later as he followed her into the room. She was standing by the window looking out at the darkness.
Slowly, she turned to him, her face devoid of expression. ‘Why? Shouldn’t I be?’
‘What the hell, Gabriela? If something’s the matter, spit it out, please.’
‘Nothing is the matter, Tom, I’m just curious as to why Millie’s mum is calling you again …’
‘I’m sorry, what? Gabriela, how else exactly do you imagine I might arrange a date for Sadie, when she doesn’t have a phone? Perhaps Millie’s mother and I should communicate via pigeon carrier? Or maybe some form of Morse code would suit you?’
‘Oh, fuck off, Tom, you know what I’m saying …’
‘Do I? Do I know? Because, you know, it seems to me like you’re always banging on about your mental load, and yet when I make an effort to offload it …’
‘Oh, what are you even talking about, Tom? Can you hear yourself?’
He continued, unhindered. ‘When I go about doing the countless things that I do every day, that go unseen by you, you freak out. It seems to me that I can do no right by you. You know what? It’s almost as if you want me to fail.’
His words hung there, and there was nothing she could say to offset them. Because maybe she did want him to fail, maybe it was simply easier that way, to justify the thoughts that wouldn’t leave her alone, the things she already knew she was going to do. Maybe she wanted it to be him, not her, who made the first move to leave.
At a loss as to what to say, she marched past him, slamming the door on her way upstairs.
She didn’t bother to be discreet as she slumped on the bed, her body vibrating with the thought of Tom and that woman, pulling out her phone and holding it, and feeling – what?
She didn’t want to think about it. Instead, she typed.
So, next weekend: where are we going?