LOTTIE IS LAYING THE TABLE WHEN NICK GETS BACK. I’m standing beside the hob with a glass of wine in my hand, waiting for the potatoes to cook through so that I can mash them. The door thuds, his keys clatter in the lopsided blue-and-red dish that Lottie made in Year 3. He comes in and passes me the shopping bag, stopping to ruffle Lottie’s hair.
She pushes his hand away. ‘Nick! I’m not three years old.’
Once upon a time I tried to get her to call him Dad or even Daddy Nick, but she wasn’t having it. My ex, Douglas, is Dad, for better or for worse.
I prod a potato with a fork, then switch off the heat and drain the water out of the pan. Nick rests his hands on my waist and plants a kiss on the back of my neck.
‘Oh God,’ Lottie groans. ‘Please don’t do that in front of me. It’s gross.’
‘Dangerous too,’ I say, as steam billows into my face. ‘Do you know how many accidents happen in the kitchen?’
‘Nope. Do you?’
‘No. But I’m sure there’s a scary statistic. So, did you bump into anyone?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just wondering. You were longer than I expected.’
He takes the potato masher out of my hand. ‘Here, let me do that. No, I didn’t see anyone we knew. I walked further than I meant to. It’s gorgeous out there this evening. It feels like summer’s come early.’
Lottie pours three glasses of water and lays the table. I notice how careful she is to make it just so, knives with their blades facing in, forks exactly parallel. I don’t know if that’s because she’s naturally like Douglas, or because he’s made her like that.
‘Friday tomorrow,’ I say.
‘Thank God. Have we got anything on this weekend?’
‘No. Nothing. But Lottie’s out on Saturday night. We could do something.’
She and half her class are going to be at a sleepover at Hannah’s. It means a bonus evening all to ourselves, but the pay-off will be a tired and grumpy child on Sunday. I don’t envy Cassie and Evan Morgan. They did the same last year – gluttons for punishment.
The conversation rumbles on, a backdrop to the choreography of a normal mid-week evening. I barely notice it at first, but after a while I realize I’m doing most of the talking. If Nick does speak, it’s mainly to Lottie.
Nick takes a beer out of the fridge. I steam the greens. Lottie complains about her history teacher who is ‘a nut-job’, a sadist and a loser who enjoys tormenting his pupils.
‘You should feel sorry for him,’ Nick says. ‘Imagine what his home life must be like, to have turned him into such a monster. Maybe teaching is the last thing he wants to do, maybe he thought he would be a rock star.’
He could be describing his father. I dart him a look. He sounds overly jocular, like a teacher trying to buck up his class at a rainy sports day.
‘Maybe his wife’s run away,’ Lottie says.
Nick laughs. ‘Looking on the bright side. Well, let’s hope not, poor chap.’
‘You’ll never leave Nick, will you, Mum?’
‘No, of course not,’ I say. ‘He’s stuck with me, poor man.’
I glance at Nick, meaning to share a smile, but he’s not looking at me. A shadow crosses his face.
‘Everything OK?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Fine. Supper smells good.’
The timer pings again and I take the mince out of the oven. Nick dishes up generous heaps of buttery mashed potato and Lottie carries the plates to the table.
This is my family, my little boat.
Later, I’m reading my novel waiting for Nick to come to bed. When half an hour goes by and he doesn’t appear, I pad downstairs and find him sitting at the kitchen table staring blankly at his phone.
‘Are you coming up?’
I wrap my arms around his shoulders. I can’t shake off a sense that there is something he’s not telling me. I worry that he’s found out about my past, but there’s no way he could have done. Not after all this time. He turns and wraps his arms around my hips, presses his head against my abdomen and briefly kisses my stomach, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief. I stroke his hair and he looks up.
‘I love you,’ I say.
‘I know you do.’
‘Then come to bed.’
He smiles and closes his laptop, then takes my hand and we go upstairs. I watch him undress with that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach that is part familiarity, part excitement. After those awful, confusing years with Douglas, I feel so lucky to have met him.
‘Fuck!’
‘Nick?’ I mumble, pushing myself up on my elbow and fumbling in the darkness for the light switch.
Nick is crouched in a corner of the room, with his arms crossed over his face, shrinking back against the wall as though he’s being attacked. I dash over to him, but he lashes out when I try to help. I lurch back, landing on my bottom.
‘Nick, it’s OK. It’s not real.’
When was the last time he had one of these episodes? Not for at least three years. They’re brought on by stress and change.
He lets his hands drop to his knees and goes still. When I hold him, I feel shudders ripple through his body.
‘It’s OK. Everything’s OK.’
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No. I’m fine. Come on, back to bed.’
He gently prises my arms away, pushes himself up off the floor and crawls under the duvet, rolls over and falls asleep.
Why now? I spoon into him; feet, calves, knees, thighs, stomach and breasts; the length of his body against mine, my head pressed into the gap between his shoulder blades, my hand cupped round his hip. Then I can sleep.
The next day I get in with Lottie to find Nick already home. He says he needs to concentrate on a presentation and goes up to his study. I follow him, feeling anxious because he hasn’t kissed either of us hello. When I open the door he’s sitting hunched over his computer, one elbow on his desk, his head supported by his hand. The room is tiny, one of those half-landing ones. It feels as though it’s floating over the surrounding gardens. He has it because he’s the birdwatcher and nature lover. Mine is at the top of the house and looks down on the street.
‘Hey.’
He swivels his chair round, and I walk in. I stroke his hair, but he takes my wrist and pulls my hand down to his chest.
‘Do you want to talk about last night?’ I ask.
‘Last night?’ His brow creases.
‘Your nightmare.’
‘Oh, that. It’s just a bit of work stress. Sorry, Grace, but I’ve got to get this done. It’s for Monday and I’d rather get the prep over with now than spoil the rest of the weekend. I’ll be all yours tomorrow.’
I keep hold of his wrist, lingering, until he pulls away and turns back to his screen. I wait a moment, before quietly closing the door behind me.
Nick can’t bear people worrying about him.