THERE ARE FIVE OF US SITTING AT MY KITCHEN TABLE, a plate of Tesco’s brownies between us; five young mothers, well dressed, well groomed, attractive and vivacious. We know each other well, and gossip comfortably about school, family, extensions, Polish builders, planning applications and paint colours. At least they do; I listen. I’m cold, even though the sun is shining through the wall of windows and the others have shed their jackets and jumpers.
There’s Cassie, my closest friend, a stay-at-home mum to Hannah. Cassie has fine brown hair which she keeps twisted up with a butterfly clip. She’s kind and can be over-serious. She is not the life and soul of the party, but that suits me fine. With her are Susanna, bossy and manipulative, and Mara and Kit, both bright, cheery women with smart cars, photogenic children, diamonds on their fingers and Instagrammably beautiful lives. I often wonder how I found myself here. It wasn’t meant to be like this. Not that I’m complaining; I’m safe and so is Lottie. At least we were until Saturday night. Now I’m scared again, anxious about what might happen. I feel like those people who are urged to evacuate their homes because the wildfires might reach them. No certainty of outcome whichever decision they take.
We were expecting Anna, but she called and cancelled, and I was glad. It’s hard enough trying to hide what’s going on around here, without putting pressure on her as well. This is not her problem.
‘I noticed Nick’s done zero steps since Saturday,’ Kit says after I’ve told them all that he’s ill. ‘Poor thing.’
I even took up a cup of coffee, to be extra convincing. It’s growing cold beside our empty bed.
Mara laughs. ‘Yeah, I saw that too. I was going to tell him to get off his backside. I’m glad I didn’t.’
‘He wouldn’t have minded,’ I say.
I should tell them the truth, the secrecy is ridiculous, but when I look round at their smiling faces the words won’t come. The mantra I grew up with, from both my mother and my gran, was: don’t tell other people our business. The reaction would be violent if I did.
‘Are you sure you can’t sacrifice a couple of hours a week, Grace?’ Susanna asks. She is after parent-readers.
As the class rep, it’s Susanna’s job to throw out a net for volunteers. I would like to help very much, but it’s impossible.
‘I’m really sorry. I can’t tie myself down to being somewhere at the same time every week. I wouldn’t be reliable enough.’
Cassie gives me a searching look. Because I work from home when I’m not visiting a site, friends and neighbours, and even the school, assume I’m available. But that’s not the real problem. The real problem is a little more complex.
I can feel my colour rise. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble, biting into a brownie. The intense sweetness of the chocolate bursts in my mouth, making me feel better, less absent. ‘So, we were going to talk about the school fete. Can I put my hand up for the book stall? I’m happy to do a couple of stints on the bouncy castle as well.’
The bouncy castle is the short-straw job, the attraction where most of the tantrums occur and the bulk of the injuries are sustained. I know she’ll be grateful enough to forget the other thing.
Susanna opens an Excel spreadsheet on her laptop and starts tapping in requests. After that bit of admin we go back to more comfortable topics of conversation.
‘It’s a pity Anna couldn’t make it,’ Mara says. ‘It would have been an opportunity for her to get to know us better.’
‘Did she say why she pulled out?’ Cassie asks. ‘Only she seemed so excited about it last week. I had the impression she wanted to get involved.’
‘Perhaps she had to work,’ I say.
‘Perhaps she figured out she would be given jobs to do,’ Susanna says.
‘What do you think of her?’ Kit asks.
There’s a silence and I imagine them trying to think of polite ways to disguise a bitchy comment. Kit has her three-month-old baby with her, draped fast asleep on his tummy over her knees, his face pointing towards me. I ache to stroke his silky hair. I want another one. It’s time.
‘She seems very pleasant,’ Mara prevaricates. ‘She just needs to bed in a little. Kai’s an absolute delight though, isn’t he? So interested and chatty. Leila adores him.’
Kit pours herself a fresh mug of coffee and adds a splash of milk. She stirs it and her spoon clinks against the china.
‘Anna’s a man’s woman,’ she says. ‘I mean, she’s friendly enough, but when she’s talking to you it’s as if she’s got her radar out in case a likely prospect hovers into view.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s fair,’ Cassie says. But she smiles. ‘She is a bit of a flirt. Remember that drinks party at the Filbys’? You and Nick weren’t there, Grace. Anna was wearing this killer dress and kept swishing her fingers through her hair. I think it’s insecurity though, don’t you? She’s trying to make an impression. We’ve all known each other for donkey’s years but she’s starting from scratch. It’s nerves.’
Mara brushes a crumb of brownie off her left breast. ‘She’d better not start feeling nervous around John.’
Kit snorts with laughter, spraying coffee.
‘Look, she’s not here to defend herself,’ I protest. But I’m laughing too. John is short and plump. He’s a lovely guy, but not someone a woman like Anna would have any interest in.
‘She’s more likely to feel nervous round Nick, don’t you think?’ Susanna says, giving me a mischievous look. ‘He’s so handsome.’
‘And such a lovely guy,’ Mara says. ‘You’re very lucky, Grace. I hope you know that.’
‘Shall I make some more coffee?’ I squeak.
I go into the kitchen to make a fresh cafetière and while I wait one of Mrs Jeffers’ cats, the tabby, stalks across the garden. I bang on the glass. It treats me to a haughty glance before continuing on its way. It reminds me of Nick’s boss.
Cassie follows me. I don’t look at her, but I can feel her eyes on my profile. I pour water into the kettle, put it on the stand, then lean against the counter and drop my head.
‘Grace …’
‘I need to tell you something,’ I say.
She sighs and puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s OK. I already know about Nick walking out. Lottie told Hannah.’
I turn and stare at her, aghast, the slow heat of mortification spreading from my neck to my cheeks. ‘You knew? You let me carry on with that ridiculous performance … How could you do that?’
Her face contorts in a grimace of apology. ‘Hannah only told me this morning. I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the others.’
I put my head in my hands. ‘So who’s Hannah told?’
If they all sat there, inwardly smirking, while I babbled on about my invalid boyfriend, I don’t think I’ll be able to face any of them again.
‘Don’t worry, no one else yet – Lottie swore her to secrecy. But it’s only a matter of time. The sooner you talk to Mrs Shaw the better. I’m sure she’ll see you today if you call her.’
I rock back my head with a groan. ‘I’ll go in early this afternoon. Don’t worry about picking up Lottie today. I’ll be there.’
‘There’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘It might be nothing.’
‘Cassie,’ I say sharply, and she flinches.
‘OK, but don’t bite my head off. I wasn’t sure I should say anything. But Evan saw Nick last Thursday evening, talking to a woman.’
I shrug. ‘Nick’s always bumping into acquaintances.’
‘Yes, I know, but Evan described it as an intense conversation. He only saw her from the back and from a distance, so he has no idea who it was. Apparently, she touched him, and he jerked away like he’d been burnt.’
The shock hits me like a wall, but I hold it together, trying not to avoid my friend’s gaze.
‘How odd. Actually, he did say he bumped into someone. A woman he knew from uni.’ I blurt out the lie, smiling brightly, but hot with annoyance and shame. ‘Maybe it was an old flame, you know, for him to have reacted like that. Did Evan say anything else about her? The colour of her hair? Her height? Her body language? What was intense about it?’
‘I didn’t mean to imply anything. Really, Grace. I’m sure Nick isn’t, well, you know.’
‘I don’t know, actually,’ I say.
‘Well …’ She pauses, biting down on her bottom lip. ‘Uh … that type, I suppose.’
I wait, my eyebrows lifted.
‘I did ask Evan questions,’ she says. ‘Obviously I did. But you know what men are like. They don’t clock things the way we do. So annoying!’
As the women leave, chatting in the front garden while Kit settles the baby into the pram, Douglas, my ex, walks up to the door and greets them all by name. He knows them as the parents of Lottie’s friends, and they think he’s marvellous – even Cassie, who understands a little more about our relationship than the others do, can’t help getting a little giddy round him.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, once everyone’s gone.
‘Can I come in first?’
I shrug and move to one side.
‘I had a text from Lottie.’
‘I told her not to tell anyone at school. I should have …’ I stop, realizing too late where this is going.
‘You should have told her not to tell me?’ His expression hardens. ‘Do you often ask her not to tell me things?’
‘No,’ I flounder. Because of course I do.
I walk ahead of him into the kitchen so that he can’t see my face. Tears irritate my ex.
‘Grace?’ His voice is sharp.
‘Give me a moment.’ I splash my face with water and wipe it on a clean tea towel, then turn to face him, back in control. ‘I didn’t want to make it into something it isn’t, in case he comes back. What did Lottie say?’
He pulls his phone out of his back pocket, man-oeuvres it with one hand and shows me the text.
Hi Dad. Something weird happened. Nick’s gone missing and Mum’s really upset. I don’t know what to do. Lottie xx
‘Who else have you told?’ he asks.
‘No one except Nick’s parents and the police.’ It’s a small fib, but he’ll only be offended if he discovers I confided in Cassie and Anna rather than him. ‘You know what people are like round here. They’ll think he’s left me.’
‘And he hasn’t?’
I glare at him. ‘No, course he hasn’t. Not on purpose at least.’
‘What did the police say?’
‘That it’s too early to send out a search party. They thought I was being hysterical. If he hasn’t reappeared by Thursday, that’s when they said they’d take it more seriously.’
‘Big of them,’ Douglas says, crossing his arms and leaning a shoulder against the wall. Douglas always wears black: black jeans, black jacket, black shirt. It suits him because he’s so skinny, but it also makes him look like a drug dealer. ‘What can I do to help?’
‘You could take Lottie somewhere fun this weekend; distract her.’
‘Sure. No problem. What about money?’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, have you got enough?’
I fizz with irritation. ‘I do earn a living, Douglas. I’m fine for the time being, and Nick will be back before it gets to the stage where we’re in trouble.’
‘So, when did he go? Did you argue? There must be a reason why he’s disappeared.’
‘Of course there’s a reason. Don’t treat me like an idiot.’
‘Calm down.’
‘I’ve got to go to work, Douglas.’
He comes closer, reaching past me to take a glass from the cupboard. He fills it with water and drinks it in one go, before rinsing it and placing it upside down on the drainer.
‘Are you picking Lottie up from school on Friday?’ I ask, pointedly moving towards the door. Sometimes he has to come here instead, if he’s running late.
‘Can we take a rain check on that?’
‘Fine.’ He touches my shoulder briefly, before strolling out into the warm April morning. The door shuts behind him, but not firmly enough to engage the lock. I give it an aggressive shove.
Sometimes I hate Douglas. I see him regularly because he has Lottie every other weekend and for part of the holidays. She idolizes him, and that’s a worry. When I was with him, it was made abundantly clear I could be a better version of myself, and that that was something I should desire and work towards. Every day I failed a little bit more. I don’t want that for Lottie. Nick’s influence is healthier. It wouldn’t occur to him that I could be anything other than the woman he wakes up to every morning, with her mussed-up hair and smudged eyeliner; the woman who wears his Chelsea T-shirt to sleep in and refuses to buy her own socks because men’s are better; or that Lottie could be anything but Lottie: imperfect but beautiful, funny and wise.
My job is to mitigate my ex’s influence on our daughter; to ensure that she knows it’s OK to fail, important even, and that she doesn’t have to be anything other than herself to be loved.
I put on my leather jacket and zip it up, frowning. For all my detachment, my constant analysis of his character, my efforts to stay one step ahead, he can still get under my skin. It’s hardly unexpected, given our history, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
When I was sixteen, after a year in care, I found myself slipping through the cracks. Gran was dead, Mum was dead. I had made a handful of friends in the children’s home but when I left I wanted to draw a line under that phase of my life. I didn’t have a job, I hadn’t had much of an education, but I knew that I had a brain, I just didn’t know where or how to use it. I ended up homeless, sleeping in shelters if I was lucky, on the streets if I wasn’t. Then I met Douglas.
He was training to be a lawyer and, in the little spare time he had, he volunteered at one of the shelters I frequented, dispensing free advice. He must have seen potential, because he went out of his way to help me and later, once I was more or less on my feet, we became involved. He seemed so sophisticated even though he was only twenty-five at the time. I understood that he liked the idea of moulding me, but at that point, he was all I had, and I clung to him. It fell apart the first time because he was unfaithful.
But that’s only half the truth. My reaction crossed a line. I don’t know why he took me back, unless he took pleasure in knowing I was cowed. I had put him in hospital, after all.
I drop my face into my hands, unable to relive those events without catching a wave of humiliation and pain. I was a shell, someone who absorbed everything thrown at her, who lived for and through another person. I belonged to Douglas.
It was only when I got pregnant that things began to change.
Douglas took the news badly. I didn’t expect that at all, and I panicked. I considered an abortion, couldn’t go through with it and almost gave Lottie up for adoption, but something stopped me, some inner strength that I hadn’t been aware I possessed. Douglas had encouraged me to be better. Well, I would be better. A better mother than I had been blessed with.
I left him, moving into a rented one-bedder in Catford. It was above a Balti restaurant and the cheapest thing I could find. Below my bedroom window the air-conditioning unit rumbled and the smell of curry drifted in. There were rats too, in the space behind the building where the bins were kept; I’d hear their squeaks and scurrying when I woke in the night. I remember sitting in that place, in the summer heat, breathing in stale spices, Lottie fast asleep in my lap, her eyelashes fluttering, her cheeks pink – my perfect child in this shitty place – and when I found a rat under her cot, I knew I had to get us out before she became aware of her surroundings, even if it meant crawling back to Douglas.
This third attempt at a relationship faltered because although I was grateful, I was no longer submissive; Lottie had put fire in my belly. Douglas didn’t like that and said he was bored. That stung, but it made things easier. Despite his initial reluctance to be a father, he worshipped Lottie so, as long as I shared her with him, he appeared to be content to let me go. I met Nick nine months later.
But it wasn’t as simple or unstrained as it first seemed. Nothing ever is with Douglas. He knows the worst of me and thinks it gives him permission to retain that paternal familiarity that infuriates Nick, who is no fool. It’s as though Douglas allows me to be with Nick while he retains ultimate ownership. As he demonstrated today, it’s in his body language and it’s in the subtle nuances of what he says or doesn’t say.
And yet, when he left me just now, it was like a cold breeze blowing through my house.