Anders hovers in the doorway to his office, one hand on the jamb. “I hope you won’t be in trouble with your nursery.”
Effie is in school, not nursery but I don’t bother to correct him.
“I sent them a text,” I say shortly. While I don't want him to feel bad for something out of his control, I also don’t want him to think it’s okay for this to happen regularly. Like all bosses, if you give him a cookie…
I give a tight smile before adding to his indebtedness by saying, “It’s just I have friends coming over tonight and God knows what I’m going to feed them.”
Straightening up, I slide into my coat and grab my tote. “Good night,” I nod to him as I hurry around my desk. He hasn’t moved and I feel his eyes on me as I walk towards the stairs. They’ll be faster than the lift. I don’t know what he’s thinking, and it bothers me. Was I too curt? Or not curt enough? The relief I feel as I turn the corner out of his sight is noticeable.
Forcing work and Anders from my mind, I concentrate on keeping within the speed limit as I drive. A speeding ticket would blow my budget. I tell myself the world won’t end if I’m a little late for Effie but itwouldbe disastrous if I hit someone. But still, that imperative to get to my child as quickly as possible crowds my mind.
There are times when I kick myself for being a single mum. Not for the decision I made to keep my baby, nor for the breakdown of the relationship with Mike. He can’t even manage to be a father for two hours a fortnight. Lord knows, I wouldn’t have been able to rely on him to be a father on a daily basis. But perhaps I could have found someone if I’d dated.
Except I don’t have anyone to babysit Effie while I date. Paid sitters are out of my budget. My parents aren’t even on the same continent. I’ve no brothers or sisters to call on, and friends want the favour returned, but how could I do that?
If I could rely on Mike to turn up, maybe I could meet someone for coffee, but any prospective partner is going to want to move up that frequency sharpish. Which means introducing them toEffie early, before I know whether they’re a good potential bet. I’m sure there are kids out there who can tune out their mother’s changing lovers. Effie isn’t one of them. She fixates on things. She needs stability and security, and people who don’t disappear just when she’s learned to accommodate them.
Nor is Effie the type to make friends easily. I don’t have a host of notes in her schoolbag from mothers of friends she has made who are desperate to have Effie back for tea. She may yet find a friend or two, but Effie has been in childcare since she was two and the one friend she has is Max. There is no reason to expect that to change anytime soon now that she is in school. Rob has warned me she may not find another friend until she transfers to one of the bigger schools at eleven.
The result of it all is there’s no-one else. No-one I can call to grab Effie if I’m going to be late. Anders understands that and seldom asks me to stay without prior notice. Except today was necessary.
As soon as I’d seen a sobbing Ginny, I knew the likely problem. We’re too small to have a proper human resources unit. The head of department would normally deal with this sort of problem, except this problemwasthe head of department. It had to go to Anders. And Anders needed a witness in case anything was said that warranted disciplinary action.
Still, my imagination is running overtime. Visions of a tearful Effie, her bottom lip trembling at my abandonment, loom large. I can picture the silent accusation in her eyes. The fear her mother is becoming as unreliable as her father; her safe world falling apart.
By the time I pull up at the after-school club, I’m expecting the worst. Any hopes that maybe she’s curled up on a beanbag lost in her reptile book are dashed as I walk through the door. Effie is standing at the table, her coat on, her schoolbag and lunchbox at her feet. Her face is set, mouth clamped tight shut, as if she darenot open it. Her face is turned toward the clock. She ignores me, acting as if she hasn’t noticed my flustered arrival or my profuse apologies to the staff member.
“I’m so sorry!” I exclaim. “There was an issue at work.”
The playworker shrugs. She probably hears the same excuse every day. “It’s okay,” she says, letting me off the hook. I’m not one of her regular offenders and there is another child awaiting collection. I’m not the last parent. Effie, though, is not so understanding. She pulls out of my hand as I try to take hers. Four-year-olds can only feel. They cannot understand what they feel, and even Effie, smart as she is, lacks the words to articulate emotions. Conversely, her fear of my rejection results in her rejection of me. We walk out of the building side by side but not touching.
When she is in her car seat, as I hand her the earphones, Effie unwinds enough to say, “Bad Mummy.”
My heart plummets. Bad mother, bad friend, and only moderately good employee. I consider piling on her misery by stopping at a supermarket but that might push Effie over the edge. She doesn’t have meltdowns that much anymore as we have both got better at avoiding them. But the noise and lights and people for an already stressed child would be too much. Better to add bad hostess to my résumé.
The feeling of being a terrible mother doesn’t diminish as I empty fish fingers and potato wedges out of their packaging onto a baking tray. I bang them in the oven, rushing Effie’s meal with fast food items. She sits at the table eating alone, as I’m due to eat later with Dana and Fiona. They’ve got a babysitter for Max and are coming over for a grown-ups-only meal. It’s a chance for me to give a little back to our friendship.
“What was the best thing that happened today?” I ask so Effie can’t answer with one word. But Effie isn’t biting. She knows how to hold a grudge. She gives me a look of scorching contempt.
“So, what was the worst thing?” I try, hoping the opportunity to vent overrides her self-imposed vow of silence. No chance.
I rack my brains to think of anything about my day that might interest her but draw a blank. I consider making something up but if Effie does respond, her curiosity is often greater than my knowledge. If she discovers I’m lying, she’ll trust me even less.
Irritatingly, she would have forgiven her father by now. And I get it. I’m supposed to be the reliable one. So my offence when I let her down is greater. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling aggrieved too. Effie finishes her food and pushes her plate away but I won’t let her get away with this, even if she is mad at me.
“Don’t forget your plate,” I remind her.
I can see the lift of her shoulders as she draws in a deep breath, as if she’s only just hanging on. Then she stands and brings her plate to the drainer above the dishwasher before she turns her back.
“Do you have any homework?” I ask.
“Done,” she mutters, walking toward her room. “While you weren’t there.” I wince and let her go. Sometimes Effie needs time alone in her cave. I give her space.
Alone in the kitchen, I contemplate my empty cupboards, racking my brains for inspiration for something I can possibly serve Fiona. There isn’t even enough potato wedges left over.
I’m searching online for recipes with crackers when the door buzzer sounds.
I open the door. An older man in a shabby puffer jacket stands on my doorstep, holding two large boxes. “Delivery. What name?” he asks.
