He doesn't pass comment. “It's strange,” I say. “You can live somewhere and see something so frequently that you lose any desire to visit it. It just becomes part of the landscape. A tourist who comes to London for a week has probably seen more of the sights than I have and I’ve lived here for years.”
I lean back on my arms. “Are you disappointed in my lack of adventure?” I say, turning my face up to the sun, revelling in the simple joy of being able to close my eyes, knowing that someone else is watching Effie.
His fingertip lands on my forehead, traces a path down over my nose and my lips, around my chin, down my neck, and stops between my breasts. “I don't think I could ever be disappointed in you, Cora,” he says, and his voice is hoarse.
Opening my eyes, I see he’s not looking at me. I follow his gaze to where Effie has found a new playmate, a Jack Russel. I move to get up, not happy being so far from Effie when she’s in the presence of a strange dog. This one looks harmless, but it's young, and you never know when they might give an overexcited nip.
Anders's hand lands on my arm. “I'll go,” he says. He levers himself upright and closes the distance between himself and my daughter. Effie is crouched down, both her little hands stroking behind the dog's ears. Anders doesn't intervene; he lets her play. But he stays close enough to step in if anything goes wrong.
Eventually Effie sees Anders waiting, and she gets up, slides her hand into his, and they walk back to where I am. But the puppy follows.
“Dogs like Effie,” I say.
“And Effie likes dogs,” she adds.
“I miss having a dog,” Anders says. “We always had them when I was growing up.”
I can see Effie's eyes light up, but she doesn't get to ask any more questions because the dog's owner arrives. She’s an elderly lady, shorter than me, wearing a coat even in the heat of the day.
“She does love having a fuss made of her,” she says to Effie, who has stooped to pet the dog again. “But she's not quite mastered coming to heel yet.” She bends down and clips a lead onto her dog.
“She's lovely,” says Effie, looking up at the stranger.
“Oh, aren’t you a grand girl,” the old woman says. Then she looks at Anders. “And you’ve got your daddy’s eyes.”
Anders doesn't correct her. More worryingly, and this is new, neither does Effie. My daughter is honest to a fault. Truth and justice are her stalwarts. For her to ignore such an obvious falsehood without issuing a correction is uncharacteristic. Suddenly I go cold. Because I'm not sure who is fantasising about Anders more: me or Effie.
Friends and Lovers
“It might be a good idea,” I say later that night when Effie is safely tucked up in bed, “if I see you by myself for a while and not when Effie is around.”
My daughter hasn’t said much since we got home, but I know better than to believe not talking about something implies not thinking about it. Effie gets very attached to things: toys, clothing, mementos. It stands to reason that she also gets very attached to people. I am absolutely certain she will grow up to be the truest friend anyone could want. That is, if she ever finds her tribe, the people with whom she wants to be friends and who want to be friends with her.
“I’ve already told you my intentions,” he says. “I’m not going to break Effie’s heart. But I understand if you want to be cautious. You are her mother, after all. You’re the best person to judge what is the right pace for her.”
His confidence in me feels unwarranted. If only I had as much faith in myself as he seems to have. As Effie’s mother, I haveabsolutely no idea what I’m doing most of the time. I feel like a blind woman with a stick tapping her way through a minefield.
Choosing not to address the meaning of what he’s just said, I fall back on good manners. “But thank you for today. Effie had a good time.”
“Effie was not the only person I was trying to impress.”
“Well, then you got full marks. I had a good time too.”
I initiated this call. I could have sent a text, but I wanted to hear his voice one more time before the day crawls to its end. But now I can't think of anything to say, at least nothing that doesn't lead further into troublesome areas. Anders has no such restraint.
“I would like the chance to show you an even better time,” he says, and my breath catches. We both know what he means. I'm glad this is only an audio call so he can't see my face burning, my pupils growing, my lips parting.
“When can I see you?”
I play innocent. “You know you’ll see me tomorrow at work.”
“And you know that's not what I mean.”
I do. Anders and I have never pretended with each other. If I'm not happy with something, I tell him, and vice versa. Mostly we fix it, sometimes not, but whichever way it ends up, there's never been any pretence. Maybe now’s not the time to be disingenuous.
“Friday evening. If everything goes according to plan.” If Dana is still good for her promise, if Effie is well, if Max doesn’t fall sick, if I’m not on my period.
But Anders has no concept of the logistical mountain that has to be scaled for one small date. He misinterprets my condition. “You're the one who's in charge of my diary. Move anything that might interfere with Friday night and block out the slot.” He pauses. “I must admit, I can't wait to see what you put in as a placeholder this time.”
