‘Our daughter, Pete – our daughter. Don’t pretend that you wouldn’t react the same way if the tables were turned.’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
He looks like a nine-year-old who’s being told off, but like any nine-year-old he’s determined to remain defiant as fuck. He can never just admit when he’s wrong.
‘Look, I have to get inside. All I’m saying is a heads-up would have been nice. It’s a big deal.’
‘For Grace? Or for you? Feeling a little bit jealous?’
‘I’m not even dignifying that, you arrogant shit. Who do you think you are? Go away.’
‘Thought so,’ he says with a smirk.
And with that he walks back down the path and gets into his car while I breathe the word ‘bastard’ after him. It still makes me sad that someone I once loved very much now feels nothing but contempt for me. The man I thought I’d spend my whole life with is now a stranger to me, and behind my anger I can’t help but feel wounded.
I go inside, put on my happy face and prepare to listen to how thrilled and excited Grace is about the wedding, despite the fact I’m still raging inside.
Sunday night is always bath night. Even though Grace would happily play in the bath for hours at a time, getting her in there in the first place is always a chore.
‘Bath or shower, Grace?’ I take towels from the cupboard and place them over the radiator.
‘Neither.’
‘Neither isn’t an option. I’m running a bath now.’
‘What do I get?’
‘Two bedtime stories.’
‘I’d get that anyway . . .’
‘GET IN THE BATH!!!’
She giggles and hops through from the living room. I pour bubble bath under the running water.
‘Do you think I’ll get to wear a big white dress, Mum? And a tiara?’ Grace hops in and starts playing with the little plastic sea creatures she got from Deep Sea World three years ago, which are now beginning to look like they deserve a decent sea burial.
‘Hmm, usually it’s the bride who wears the big white dress, honey,’ I reply, thinking that Emma will probably wear black and float down the aisle on a broomstick. ‘I’m sure Dad will let you pick a lovely dress though.’
After the bath, we make it through two chapters of Coraline before Grace starts to yawn. I fold down the page and kiss her goodnight, and she snuggles down under the covers. The cat is sleeping on top of her drawing table – he’s so sweet when he’s not being a furry dickhead.
After I’ve prepared Grace’s packed lunch for the morning, I text Helen to remind her that she’s taking Grace to school and then I head to bed too, taking Coraline with me. It’s not that I’m tired; I just don’t feel like spending yet another bloody evening sitting on the sofa in my own company. I’m starting to bore myself. I’d like to put Grace to bed and snuggle up with someone who gives a shit about my day, which, as it happens, was both tedious and swift and was filled with routine household drudgery. Everything in my life is planned. There’s no excitement any more, no surprises. How I long to be surprised.
I lay out my clothes for the morning on my chair, flop into bed and begin reading where we finished up.
I hope tomorrow is a better day.
Chapter Five
I catch the 8.21 from Queens Park and manage to grab a seat beside a stubble-faced man-beast who’s clutching a bottle of Irn-Bru like his life depends on it. His dark grey designer suit screams, ‘I AM A MAN WHO MEANS BUSINESS!’ but his crumpled face sobs, ‘I AM A MAN WHO DIDN’T MEAN TO STAY UP UNTIL 3 A.M. DRINKING WHISKY.’
The journey is short, only two stops. I clamber off the train at Central station and am instantly lost in a sea of familiar, miserable faces, all of whom would rather be anywhere else than heading to work. Technically I don’t need to work at the office; I can write from home and email my copy, but I know that if I don’t make the effort to go in once a week, I’ll become the kind of freelancer who lives in her whiffy dressing gown, only getting dressed for the school run or to answer the door to the pizza guy. Appealing as that sounds, I choose to remain a functioning member of society for as long as possible.
Just like everything else in my life, my routine rarely changes, the exception being where I choose to buy my coffee in the mornings. This depends entirely on length of queue, and today I spy only three people in line at Delice de France. This is almost unheard of, so I casually head towards it, trying not to alert other coffee drinkers to this miracle by rushing. I spot a well-dressed, haughty woman in a faux fur coat approaching the queue. Dammit, she looks as if she’s about to order something they’ll have to import in especially for her. I refuse to be stuck behind anyone who wants to sample every option before spending three pounds fifty, so my footsteps quicken to an ‘Oh no you fucking don’t’ pace. I slip into the queue seconds before her, and although my face remains emotionless, inside I’ve just crowned myself CHAMPION OF THE FUCKING WORLD and I’m wearing her fur coat like a royal robe!
I order my skinny caramel latte and eye up the pastries, deciding on the last chocolate croissant while the barista cleans the coffee machine with a vice-like grip some men would pay handsomely for. I’m completely bewitched by this until someone taps me on the shoulder, breaking my concentration.
‘Morning, Cat!’
