Finally I’m dressed and Grace and I leave for the farmers’ market, held on the last Saturday of every month and responsible for my newfound love of sourdough bread. Before I had Grace, Saturday mornings were used to sleep off Friday night’s hangover. Now they’re spent admiring home-made jam and root veg, while my childless friends have morning sex and booze-induced amnesia. I can guarantee that, right now, Kerry won’t even be aware that it’s morning.
We cross the street and walk along the side of the park, where tennis lessons have already begun, dogs are being walked and joggers look far too motivated for their own good.
It’s quieter than usual this morning so I take my time sampling cheese and chutney from a woman in a shawl while Grace hops from one foot to the other, excitedly deciding which cake du jour looks worthy of her tiny mouth. Despite my occasional longing for a life less ordinary, I only have to look at Grace to know that I have everything that matters right here: my amazing child and an artisan bread stall.
‘The fruit looks good, Grace. Why don’t you get some pears? You like pears.’
‘I do like pears Mum, but ONLY A CRAZY PERSON WOULD BUY PEARS WITH THEIR POCKET MONEY. I want a treat.’
‘Fruit is nature’s treat,’ I reply quietly, knowing that this battle has already been lost. She gives me a pity look and continues hopping. She’s right of course. Who the fuck would spend their pocket money on fruit? It’s the weekend. When did I become such a joyless bastard?
Eventually she chooses some scones and jam to take to her dad’s house before spotting her friend Caron and running off towards the swings to play. I walk quickly behind, one eye on her and the other on anyone who looks like they might be a child-snatching nutcase.
The park is quite busy so I sit on a bench and watch Grace and Caron play. She waves at me from the top of the climbing frame and I wave back, desperately trying not to be the lone overprotective mother who shrieks, ‘OH MY GOD! BE CAREFUL!! PEOPLE HAVE DIED FROM DOING CLIMBING!’ every time their kid climbs something higher than the kerb. I look elsewhere to distract myself.
There are three dads at the park this morning, and I swiftly rate them in order of attractiveness. The guy attempting to climb on the see-saw with his daughter is immediately ruled out for wearing turquoise skinny jeans so tight he can barely lift his leg over the seat. The second dad has the most handsome face of the three but doesn’t make it to the top of my list; he’s far too clean cut and so is his son – you can tell they’ve both been dressed by his wife, who’s probably at home cleaning the house with undiluted bleach and a mouth full of Valium. So today’s winner is dad number three, a tall man with enough stubble to strike a match on and a lumberjack shirt that would look better on me. His baby daughter is wearing odd shoes though, which leads me to believe he’s either very tired or an idiot.
Twenty minutes later, a rather rosy-faced Grace plonks herself down beside me on the bench and wipes her nose on her sleeve.
‘Can we go now?’ She sniffs.
‘Do you need a tissue?’ I ask, rummaging around in my bag.
‘No, I’m fine now.’ The snot trail on her sleeve is making me gag.
‘Next time, get a tissue, please,’ I say, gathering up our market bags. ‘That’s really gross.’
She grins. ‘It was an emergency. It was running down my face. Liam Kirk from school always has snotters running down his face and it’s disgusting. He also told the teacher she was the b-word.’
‘He sounds wonderful. Please stay away from him.’
‘I don’t play with him. He plays with Joseph McKenzie. Joseph’s the one who brought a dead bee to school and kept it in his pocket.’
We walk back towards the house and she takes my hand as we cross the road. Apart from her cuddles, that’s my favourite thing in the whole world; I know she’s safe when her hand is in mine. It makes me sad that one day she’ll probably rather cut her own hand off than hold mine in public. Sometimes I wish she’d stay this age forever.
At two I drive Grace over to Peter’s house, or rather our old house that Peter never left and which is now also home to Emma and her vast collection of black eyeliner, crushed velvet and New Rock boots. Their beady eyes met on the 7pm Edinburgh Waverly to Glasgow Central train and three months later she moved in. It still stuns me that she’s his type. Maybe she always was, and perhaps I was never his type in the first place. I ring the doorbell and kiss Grace goodbye just as the door opens, hoping for a quick escape.
‘See you tomorrow, honey. Have a great time!’
‘Bye, Mum. Hi, Dad, I brought scones!’ she chirps, and makes her way down the hall, which has recently been painted a delightful shade of brown, instead of the lovely ivory colour it used to be. But I don’t live there any more; they can do what they like. They can paint the entire house in glowing dog shit for all I care.
I quickly focus back on Peter and pretend I haven’t noticed the hall or that he seems to be growing a goatee. A really patchy goatee. He’s starting to look like that character from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. What’s his name?
‘Don’t let her eat all of those scones.’ I laugh, not because it’s funny but BECAUSE OF THE BEARD. Oh, what’s that character’s name?!
‘I won’t,’ he replies. ‘I can’t guarantee the same for me though. How are you?’
I’m always suspicious when he makes conversation that doesn’t start with the phrase ‘We’re concerned about . . .’
‘Um, I’m fine. Bye then. Have a nice evening.’
(Got it! Tumnus. Mr Tumnus.)
‘We will. We’re taking Grace to the cinema later.’
My mouth says, ‘How lovely,’ but my brain is shouting, ‘GET BACK IN THE FUCKING WARDROBE, TUMNUS!!’
I’m now too far gone with thoughts of Narnia and Turkish-delight jokes so I mumble my final goodbyes and hurry back to the car. I wonder if he’ll shave his beard off for their wedding. I wonder when he’ll tell me he’s getting married.
