Chapter Four
I get back to the house and throw myself down on the couch. On the weekends I try to catch up on housework, as when Grace is here with me she can destroy a room quicker than I can tidy it. Eventually I move my arse off the sofa, feed Heisenberg, open Grace’s window so he can go outside and then prepare to clean. If nothing else, it’ll help me forget that bloody awful date from last night.
I shuffle the music tracks on my phone, put my headphones on and begin tidying up to the soothing sounds of the Chemical Brothers. I couldn’t endure the pain of housework without tunes. Helen regularly tells me my musical tastes are ridiculous:
‘You’re thirty-six and listening to dance music. You’re not Jo Whiley, you know.’
‘I listen to all sorts of music, Helen: pop, disco, dance . . . just because it’s not Michael bloody Bublé or whatever—’
‘Stop right there. Michael Bublé is a god. A GOD. I won’t hear a word against him.’
‘I have no idea how we’re related.’
I start hoovering just as Donna Summer announcing that she ‘feels love’ is rudely interrupted by a call coming through on my phone. It’s Rose.
‘Jason is making me take him to soft play. Fancy bringing Grace? I cannot tolerate that fucking place alone.’
‘Ah shit, I’ve just dropped her at Peter’s house. Sorry, love – otherwise you know I would.’
‘DAMMIT, now I’m going to have to endure other people’s children by myself for two hours.’
I feel for her. There’s nothing worse than other people’s children.
‘Take some trashy magazines, have a coffee and snarl at anyone who comes near you. Y’know – what you usually do.’
She snorts. ‘I know. It’s just more fun when you’re there. What you up to anyway?’
‘Bugger all, but I’m fine with that. I’m exhausted.’
‘You should get out and about! You need a man. Preferably one who works away a lot and brings you diamonds when he comes back.’
‘Like Jason’s dad?’ I ask, knowing the answer already. ‘Two weeks on the rigs and two weeks at home?’
‘Ha, all Rob brings me back is washing. But he isn’t around long enough to get on my tits, so it works for me. Anyway, enjoy your weekend and see you next week!’
She hangs up first and I get back to cleaning with her words swimming around in my skull – ‘You need a man.’ Technically I don’t need a man; I’m an independent single woman, successfully raising a very clever, witty child and paying my way in the world. That said, I’m pretty tired of living a passionless existence; I do crave company and laughter and impulsive sex and, well, any kind of sex really. I miss the kind of intimacy I haven’t had since Peter – the kind that feels like a security blanket that’s permanently wrapped around you. I miss knowing I’m loved.
So, no, I don’t need a man . . . but sometimes I sure as fuck want one.
*
It’s nearly seven in the evening on Sunday by the time Peter brings Grace home. I see that she’s got pasta sauce on her chin, which means he’s already fed her. It saves me cooking an hour later than planned so I’m not complaining.
‘Did you have a nice time, my darling?’ I barely get my question out before—
‘I’M GOING TO BE A FLOWER GIRL!’ she screams at me, almost bursting with excitement. He’s told her.
I look at Peter. I raise my eyebrows. He looks at the ground.
I pretend I’m surprised, because Peter discovering I have inside knowledge of his life isn’t worth the hassle. I even smile, despite the fact that I feel numb about the whole thing.
‘That’s wonderful, darling. Why don’t you go inside while I have a quick word with Dad?’
She skips into her room, saying hello to the cat, and I close the front door a little.
‘Congratulations, Peter.’ I smile unconvincingly. ‘Don’t you think you should have discussed this with me first? It’s a big deal for Grace too.’
‘I don’t have to discuss anything with you. I wanted to tell my daughter first.’
