He stands and holds out his hand and leads me upstairs. In silence, we get undressed and, for the first time in weeks, Ed and I share a bed and he holds me until I fall asleep.
I’ve been up since half seven, making breakfast for everyone and a packed lunch for Tom, who guides me, step by step, on the correct way to make it. He pads around the kitchen in hispyjamas, watching my every move.
‘Mum always cuts the cheese into blocks, not slices.’
‘Does she? OK.’
‘And she gives me milk, not juice.’
‘No problem.’
‘She cuts my sandwiches into triangles, not squares.’
‘Triangles? Right-angled or Acute?’
‘Cute.’
‘Good choice. Now, can you go and put on Disney Plus because we don’t have it at home and I’m really in the mood for something with an annoyingly catchy song I can sing to Ed when he wakes up.’
Tom hops off to the living room, while I simmer some porridge and attack an especially crusty loaf with a bread knife. I haven’t cut a loaf in years; in fact, I’m not even sure we own a bread knife. At least I can make porridge from scratch, though I doubt that’s going to earn me a place onMasterChefanytime soon.
I lay the table, popping some honey and jam into little ramekins, and fill up a jug with fresh orange juice. Yvonne would be proud. The truth is, I’m kind of enjoying myself.
Mum was told to call the ward after 9am, to see how Gubba fared overnight, so I let her and Gary sleep on. For now, I’m doing what I do best– staying focused. However, this feels different, almost unfamiliar. For once, my focus isn’t fixated on my career or my clients. There is no long-term objective, no goal I’m striving for.
At quarter to eight, Gary appears, apologising for sleeping in, while I hear Mum walk across the landing to the bathroom.
‘Sit down,’ I tell Gary. ‘I’ll stick the kettle on. Porridge is in the pot on the table, toast will be two minutes. Tom, sweetheart, come and eat. You need to tell me how terrible my porridge is, compared to Mum’s!’
Gary sits at the table, not quite knowing what to do withhimself, while Tom reluctantly leaves the television to eat.
Back in the kitchen I make a pot of tea and butter the toast, bringing it through just as Mum traipses downstairs.
‘Get any sleep?’ I ask. She shakes her head. ‘Not really, love. I’m too worried.’
‘Come and eat something,’ I say. ‘Tom’s already at the table. Ed will be up once he smells the porridge.’
‘Porridge?’ Mum questions. ‘You hate porridge. Did Ed teach you how to make it?’
‘Gubba taught me,’ I say, smiling, as I follow her through to the living room. Gubba was old school with breakfast when I was a kid. When I stayed over, she’d make porridge every morning, just like her mother used to, and sometimes Spam on toast, which I point blank refused to entertain. The porridge, I forced down with milk and honey, but it’s never been a favourite of mine. Of course, Gubba then followed her porridge and Spam with a pot of tea and three fags, which she convinced herself was fine as she wasn’t smoking on an empty stomach.
‘I stole a pair of your knickers from the tumble dryer this morning,’ I tell Mum. ‘I forgot mine. Packing underwear wasn’t exactly top of my list yesterday.’
‘Oh, do they fit you?’ she asks, pouring some tea.
Even in times of crisis, she’ll still find a way to mention my weight. I just nod and bite my tongue.
After breakfast, I continue helping Tom get ready, making him laugh while we sing along to ‘You’re Welcome’ fromMoana, a film he’s watched at least three hundred times in his short life.
‘Is Ed taking me to school, too?’ he asks, rudely interrupting my word-perfect rap.
‘Of course,’ I reply on Ed’s behalf. ‘Though you’d better wake him up– he’s still asleep. I think jumping on him ought to do it.’
Tom rushes upstairs, excitedly informing Ed he’s taking him to school. I hear a loud ‘Oof!’ from Ed as Tom divebombs him.
‘I used the last of the bread, so I’ll pop into the shop after we take Tom to school.’ I sit back at the table and pour some more tea. ‘Oh, I’ll pick up some flowers for Gubba, too. For her house. Make it nice for her coming home.’
‘But what if she—’
