‘So that’s your husband…’ she says, pointing.
I’m going to be sick. She has dislodged a photo of Max, Holly and me from under a magnet on the fridge door and is studying it intently.
‘Yes,’ I say, my heart like a drum. Can she not hear it? Is she deaf? ‘That’s Max.’ The photo was taken on my birthday at a French restaurant in Chelsea. We weren’t married then. We weren’t even a couple – although, to be fair, we were only ‘a couple’ for about five minutes before we got married.
‘And that’s your daughter, I assume?’ She points at Holly in the photograph.
‘Stepdaughter.’ I rummage through the next drawer down. Didn’t I tell her that yesterday? At this point, who knows? Maybe it’s all a bad dream.
‘Stepdaughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘You two seem really close.’
I look up and gaze at the photo. Holly was fifteen years old. She’s pressed against me, squinting and grinning at the camera with a mouth full of braces. A wave of love flows through me, reminding me why I’m doing all this in the first place.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes. We are.’
‘You’re very lucky,’ she says, putting the photo back. ‘And who plays the piano?’ She tilts her head towards the living room.
‘Sorry, did you say flat screwdriver? Or the one with the cross?’ I don’t know why I ask. I haven’t found a single screwdriver yet.
She doesn’t reply, and I realise she’s waiting for me to answer. The piano. Right. ‘Yes, that’s Holly.’
‘Is she good?’
‘Yes. I was sure there was a box of them somewhere…’
‘Can I help you look?’ she asks.
‘No… I should?—’
‘Oh my God!!’
I jump and turn around. She’s staring at something on the floor, her hand over her mouth.
My heart is galloping in my chest. I must have missed some blood. I should have never let her in. What was I thinking?
She looks at me, eyes like saucers. ‘What the hell happened here?’
I wring my hands together. ‘I was preparing a chicken…’ No, wait. Do dead chickens bleed? I don’t think so. ‘And I cut myself, really badly, and?—’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘I mean this.’ She points at the skirting, and my legs almost give way from relief. There is no blood. It’s the milk, which has left rivulets down the wall and pooled at the bottom.
‘Oh, that?’ I pick up the empty milk bottle and put it in the sink. ‘We had a little accident this morning.’
‘Did you accidentally throw a bottle of milk at the wall?’
‘Exactly,’ I say, trying to laugh, but failing. ‘I turned around to say something to Holly and I turned so fast, the bottle slipped out of my hand.’
She tilts her head. ‘That’s quite the centrifugal force grip you got there.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Never mind. I was good at physics at school.’
‘Right. Well. I’d better…’ My heart is pounding in my ears now. I’m rummaging through cutlery like a mad woman. I open a third drawer.
