Page 2 of The Friend Request

‘Have you got everything for today?’ I ask.

‘Yep.’

‘PE kit?’

‘In my bag.’

‘The bag that’s been in the hallway since Friday?’

She pauses, spoon halfway to her mouth. ‘I’ll wash it tonight.’

‘You’ll wash it? When have you ever washed anything?’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

I catch the corner of a smile before she buries it in her cereal, and my chest goes warm for a second, that fierce pulse of love that hits at the strangest moments – over breakfast, over nothing. She’s got Alex’s way of watching a room from the edges, but her expressions are mine. Every flicker of amusement or suspicion crosses her face like a weather report I can read without thinking.

She’s the best thing I’ve ever done. And the fact that I think that every single morning and still manage to feel like I’m failing her by teatime tells you everything about the state of my head lately.

Alex comes back in, jacket on, keys in hand. He picks up his briefcase from the chair by the door and glances at Olivia.

‘Ready in ten?’

‘I’m eating.’

‘Eat faster.’ He says it lightly, but there’s a tightness around his jaw that means he’s already thinking about the drive, the traffic, the meeting he’s mentioned twice over the weekend. He looks at me. ‘I’ll drop her. I’ve got to go past the school anyway.’

‘Fine.’

‘Do you need anything from town?’

‘No. Thanks.’

He hesitates, just for a beat, as if there’s something else. Then he nods and walks to the front door. There’s the rustle of his jacket, the clunk of the latch, and then Olivia is shovelling the last of her cereal, grabbing her bag from the hallway, and calling, ‘Bye, Mum!’ without looking back.

The door closes. The house goes quiet.

I sit at the table with my hands round my mug and listen to the car start on the drive, reverse out, and pull away. I hear it get halfway down the road and then it’s gone, swallowed by the morning, and I’m alone.

This is the part of the day I’m supposed to enjoy. The freelancer’s golden window – no school run, no interruptions, just me and my desk and whatever cover design I’m meant to be working on. I’ve got a children’s fantasy brief that’s due Thursday and a set of amendments on a romance cover where the author wants the man’s jaw to be ‘stronger but not aggressive,’ which is one of those notes that sounds clear until you sit down and try to make it mean something in Photoshop.

I carry my tea through to the back room I use as an office. It’s small, cluttered, and smells of the scented candle I burn when I’m on a deadline, which is often enough that the smell has soaked into the curtains. My desk faces the window, which overlooks the garden, the fence, and the back of next door’s garage. Not inspiring. But it’s mine, and when I’m working well – when the design is clicking and the client isn’t breathing down my neck – I can lose myself in it for hours and forget about everything else. The marriage. The creeping dullness. The nagging feeling that I’ve spent the last fourteen years building a life I’m not entirely sure I chose on purpose.

I open my laptop and wait for it to load. I should go straight to the design files. I know I should. But the files need me to care about a fantasy landscape and a jaw that is strong but not aggressive, and right now my brain isn’t there yet. It needs a soft run-up first. The scrolling. The easing in.

I open Facebook on my phone.

I don’t know why I still use it. Nobody my age admits to using it any more – everyone’s on Instagram or TikTok or whatever Olivia’s generation has migrated to this week – but I’ve had my account since university, and it’s like an old coat I can’t throw away. I scroll past a school mum selling baby clothes, a recipe video for something involving feta and pasta that I’ll save and never make, and a post from a woman I went to college with who has just run a half marathon and wants everyone to know about it.

My thumb stops.

There’s a notification on the screen. A small red circle, tucked in the corner.

You have a new friend request.

I tap on it without reading the rest. It’s probably someone from the school, or one of those blank-profile strangers who add everyone and turn out to be selling something.

The name loads.