Page 61 of All Our Missing Pieces

What she’d actually produced looked more like the love child of a Shetland pony and a rhinoceros.

Still, for a first attempt at least, it was decent. Once she’d chucked some glittery shit over it to hide the worst of its flaws, it would definitely pass muster. Parker would be happy; Frances would be complimentary. And the cake-baking project had fulfilled its purpose: it had given her an outlet for the need she increasingly felt to express how she felt about the kids.

They’re not your children, she kept reminding herself. Don’t overstep.

But she found it hard to heed her own advice. The moment she stepped into the apartment in the mornings and heard Parker’s feet tapping on the parquet as she ran to greet her; watching Slate finish a plate of food she’d cooked; being able to give them cuddles when they cried and see their tears turn to smiles – all those moments now brought her indescribable happiness.

Just yesterday, as he was dropping off to sleep, Slate had murmured, ‘I love you, Bibi.’

‘I love you, too,’ Beatrice had said, feeling tears prick her eyes.

She wasn’t sure if that had been the right response, but surely there could have been no other? Nothing in the childcare course she’d done had covered this, and even if it had, nothing could have prepared her for it. She knew she was meant to meet the children’s physical needs, stimulate them mentally, provide appropriate discipline consistent with what their parents requested.

But love them? That was something else entirely.

Beatrice stepped back from the kitchen worktop and reached for the canister of edible glitter. The piped bits of the cake were okay, but the areas of white frosting that were meant to be smooth weren’t. Maybe unicorns had dapples. She used a teaspoon to apply careful splotches of glitter to the most uneven areas, aiming for crescent shapes but not quite achieving them.

It would have to do, she concluded after a few minutes of painstaking sprinkling. Parker would wake from her nap any moment and then it would be time to fetch Slate from pre-school, take the kids for a quick run round the park before it got dark, and give them their dinner.

Then it would be her favourite time of the day: watching them splash in the bath, emerging damp and fragrant, ready for their story and bedtime. She remembered how, just a few months before, she’d have been gritting her teeth, willing them to go the fuck to sleep so she could clock off and watch TV until Frances returned home.

Now, those moments felt precious. The children tucked up in bed, clean, fed and content. The random questions they asked: Did dinosaurs have willies? Where did the sun go at night? How long was it until Christmas?

And, just the other night, from Parker, ‘Bibi, do you have a mommy and daddy?’

‘Of course,’ Beatrice had said. ‘Everyone has a mommy and a daddy.’

‘But you’re adopted,’ Slate had pointed out, as if Beatrice might have forgotten.

‘That’s right. So I have a mommy and daddy who I lived with when I was growing up, and another mommy and daddy somewhere else.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know yet. But I’m trying to find out.’

Beatrice opened the kitchen cabinet, slid the cake on its board inside and closed the door. It was time to get Parker up.

First, she checked her phone. She’d almost forgotten to look at it while she was engrossed in the cake, and it had been on silent so as not to disturb Parker’s nap.

And there it was – a missed call from Neil.

With each passing day, her hope that he would call warred with growing certainty that he wouldn’t. Why should he? She’d been clear about not wanting to date. But his silence had left an unexpected ache.

Beatrice needed a friend. She’d thought at first that she and Livvie might become friends, but then Livvie had grown closer and closer to Orla, and that had made Beatrice push her away. And, of course, Livvie had Luke – who would want Beatrice’s friendship when they had giddy loved-upness and sex on tap?

The more she thought about Neil, the more she felt herself drawn to him. All the qualities he had that had made her think he was wrong for her – the stable family, the history stretching back generations, his steady demeanour – now seemed increasingly desirable.

She hadn’t wanted him, but him not calling had made her feel she needed him.

And now, at last, he’d called.

Hastily, her fingers fumbling on the keypad of her phone, she began to text.

Sorry I missed your call. Just about to dash off and fetch Slate from school. How’s it going?

His response came gratifyingly quickly.

Not too bad. Fancy a drink when you knock off work?