Page 78 of All Our Missing Pieces

She rolled over. Frances was standing over her, looking down, an expression on her face that Beatrice was completely unable to read.

‘Oh, hi, Frances.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘You’re back early. We were playing cowboys. It’s too wet out there for the park so I thought they’d better let off some steam before they have their dinner.’

‘So I see.’ There was a hit of acid in her employer’s tone that Beatrice couldn’t remember hearing before. She squatted down and pulled both her children to her in a brief embrace, then got up again and headed for her bedroom. ‘I’ll let you get on with it, then.’

Beatrice was puzzled. In the past, on the rare occasions when Frances had returned early from work, she’d taken over the kids’ bedtime routine, allowing Beatrice to have the rest of the evening off. Clearly that wasn’t going to be the case today. And there’d been a hint of – what? Resentment? Disapproval?

Surely Frances couldn’t object to a bit of rough-and-tumble play? It wasn’t like Slate could have been hurt – earlier, when he’d fallen off Beatrice’s back on to the thick shagpile rug, he’d jumped up right away and demanded to go again.

Oh, well – doubtless if Frances was going to chew her out over something, she’d do so once the children were asleep.

‘Come on then, you two,’ she said. ‘Chicken stir-fry for dinner.’

‘But you said we could have burgers and chips,’ Slate objected. ‘You said that’s what cowboys eat.’

‘Burgers and chips!’ his sister echoed, her lower lip sticking out ominously.

Damn it. Her attempt to sub out the original menu with something more likely to win Frances’s approval had been foiled. She hesitated. What was worse – being caught out giving the kids junk food or Parker throwing an epic tantrum on her watch and both of them most likely refusing to eat anything at all? Besides, she’d made a promise and she didn’t want to break it.

‘I forgot. Burgers and chips it is. But you’ll have shredded lettuce on them.’

She fed the children, tidied away their toys while they ate, ran their bath and stacked the dishwasher, then went to sit with them while they splashed happily in the water. Through the closed door of the master bedroom, she could hear Frances on the phone, long snatches of her talking interspersed with longer pauses. But over the kids’ laughter and chatter, she couldn’t make out any of the words.

While Slate put on his pyjamas, she wrapped Parker in a towel and recited ‘This Little Piggy’, relishing the drowsy warmth of the little girl’s body and the pink perfection of her toes. She ushered them both to bed and read Llama Llama Red Pajama until Parker fell asleep, then read Funnybones to Slate, who’d been obsessed with it since Halloween.

‘Bibi?’ he asked sleepily, once she’d closed the book. ‘Can I be a cowboy when I grow up?’

‘Maybe you can.’ Are cowboys still a thing? Beatrice wasn’t sure. ‘If you work hard at school, you can be whatever you want.’

‘I want to ride wild horses.’

‘Maybe you should start off on tame ones. Even those are much bigger than pretend horses.’

‘Will you take me to ride a horse?’

Beatrice didn’t know if there were horses in London. But she could find out – she’d google it, or ask Neil. Neil would know. An idea struck her – she could find a place with ponies and take the kids as a special treat, maybe just before Christmas. She’d have to clear it with Frances first, but she saw no reason why she would object.

Excitement filled her – the thrill of being able to make a small boy’s dream come true, even just for a day, with a bit of simple organisation.

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘We’ll see. Now it’s time for you to go to sleep.’

‘Night night, Bibi.’ Slate snuggled down into the pillow.

Beatrice pulled the duvet up under his chin and kissed his cheek, noticing how it was losing its pre-schooler plumpness. He was transforming right before her eyes – he was already halfway to his fifth birthday and then he’d be starting school.

‘Sleep tight, Slatey.’

Turning away to dim the light, she saw Frances standing in the doorway. She had no idea how long she’d been there.

‘That looks like a wrap,’ Frances said. ‘Would you like to join me for a glass of wine?’

‘I… Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.’

Frances led the way into the living area, quiet without the children and tidy as Beatrice had left it. She took a bottle of Sancerre from the fridge and poured two glasses, then gestured towards the stools at the kitchen island before perching on one, her long legs in their opaque black tights elegantly crossed.

Beatrice joined her, feeling scruffy and homely by comparison, conscious of how much she’d sweated playing horses in the warm apartment.

‘Cheers.’ Frances raised her glass and clinked it against Beatrice’s.