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‘Wouldn’t mind,’ he admits. ‘What about you?’
‘Is that an invitation?’
The second the words are out of my mouth, I flush to the roots of my hair, absolutely mortified. I lost theright to say things like that to my husband when he married another woman.
But he laughs, a genuine gust of amusement, and in that single exchange the lingering politesse of strangers, which has starched our relationship for the last four years, is dispelled.
‘Don’t worry, your virtue is safe.’ I grin. ‘I’ll go in the shower after you. Toss your wet clothes outside the bathroom door and I’ll put them in the dryer. And don’t use all the hot water.’
A few minutes later, Andrew dumps his sodden jeans and shirt on the landing. I pick them up and go downstairs, cracking the door to the sitting room. The three kids are curled up on the sofa together in front of the TV. None of them even look up. I leave them to it, pausing in the hallway for a moment to listen to the sound of the shower upstairs. I know this isn’t real. A nostalgic flying visit to the past for both of us, that’s all. But right now, my husband is upstairs, my children are next door, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, my world feels in balance.
I open the door of the tumble dryer in the kitchen, and automatically start checking pockets before throwing everything in. I stop abruptly when I find Andrew’s phone in his jeans. There are no missed calls yet, but we’ve been gone for nearly two hours; it won’t be long before Caz calls Andrew to heel.
I switch the phone to silent and slide it beneath a pile of tea towels. I just want to keep him here a little longer, to be a family again, if only for a few hours. It’sgood for Bella and Tolly to spend some time with their father, without her around.
After pulling out a homemade shepherd’s pie from the freezer – Andrew’s favourite – I put it in the microwave to defrost. A few minutes later, I hear laughter next door: the sound of Tolly shrieking as he’s tickled, Andrew’s low, lazy laugh, and the rare joy of Bella giggling. I haven’t heard her laugh like that in two years or more.
A little later, Andrew strolls barefoot into the kitchen, trailing flushed, pink-cheeked children like the Pied Piper. ‘Hey, Lou. Taylor here says she’s thinking about becoming a journalist,’ he says, nodding towards the teenager. ‘Thought you might be able to give her some pointers.’
‘Sure,’ I say, glancing up as I set the kitchen table for five. ‘Are you interested in newspapers or magazines, Taylor?’
The girl awkwardly twists a large silver ring on her finger. ‘No offence, Mrs Page, but I’m kind of more interested in TV.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ I sigh. ‘Newspapers are an endangered species. If there’s any future in journalism, it’s going to be online. But Andrew’s the one you want to talk to if it’s TV you’re thinking about.’
‘Dad, why don’t you show her round INN?’ Bella suggests. ‘She could come up and stay with us in London, and you could take her into the office to meet everyone.’
‘Oh, my God, that’d be super-cool!’ Taylor exclaims.
‘The summer holidays start soon, don’t they?’ Andrewasks, locating a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge and rooting around in a kitchen drawer for the corkscrew. ‘Why don’t you come up and spend the whole day at the studio, Taylor? See the programme put together from soup to nuts?’
‘Seriously?’
‘Might even be able to get someone on the newsdesk to take you out on a story, if it’s a slow news day.’
‘That would be, like,soawesome!’
I serve dinner for the five of us at the kitchen table. The kids are drawn to Andrew like iron filings to a magnet. Tolly chatters nonstop, while Bella cleans her plate for the first time in months. In his favourite old pullover and worn jeans, Andrew looks younger and more relaxed than I’ve seen him in years.
‘God, that was good,’ he says, pushing back his chair and hauling Tolly onto his lap. ‘No one makes shepherd’s pie like you.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile.
‘I suppose I really should call Caz. It’s after ten. She’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘I suppose you should,’ I agree.
A beat falls.
‘She might be asleep,’ he adds. ‘She hasn’t called, so she’s obviously not worried. Although I’m not sure where I put my phone …’
‘There’s some rhubarb crumble in the fridge,’ I say.
He groans. ‘You’re killing me. How can I say no to your rhubarb crumble?’
I get up from the table and open the fridge, just as athunderous rumble starts. For a moment, I think it’s the storm outside.
‘The ceiling!’ Andrew shouts suddenly.
