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She hasn’t punctuated but he’ll have to lump it. And she won’t even tell him she’s had a third of a muffin. Despite her nerves being all over the place, it felt good to spend time with women who are nearer her own age and with whom she thinks she might have things in common. Aisha is around thirty, she thinks, Jenny a little younger. Neither of them has a decent job, despite being graduates. Samantha is lucky that Peter was able to swing her this teaching gig. Even if it feels too soon after Emily and is only two hours a week, it’s something from which she can build.
Yes, she is lucky, she is, only …
She speed-walks up the hill, stops for literally two seconds at the brow. She is so lucky, she thinks, taking in the green sweep of the bank that runs down to Petersham Nurseries, to the flash of winter sun that splashes like cream on the kink in the river. She is so lucky. She feels it acutely now, in almost every part of her. Almost. She runs then, down Rosebush Road, the tiniest something that has been niggling her since she left Aisha and Jenny pushing darkly at the edges of her mind. Some peace-wrecker, some latent gremlin. The private looks exchanged between them, herself on the outside of their friendship, looking in – perhaps it is only that.
But as she pushes open the gate, the gremlin steps out into the light and she sees it so clearly that she wonders why she didn’t before. When she mentioned the baby, Jenny said:Aw, little Emily. How old is she now?
Samantha has not mentioned her daughter to the class. She knows this because she decided before the course started to keep her worlds separate. In the months that Emily has been alive, everyone she has told about her, or introduced her to, has reacted with an infinitesimal delay, a kind of benign surprise, and she knows this is because she is so very young to be a mother.
But Jenny didn’t do that. There was no such moment.
And she knew Emily’s name.
Sixteen
Before Samantha gets halfway up the path, Peter opens the door.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he says. ‘I’ve been waiting to go.’
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s not yet half past three though, is it? And you don’t go till nearer four.’
‘That’s not the point, Sam.’
From inside the house, Emily cries.
‘I’m sorry.’ Without pausing to wait for a kiss that will clearly not be forthcoming, she steps into the house and heads for the living room. ‘I went for a very quick coffee with a couple of students. I sent you a text. Anyway, I’m back now.’
Emily is in her car seat in the living room, her face a raging raspberry. Samantha picks her up, shushes her. The baby’s little head is hot against her shoulder.
‘I’m off then.’ Peter is at the door, his expression still stern.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘I just wanted to chat to someone.’
No reaction. As if she hasn’t spoken.
‘I’ll be back late myself,’ he says. ‘Don’t wait for me to eat. I’m trying to fit some of my PhD consultations into the evenings to give me more time at home.’
‘Thanks.’ She is wriggling Emily’s arms out of her fleecy jacket. The poor child is boiling. ‘See you when you get home. I really am sor—’
The front door clicks shut. A moment later comes the lupine growl of his car, the vintage Porsche that so impressed her a little over a year ago now. Only after the roar has died away does she reflect on his parting shot. Whether or not he meant to be passive-aggressive, it is hard to say, which she supposes is the whole point of passive aggression. And at that last she laughs to herself.
Sod him, grumpy old bugger.
As for Emily, Samantha has no idea what time she was last fed, since Peter was too busy making a petty point to have time for a handover. What is apparent is that she has not been changed all afternoon; her nappy is as heavy as a bag of potatoes. It is as if Peter will deign to look after their baby for a short time but that he regards this as a favour he is doing for her, one for which she is expected to pay by clearing up the mess he chooses to leave her. He is so much older than her, she thinks. And yet sometimes he behaves like the child.
Too unsettled to stay indoors, despite the threat of an imminently darkening sky, once she has changed Emily, Samantha clips the car seat into the chassis of the buggy and heads out. Yes, the sky is bruising already, but the air is crisp and cool. She walks around the block, calls at the shop for some milk and a loaf of bread. On the way back, she goes to the top of the hill again and stands opposite the Roebuck pub, looking out. The river is almost in darkness now. The view reminds her of the first night she came here, when, half sick with awe, she let him drive her to his home within minutes, no, withinsecondsof their meeting. It seemed to her then to be a dream. Now it’s more like madness, a kind of fugue state. She can’t put herself there, can’t imagine herself behaving in that way anymore. She felt like a schoolgirl. It’s possible she behaved like one.
She heads back. It is really quite dark now – a thunderous blue-black. Emily will need feeding the moment they get in. She’ll need a bath, a story, a top-up feed before bed. Samantha reaches the end of Rosebush Road. On the pavement near her house, a figure loiters in the gloom, begins to walk. Something about the way his head moves side to side is familiar. He is carrying something round. The dusk makes it hard to see his features, but it looks like Sean, and as he draws nearer, she sees that yes, it is him. It is Sean, his motorcycle helmet in his hand.
‘Sean?’ she says when there is no more than half a metre between them.
His smile is uneasy. He is wearing headphones.
‘Hello, Miss.’ He raises a hand before returning his gaze to the pavement.
She dismisses the absurdity of him, possibly fifteen years her senior, calling her ‘Miss’. He has on the same anorak as earlier today, but no woolly hat, no scarf or gloves, and even in the dull light she can see that the base of his nose is pink, his eyes glistening with cold. There is something heartbreakingly vulnerable about him, and she is filled with her mother’s advice tobe kind, always.
She stops, there on the pavement, expecting him to stop too. But he doesn’t. Instead, he passes her by, shooting her a furtive glance. Perplexed, she turns, watches him head away, up the street.
