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Small steps.
And small steps are what she takes. In a kind of post-traumatic fog. Life by minutes, hours, days. Texts not calls. No live interface, apart from Peter. Smiling survival. Quiet subterfuge. Days pass. Until one afternoon, something clears. Something coalesces from that thick fog. Samantha stops at a gift shop and buys a card and a book of stamps. Takes Emily out for a stroll down to the riverside and stops at the café under the arches. March, the sun is out and with her coat, scarf and woolly hat on, it is warm enough to sit outside and watch the water. Lulled by the movement of the pram, Emily is fast asleep. Samantha sips her hot chocolate, takes out the card and opens it.
Dear Lottie, she writes. Stops. This is harder than she thought it would be. But Lottie wasn’t trying for elegant prose; she was simply trying to tell her story. The best thing here is to be honest.
Thank you for your letter. It meant a lot to me that you took the time to explain your circumstances and it has helped me to move on and to feel safe with regard to my baby, Emily. I accept your apology, I do forgive you and I am reassured that you won’t try to hurt us again in any way.
I am so terribly sorry that you went through what you did when you were so young. I understand how easy it is to fall for the charms of someone older, who appears to know and understand the world and who is more accomplished than one’s immediate peers.
She reads this back. She sounds pompous. She crosses outone’s immediate peersand putsboys your own age.
‘Yep,’ she says to herself and takes another sip of hot chocolate.
I am so sorry that you didn’t get to see your daughter grow up. That must be a terrible source of sadness for you. And of course, words cannot convey how sorry I am that you are not able to have children as a result of a termination that you never wanted to have. I can only imagine how painful that is, and I think that the fact you wish me well now means that you really are a very special person. It takes a big heart to be so generous when you have suffered so much yourself. Thank you.
I wish you nothing but happiness and peace going forward. I hope you can forget about Peter now, get back to your job and move on properly, as you deserve to. Keep writing, if you can. It is a worthwhile form of self-expression and I certainly find that it can be good therapy in difficult times.
Take good care of yourself, Lottie.
I really do wish you well.
Samantha
xx
Thirty-Two
The following Wednesday, Peter texts Samantha at five to remind her that he has a meeting. They will probably head on to the pub. He will be late home. Don’t wait up.
She replies that all is fine. Everything is under control. She’ll see him later. In her belly burns a rebellious little fire. It is not unpleasant.
At six she takes an Uber to Jenny and Aisha’s flat on the far side of Richmond. To be honest, the thought of leaving Emily with Jenny makes her chest hurt, but she knows she has to move on and that moving on means learning to trust and to live without fear.
Jenny and Aisha’s flat is supremely tidy and clean, modern white gloss kitchen units, the floors a wood-effect linoleum that is warm underfoot. But, my God, it is small.
Aisha gives her the tour.
‘This is the bedroom,’ she says with a mock-curtsey, and Samantha’s mouth drops into an O.
‘We’re not a couple,’ Jenny shouts from the open-plan living space. She has already unclipped Emily and has her comfortably on one hip. She walks up the little hallway, grinning. ‘We take turns having the couch on a six-month basis. Clean but compromised rather than spacious but scuzzy. London for you.’
They are both a few years older than her, yet this is all they can afford. They don’t even have a bedroom each.
‘If one of us gets lucky, we have a warning system in place, in case you’re wondering. There’s a bit of eye-shielding and ear-muffling but it suits us fine.’
‘You wish,’ Aisha says, laughing. ‘You mean there would be if either of us pulled more than a muscle.’ She smiles at Samantha. ‘Come on, we should go.’
Samantha realises that Aisha has not gone near Emily. Wonders if she ever has or will. Too painful, most probably. Bloody hell.
They arrive at the Curzon a little early. Aisha won’t take any money for the ticket so Samantha insists on buying them both a drink from the cute little popcorn stand. It will appear on her bank statement; Peter will see. So what? She buys two glasses of Cabernet Shiraz, quipping that Aisha shouldn’t worry – she won’t spike it. She is becoming like them, she thinks, beginning to treat the whole thing as some hideous joke, albeit one she is still stuck in. She buys a packet of roasted peanuts, which they eat at one of the little booth seats in the foyer.
‘It’s lovely here,’ she says.
‘I can’t believe you’ve not been. It’s an independent. And you can take your wine in, which is très civilised.’
‘How come you had a spare ticket?’
‘Um, oh.’ Aisha stares down at the tickets, as if confused. ‘I was supposed to be coming with Sally. You know Sally, don’t you? Professor Bailey?’
