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‘So,’ he says, the word little more than a breath. ‘Did you book a haircut then?’
I shift Fred further up my shoulder and reach for my tea. ‘Bella said I should book in for next Friday, for a manicure as well. Clearly I need to up my game if she’s to be seen out with me.’
‘I think she was probably trying to be nice.’
I shrug. I am a horrible person, horrible.
‘That’s good, isn’t it? A haircut? I could work from home or take the day off so I can look after Fred. Honestly, it’ll be good for us to get out. We can’t keep dodging the neighbours forever.’
‘Matt. I said I’d think about it, and now you’re… you’re pushing me.’
He throws up his palms. ‘Sorry! Sorry. I just think if we could normalise things—’
‘Normalise things?’ The blood flies into my face.
Matt’s eyes widen. ‘Not normalise, sorry. Sorry! I didn’t mean that. I just meant… Oh my God, Ava, I didn’t mean… Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.’
I am weeping into Fred’s Babygro. Matt tries to hug me, but it’s too awkward with the baby on my shoulder, and frankly, I don’t want him to. I hate him and I hate myself and I don’t deserve to be hugged. But still we stand there, holding on to each other as best we can.
‘Ava,’ he says softly. ‘I didn’t mean…’
‘I know you didn’t. I don’t know why I’m like this.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s fine.I’msorry.’
He strokes my hair, once. Finding it to be greasy, perhaps, he runs his hand down my arm.
‘I know it’s hard,’ he says.
‘Go. Go on. You’ll be late for work.’ I want him to go. I really want him to go.
‘I hate leaving you when you’re like this. Are you going to be OK?’
Of course not. ‘I’m not having another breakdown, don’t worry.’
‘Ave,’ he pleads. ‘Don’t.’
‘Joke. It was a joke. I’ll be fine. Really. I’m allowed to be sad. Being sad is the appropriate response. I just need to be on my own now, OK? Go on – go.’
‘All right. Sorry.’ He batters a brief drum solo on the wooden door frame. I sense him receding into the hall.
‘Bye then,’ he calls out a moment later, and there is such longing in the words that my eyes prickle again. He is doing his best. We both are.
Eleven
Ava
I am changing Fred upstairs in the nursery when the doorbell goes. At half past ten, I assume it must be a delivery Matt has forgotten to tell me about, since the likelihood of a friend calling round is almost non-existent.
I pick up Fred and carry him to the top of the stairs, hoping that he doesn’t wee on me as often happens, his joyful response to fresh air.
‘Coming,’ I shout, before dashing back and quickly putting a nappy on him. With any luck, they will leave the parcel on the step.
A minute later and I can see through the frosted glass that whoever it is has not gone, but despite vaguely recognising the elegant silhouette, when I open the door it is still a shock to find Jennifer Lovegood standing on my doorstep. On a Friday.
‘Jennifer! Aren’t you at work?’
