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‘Johnnie. Hello.’ I avert my eyes but feel the kick just the same – that easy scooping motion, how he will love the weight of her, how he will not even notice how much he loves that weight, how good it feels to scoop his child into his arms like that. My eyes prick; I am glad of my sunglasses, glad of Jasmine shouting hello now: hello, hello, hello. I match her radiant smile with my own ragged attempt. I focus hard on the beam of her happy expression. ‘Hello again, Jasmine.’
‘Hello again, Jasmine,’ she says, smiling. ‘Hello again, Jasmine.’
Unsure of how to relate to her, I smile back, pick up Mr Sloth and wiggle him. The impossibility of looking anywhere near Cosima makes my chest tight. A line of sweat runs down from each armpit. Johnnie is clipping her into her car seat, chatting to her. Her high child’s voice reaches me like a thousand knives.
‘Mr Sloth!’ Jasmine is striding towards me, her expression one of pure joy. ‘Mr Sloth, Mr Sloth!’ She reaches out with both hands.
‘Jasmine,’ Johnnie calls out to her. ‘That’s not yours. That’s the baby’s toy, Jasmine.’
‘Baby’s toy, Jasmine,’ she says. ‘Baby’s toy, Jasmine, baby’s toy, Jasmine. Mr Sloth.’
‘Mr Sloth is Fred’s,’ I say. ‘But you can say hello.’ I keep smiling, half wondering whether to give the toy to Jasmine, get rid of it. I can’t bear it, I realise. I can’t bear the sight of this toy.
Jasmine flaps both her hands.
‘Pockets,’ she says. She pulls out the front pocket of her baggy shorts. ‘Mr Sloth pockets.’
My hair follicles tingle. I have no idea why. A buried, uneasy feeling returns, the same feeling I had when Jasmine recognised Neil at the party. I realise why only now. Neil said he never met Jen’s kids. Or maybe that he didn’t know them. Either way, clearly this is not true.
Jasmine is gesticulating, pulling at her pocket one moment and reaching for the toy the next.
‘Mr Sloth,’ she says. ‘Mr Sloth pockets, Mr Sloth pockets.’ She flaps her hands wildly, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
‘Come on now, Jazzy,’ Johnnie says with a chuckle. ‘Into the car now, come on.’
But Jasmine is far too delighted by the toy and I, unsure of how to act, give it to her. It can’t do any harm to let her have a moment’s pleasure. It’s a Sunday; there’s no rush.
‘Ah, now what do you say?’ Johnnie says. He is so good with her, so patient. Kind. And yet…
‘Do you say, do you say, do you say.’ Jasmine stuffs the toy into her pocket, her face opening. She takes it out again, then, with an expression of such undiluted mischief it makes me laugh, puts it back in her pocket before taking it out once more and coyly giving it back. ‘Mr Sloth pockets,’ she says again, more quietly now. ‘Mr Sloth pockets, pockets.’ Her expression shifts, becomes earnest. ‘Pockets.’ She looks around, as if searching for something or someone. ‘Pockets? Pockets?’
‘Do you mean Neil?’ I ask her. ‘Is that who you mean?’
‘Pockets,’ the girl replies, smiling widely. ‘Pockets.’
‘Jasmine.’ Johnnie takes hold of her shoulders and steers her towards the car. ‘Come on now, darling – time to go. Say goodbye to Ava. Say goodbye, Ava.’ He looks at me, his head a little to one side. ‘We head to the park early to avoid the crowds, you know?’
‘Say goodbye, Ava,’ Jasmine repeats before I have time to answer. ‘Say goodbye, Ava, say goodbye, Ava.’
‘Bye, Jasmine,’ I say and place Mr Sloth back on top of the pram. ‘And thanks again for the party,’ I call after them. ‘I had a lovely time. Really lovely.’
Jennifer blows me a kiss. ‘See you in the week,’ she says. ‘Well, next weekend, I should imagine. Why don’t you come to me for coffee – maybe late Sunday morning? We can have a debrief.’
And what a debrief that will be.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Thanks, I will. Eleven-ish?’
She gives me a thumbs up before ducking into the car.
Johnnie starts the engine.
Head down, I hurry past before they pull away. I am at the end of the road before I notice the tears coursing down my cheeks, my heart hammering in my chest.
Twenty-Six
Matt
Light leaks in from between the shutters, lower, brighter, warmer than it should be – it is late, later than he has woken up in a very long time. They don’t have shutters. Yes, they do. In the spare room. Oh God. He sits up. His head bangs.
