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Thankfully, Fred is an easy baby, easier than Abi was. Sometimes I think he was sent to heal us, that some higher force knew we would need him. And he sleeps, hallelujah! It’s as if he knows that he has to tread carefully over the eggshells his parents have become.
New life brings new hope, Matt says. But it is hope that will kill me in the end.
From the pram, Fred coos softly, as if to call me back to him.
‘Hey.’ Matt is on the stairs. He has on his kit, ready to cycle to work, and is staring into his phone, thumbing a text. ‘You were miles away.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘You OK?’
‘Yes, you?’
‘Just texting Neil,’ he says. ‘Might go for a run with him later if he’s up for it.’
‘Good idea.’
This is what passes for a conversation between Matt and me these days – careful exchanges in the Abi-less rooms of our home. He and Neil are training for a triathlon – childhood friends trying to stay close in the aftermath of unspeakable disaster. Not that Matt has said this; that now their friendship requires a concerted effort where once it was as natural as family.
‘What’s that?’ Matt says.
I follow his gaze to a thick cream parchment envelope on the welcome mat. No stamp.
Mr and Mrs Atkins, it says, in an elegant purple hand.
Matt is at my shoulder by the time I’ve picked it up. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know yet. I haven’t got X-ray vision.’ I’m harsh with him. I don’t mean to be, didn’t used to be. I tear open the envelope.
‘An invitation?’ Matt asks.
‘Looks like it.’
Dear Neighbour,
Join us Saturday, 31 August for a housewarming party at 90 Riverside Drive.
There will be food, drink and, hopefully, merriment. From 8 p.m. (No kids, sorry!)
RSVP
Best regards,
Johnnie, Jennifer, Jasmine and Cosima Lovegood
Under the typeface, Jennifer has written in the same flowing script as the envelope,Hope you can make it, love, Jen.
‘Next door,’ Matt states the obvious.
The paper crunches in my grip.
‘A week on Saturday. We’ll be able to have a nosy at their new kitch— What’re you doing? Hey, don’t screw it up!’
‘What? You’re not actually going to go?’
‘Ava.’ Gently he takes the ends of my fingers, prises them open and lifts the crumpled ball out of my hand. His soft brown eyes are on mine as they were that morning.It’s no one’s fault, Ava. People leave front doors open all the time.‘Come on. It might be nice. A nice thing to do.’
‘You can’t be serious?’
