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I raid her fridge and find it somewhat depleted but make do with a cheese sandwich and a couple of apples. I amuse myself watching American football on the television, then eventually stretch out on the sofa. I allow myself a private grin when she stalks back downstairs and flings a duvet at me.
“I want you gone in the morning.”
Naturally, I’m not gone. Well, no further than the corner shop where I paid for the nappies yesterday. This time I buy the makings of breakfast, plus a few other items such as potatoes and a couple of tins. By the time she presents herself in the kitchen I have bacon, eggs, and a pan of baked beans ready.
“I don’t do breakfast,” she informs me.
“You used to, when you were with me.”
“Imprisoned by you,” she corrects me. “Then I did as I was told because I was sure you’d kill me if I put a foot wrong. Now, I please myself.” She sits and puts Morgan to her breast. “Why are you still here?”
“I told you. Get used to it.” I try not to ogle, I truly do. But, shit…
“I need to go out soon,” she informs me. “Morgan has a doctor’s appointment.”
“Is she ill?” I can’t help the stirring of alarm. I guess this is parenthood.
“No. She needs her vaccinations. There’s a clinic…”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, you won’t!”
“Like I said, get—”
She mutters something less than complimentary and turns her back on me.
She refuses my offer of a lift to the clinic, so we walk there. I push the pram, much to Ruth’s disgust, but oddly, she doesn’t object when I accompany them into the consulting room. The nurse checks Morgan over, pronounces her to be in excellent health, and proceeds to deliver the injections.
I wince when the needle goes in.
Morgan screeches like a banshee for all of a couple of minutes but soon settles down. Apparently, she’s not mortally wounded after all, which is more than I can say for myself. Being a parent is tough going, I now realise, and I begin to wonder if I’m cut out for it after all.
Fuck that. I only have to look at the tiny, angelic features and my heart does a strange little flip. I’m in.
A few days pass, and we continue to co-exist in the cosy little semi-detached. Ruth no longer orders me out, or at least does so less often. I tend to do most of the cooking, not that I’m that good at it, but years of fending for myself mean that I can manage to open a tin or boil an egg. And Ruth’s busy with the baby.
She doesn’t complain. Well, not much.
By the third night, she relents and allows me to take over the spare back bedroom. It used to be Ruth’s, but she moved into the front one, formerly occupied by her mother. I consider this to be real cause for optimism, not least when she also agrees that the three of us could go out for the day at the weekend. We go to the zoo, then come home via MacDonald’s. Just like any other little family.
“I’m not going to sleep with you. You do know that, right?” She eyes me across the table and forks a mouthful of my half-decent spaghetti Bolognese from her plate.
I shrug. “Don’t bet on it, sweetheart.”
She growls at me and continues to eat. “Since you’re here and I seem to be stuck with you for now, how about if you make yourself useful?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Okay?”
“There’s a creative writing group at the library. I thought I might go along, but…”
“You want me to look after Morgan?”
“Would you?”
Is the Pope a Catholic?Still, I play it cool. “Maybe. When is it?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
