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‘Thank you,’ I mouth without sounds.
He scrunches his nose. ‘You’re welcome,’ he replies, equally as silently.
SEVENTEEN
CHARLOTTE
Heather’s car is parked in the drive behind Gavin’s, so I pull up against the curb and hope my cantankerous neighbour in number ten doesn’t start ranting and raving about people blocking the path in the event of a fire again.
‘Okay, sweetie,’ I say, twisting around too sharply so that the seatbelt digs into my neck. ‘Shit. Ouch.’
Molly gasps. I groan inwardly as I slacken the belt and rub my neck. I know at some point over the next day or two I’m going to hear my daughter repeat that word and when I try to correct her she’ll proudly tell me, ‘But you said it, Mammy.’
‘We’re home,’ I say, looking at Molly who has started giggling now as she no doubt commits the word to memory.
I exhale, undo my seatbelt and open the car door. I swing my legs out and stand up, realising how tired I am. I duck my head back inside, press the button on Molly’s car seat and say, ‘Okay, sweetheart, grab your bag out of the boot and let’s get inside. I’m starving, are you?’
‘So hungry,’ Molly says.
Molly is always starving when we come home from swimming. The instructor pushed hard this week and I think Molly’s little arms must have swum an extra length or two. I left lasagne defrosting onthe shelf and I hope Gavin got my note to stick it in the oven. If not, I’ll chop Molly some carrot sticks and turn on CBeebies to tide her over until dinner is ready.
Heather’s car is parked crooked and there’s no room to pass by without stepping on the grass. I swing Molly and her absurdly large swim bag into my arms and hop across the grass so at least I’m only dealing with one pair of mucky shoes.
Opening the hall door the heat hits me first, followed by a delicious smell.
‘Oh yummy. What’s that smell?’ Molly says, kicking off her shoes as I put her down.
‘Not lasagne anyway,’ I say, confused.
Molly drops her bag in the corner and races into the kitchen.
‘Daddy,’ I hear her squeal and I know she’s excited he’s home. He’s rarely home from work when we get in from swimming. It’s really lovely having him home early, but I wish it was under different circumstances and not because Kayla is sick.
I pick up Molly’s swim bag so no one trips over it going up the stairs and breaks their neck and make my way into the kitchen.God that smell is fabulous, I think as my tummy rumbles.
‘Oh, hello,’ I say, sounding as surprised as I am to find Heather and Gavin sitting at our small kitchen table eating.
Gavin is tucking Molly’s chair into the table in the space they’ve made between themselves for her.
‘Heather cooked,’ Gavin says.
‘Mmmm,’ I say, the swimming bag starting to dig into my shoulder as I stare at the scene of domestic bliss in front of me.
There’s a white lacy tablecloth on the table. It was my grandmother’s and I rarely use it because it stains easily and has to be hand-washed.The last time I used it was Christmas and Gavin’s birthday was the time before that. A bottle of red wine sits open in the centre of the table. The label is fancy, cream with a swirly font, and I’ve no doubt it was expensive and highly unlikely to be organic. Gavin will no doubt complain of a headache later like he always does because he’s allergic to sulphites. The thick-cut steak on their plates, that they’ve already started eating, looks mouth-watering and there’s a selection of veg and a tray of some sort of fancy potato thing.
‘What’s this?’ Molly says, sticking out her tongue, clearly unimpressed by the potato. I try not to laugh.
‘That’s potato gratin.’ Heather smiles. ‘But don’t worry, Molly, that’s only for the grown-ups.’
I’m about to explain that in this house we all eat the same food. There’s no definition between grown-up food and children’s food but Heather keeps talking.
‘Your daddy told me you love chicken nuggets,’ Heather says.
Molly’s face lights up. My hand tightens around the strap of Molly’s swim bag and I swear if Heather produces a McDonald’s Happy Meal from somewhere I’ll scream. I’ve told Gavin countless times I don’t want Molly eating that stuff.
Heather stands up and slips on an oven glove.
‘Heather made them herself. Especially for you,’ Gavin says.
