I clasp his hand, scared of losing him to the other, angry person. ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just, your leg is still broken.’ I try for a laugh. ‘I don’t want our wedding photos to be spoiled by that big multi-coloured plaster.’
Olly looks at me for a minute, then he laughs too. ‘Is that why you said no? Just because of the wedding photos? What is it with women and photos?’
We laugh together then, and everything feels okay.
I’ve done it.
I’ve averted disaster.
Just like I used to do with Mum.
I catch a glimpse of my bare back in the mirror. ‘Could you do up these buttons?’ I ask.
Olly does.
My breasts feel tender, I realise. Sore. We’ve never been careful, Olly and I. Not really. So often caught in the heat of the moment. Suddenly I have such a strong feeling.
Oh God.
What if I’m pregnant?
I was supposed to meet Kaitlyn for tea this afternoon, but I cancelled.
‘I visited Elizabeth this morning,’ I told her, with a gay little laugh. ‘And my daughter needs to make a good impression with the other mothers. She’s in desperate need of home-wares. I’m staying in town to do a bit of shopping. Can we reschedule?’
Sometimes, I despair of Elizabeth.
Tatty old furniture, mismatched curtains and nothing on the mantelpiece. Tom’s started at an outstanding school and she’s a single mother. What will the other parents think?
‘Don’t wear yourself out,’ said Kaitlyn. ‘Your daughter needs to stand on her own two feet.’
Kaitlyn is one of the few friends who understands just how unlucky I’ve been with Elizabeth. Other mothers have children who take them to lunch. Elizabeth doesn’t think about me at all.
I’m at Fenwick department store on the High Street. It was recommended by a well-dressed woman in town, and she was right – there are lots of lovely things here.
I take a net basket from a young assistant and click around the homeware department, imagining how much better I’ll feel when Elizabeth has some lovely ornaments on display.
Most likely, I’ll get no thanks for it. All Elizabeth ever does is criticise.
‘I was in your shadow,’ she says. ‘You made me feel invisible.’
Perhaps now she realises how difficult it is being a parent.
Elizabeth never excelled at school. Didn’t try hard enough. In truth, she never applied herself. Tom was top of his class in London, so maybe my grandson will be the one to make me proud.
As I’m examining a china cat with a lace collar, a smiling grey-haired assistant approaches. She has dreadful makeup. Eyebrows far too heavy.
‘Oh, that’s one of my favourites,’ she says. ‘It looks just like my cat, Sherbet.’
I slide the cat back on the shelf.
‘Shopping for something in particular?’ the assistant asks.
I notice her neck, loose with wrinkles.
‘Things for my daughter,’ I say, with a grand smile. ‘She’s just moved into a new home.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ says the assistant. ‘Is she married or single?’
I pull my smile tight. ‘Married,’ I say. ‘Her husband is a champion snowboarder. And she has a little boy. Tom. My grandson. He’s a bonny little lad – very well-behaved. A model pupil at school.’
‘Not like my grandson then,’ laughs the assistant. ‘He’s a terror, but we love him all the same.’
I smile kindly. ‘Maybe it’s the school that’s the problem. My grandson goes to Steelfield School. They’re really on top of discipline there. The headmaster is very ambitious.’
The assistant shudders. ‘I’ve heard about that place. Kids quiet as mice. Teachers so perfect they’re like robots.’ She glances at me then. ‘Sorry to speak out of turn, it’s just what I’ve heard.’
‘Oh, I think you can tell a lot from the inspectors' reports,’ I counter. ‘The official people who assess the schools know what they’re talking about.’
‘I always think the most important thing is that the kids are happy.’
I wander towards a colourful collection of cookware, but it’s far too bright. I’ll never understand this modern trend for childish, primary colours. What happened to elegant florals?
The assistant is tailing me. ‘How old is your grandson?’ she asks.
I catch a glimpse of myself in a hanging frying pan. I look a good fifteen years younger than this assistant, although I’d guess we’re around the same age.
‘Eleven,’ I say. ‘He’s very bright. The teachers think he’ll pass the grammar school exam.’
‘Oh, that’ll be good,’ says the assistant, not really understanding.
‘My daughter Elizabeth went to grammar school,’ I say. ‘She passed her exams and studied at Cambridge University. She’s a qualified doctor now.’
‘Well done her,’ says the assistant. ‘Does she work part-time? Now she has her little boy?’
‘Oh, she doesn’t work,’ I say. ‘Her husband takes care of everything. She doesn’t have to lift a finger. She even has a cleaner.’
‘Wish I had one of those,’ says the assistant, winking. ‘In my house, I’m the cleaner.’
‘Elizabeth is a wonderful daughter,’ I say. ‘We’re best friends. She’s always inviting me over. Or taking me to lunch.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ says the assistant, with a kind smile.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s perfect.’
We’re early for school today. I’m so determined to be a terrific, organised single parent that I’ve excelled myself.
Tom’s only been here a few weeks. We’re still the new family. Still need to prove ourselves.
Mr Cockrun stands outside the gates when we arrive, scrubbing at some graffiti on the school sign. His rubbery cheeks are red with the effort, hand moving frantically.
I make out some faded spray-paint letters written after Mr Cockrun’s name: CH and then what looks like a faded E and A and another letter so faint as to be nothing but paint speckles.
As Mr Cockrun scrubs the sign clean he notices three approaching schoolgirls. ‘Blazers on properly, please, girls,’ he says. ‘And let’s get the ties nice and straight. If you’re neat and tidy the school is neat and tidy.’
He sounds friendly enough, but the effect on the girls is profound. They hurriedly pluck and pull at their clothing, eyes swishing nervously to the headmaster.
Mr Cockrun nods encouragingly. ‘Let everyone know how proud we are to be Steelfield pupils.’ Then he heads into the school.
I smile at one of the girls. She has red hair, frightened blue eyes and gaps in her teeth. I think she must be ten or eleven.
‘He likes you to look presentable,’