‘They’re here,’ shouts Bobby, jumping down from the settee, scaring the cat.
‘I’ll go,’ says Peter, as though he’s doing me a huge favour by answering the door.
I hear them in the hallway – Monica’s whispering in case Annie’s asleep, but Peter’s talking normally because we’ve decided to talk at a regular volume during the day so as not to make the baby used to silence. It took Bobby three years to learn that there didn’t have to be quiet in order to sleep.
I’m not the first person Nathan looks at when he walks in the room. His eyes are on the floor until his gaze reaches the pram wheels, and only then does he look up. He almost tiptoes, which isn’t really necessary on the carpet.
‘Well aren’t you a pretty little thing?’ he says.
Monica’s in my face and I almost jump, until I realise she’s kissing my cheek.
‘I know I saw you in the hospital,’ she says, ‘but bloody well done, you.’
She hands me a Marks & Sparks carrier bag that she’s filled with magazines, Ferrero Rocher, and a mini bottle of Snowball. Is it too early to open it?
‘You don’t need to whisper, everyone,’ shouts Peter, as though there were a crowd in the room. ‘We’re doing this thing …’
I let him explain. It’s embarrassing. It’s like we’re pretending to be New Age parents when we’re probably the opposite. Does Nathan think I’m boring now – worrying about babies and what sort of noise is acceptable?
‘Did you see the match on Sunday?’ Peter says to Nathan.
‘Oh God, don’t mention it,’ says Monica. ‘He’s not stopped moaning about it all week.’
‘Bloody hand of God,’ says Nathan. ‘I’m not watching any more World Cup. I just can’t believe …’ He shakes his head.
Monica sits and pulls Nathan down towards the settee by his hand; he lands next to her. Peter goes to the kitchen, and Monica leans towards me, her hands on her knees.
‘Peter’s so good, isn’t he?’
I glance at Nathan; he’s still not looking at me.
‘He is,’ I say. ‘He’s the best.’
Monica tilts her head. They’ve left Leo at his friend’s so they can have a proper visit. She’s so nice to me, she’s been such a good friend. I suddenly have this sense of remorse and a crushing feeling of shame about the thoughts I’ve been having. She gets down onto her knees and reaches into her pocket for a rectangular tissue.
‘It’s only normal,’ she says. ‘I cried for days after I had Leo.’
I hadn’t realised I was crying.
I pat my face dry and look at Nathan above the tissue.
He narrows his eyes when he looks at me.
Was that hatred? Does he think I’m weird? I’ve always been inappropriate. I feel like I’m in the wrong life. I should be with Nathan, not Peter. He was with me first, after all.
There was a girl in my class at school who died in a car crash when she was fourteen. I’ll always remember her name: Leslie Pickering. It’s terrible that I think about her at times like this, and I don’t know why I do. I think to myself: she never has to go through this, and I wish I were her. These thoughts scare me.
‘It’s just … just …’
I think of poor Leslie Pickering’s parents. I bet they wish I were dead instead of her, too.
My face is in my hands. Why am I doing this in front of them?
Monica pats my knees and rubs them like I need warming.
‘We need to arrange a night out,’ she says.
I look up. Nathan wrinkles his nose.
‘Don’t be stupid, Monica,’ he says. ‘She’s just had a baby – why the hell would she want a night out?’
I sit up a bit straighter and stuff the tissue up my sleeve.
‘Mind your language in front of Bobby,’ says Monica. ‘What about Lytham Club Day tomorrow instead? We could let the boys go on a few rides.’
‘Actually, that doesn’t seem such a bad idea,’ I say, pretending I want to go outside – that I wouldn’t care if everyone saw me walking like I’ve a horse missing between my legs. I could take some painkillers. ‘I’ve been in the house for too long. I could do with getting out.’
I try to make eye contact with Nathan, but after a few minutes, it gets silly. I’m ridiculous. Because it’s all in my head. Why would he want me? A mother who’s just given birth to her second child, and a wife who’s supposed to be in love with her husband. I’m a joke.
Anna
Sheila, the volunteer who comes in nearly every day, is in the back room of the bookshop, filling the kettle and sighing to herself. I don’t want to be here either. I need to be investigating the address that Debbie sent the email from.
It was at the end of primary school that I started the scrapbook filled with facts about her. I thought if I kept a list, then it would keep her alive – it was something tangible. As soon as I learned something new, I would write it down. There must be over a hundred snippets of information in there. Sometimes things would slip out of Dad or Robert’s mouth and I would repeat it again and again in my head till I could find a pen and paper. Grandad never said much about Debbie, though. I never had to carry a notebook when I went to his house. Perhaps he thought he was being kind.
Grandad usually comes into the bookshop on a Sunday after the ten o’clock Mass. He sits at the counter if he can wrestle Sheila out of the way. He said he wasn’t really into religion until Gran died nearly twenty years ago. He’s been to church every Sunday since.
My grandmother was sixty-nine when she had her first, fatal heart attack. I was ten, nearly eleven. She used to talk about my mother all the time. ‘I want you to remember all the little bits,’ she said, ‘in case I’m not around for long enough.’ It was as though she’d predicted her own death. She was the one who helped me create the scrapbook. ‘Your brother’s still too hurt to hear all of this. I don’t see that changing any time soon, Lord help him,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad you want to know. Frank can’t talk about her for long … He hides in his office.’
Grandad’s office is a little wooden shed he built in their back yard.
I wonder how he is taking the news about the note from Debbie. Dad must have told him by now, yet Grandad’s not answering his telephone or replying to his emails or texts. My messages are coming up as read, so I know he’s okay. But it’s not like him to ignore anything. He loves technology – he was the person who explained the workings of the Internet to me. ‘We are all closer together because of this,’ he said. ‘Though sometimes it makes us realise we’re worlds apart.’
The new volunteer is five minutes late. How can she expect to be taken seriously if she’s not punctual? She’s meant to be embarking on a new start. That’s what my boss, Isobel, said. I might be the manager of this bookshop, but sometimes Isobel sends volunteers here because she wants to appear more Christian than she really is.
At least it takes my mind off the letter for five minutes. Or rather, letters: plural. Why are different aspects of my life falling apart at exactly the same time? Can’t things go well for more than one day?
I put Jack’s letter back in his wallet last night, but only after I had taken a photo of it on my mobile phone. To