couple of years? If it isn’t working, I promise we’ll come home.’
‘We won’t have our home! This is my home.’
‘Doll, please. I’m actually begging you. The thing is . . .’
‘Yeah. I know, I know. We’ve got money troubles, gotta sell the house and live in a cardboard box. You want a better life for us children, and Kit needs to indulge his midlife crisis.’
I looked down at my hands. I didn’t want her to despise Kit, but surely she had a right to know more. ‘Remember that last trip to London? Well . . . I had to fetch him from the police station that night.’
‘ What? ’
‘He was in a cell. He was . . . well, they’d scraped him off the High Street. They said they’d charge him next time. It was awful. I’ve been really worried about him, Sacha. I know you have too. You said as much in that essay.’
She chewed her lip, thinking about it.
‘We’ve made a deal,’ I said. ‘He is not to binge ever again. We’re going to give it two years—he feels that’s a fair crack of the whip, and without a mortgage we can scrape by on my income. Then, if the painting isn’t going anywhere, or if we hate it out there, we’ll think again.’
‘So you slave away while he’s a kept man? Marvellous.’
‘That’s really unfair. This house was bought with Kit’s money, much of it made before I ever met him. For the past nine years we’ve been bankrolled by his income. He’s been a father to you in every way, school fees and all, never quibbled. Maybe it’s my turn to be the main breadwinner. Marriage is a partnership: you take, and you give.’
She was silent, blinking tearfully up at her mermaids.
‘I’ve had enough,’ I whispered. ‘I want my man back. You and I both know he’s worth this risk. A filthy old lag in a police cell, laughed at by a bunch of coppers—that isn’t our Kit, is it? Our Kit’s beautiful. He’s got an artistic temperament, okay, but he’s brilliant and kind and fun. He’s . . . well, he’s Kit. I love him, and I want him back.’
‘Me, too.’ She dropped her forehead onto the desk. ‘Okay. I’ll come quietly, but I hope you know what you’re doing, because I’ve never been so scared in my whole life.’
I hope you know what you’re doing, too , needled Mum. But I doubt it.
I was on my way out of the room when Sacha held up the photo album. ‘This is just about finished.’
‘Well done.’
‘I’ve left a blank page at the end. I’m saving that for photos of someone, but I’ve still got to take them. Someone special.’
Caught off-guard, I waltzed straight into the trap. ‘A special someone! Who’s that, then?’
‘My dad. My actual, factual, biological father. Because sooner or later I’m going to find out who he is.’
Mum laughed. Bitch.
Late in July we said a sad farewell to our home, closed the front door for the last time, and went to stay at Dad’s.
Muffin came too. We spent those last few days stroking the old dog’s gentle face and wondering if we’d ever see her again. Muffin had been a fixture since Sacha was four, when I stopped our car for a quivering fluff ball abandoned beside the A5. One floppy ear was dark grey, the other white. The little creature immediately clambered onto the back seat, whining and licking bleeding paws. Girl and dog grew up together.
On our final morning our friend was anxious, troubled, shambling round and round Dad’s kitchen table. She leaned her head against each of our knees in turn, graphite tail miserably sweeping the floor.
‘Don’t worry, Muffin. You’re coming soon,’ said Charlie, kneeling with his arms around her neck. The other children joined him, showering her with kisses. Kit and I exchanged glances. Muffin was twelve years old and shaggy as a polar bear; her eyesight was dodgy, her joints arthritic. Secretly, we thought it might be best if she ended her days peacefully with Dad.
Suddenly, time ran out. Kit looked at his watch, then at me. I stared around the
‘We won’t have our home! This is my home.’
‘Doll, please. I’m actually begging you. The thing is . . .’
‘Yeah. I know, I know. We’ve got money troubles, gotta sell the house and live in a cardboard box. You want a better life for us children, and Kit needs to indulge his midlife crisis.’
I looked down at my hands. I didn’t want her to despise Kit, but surely she had a right to know more. ‘Remember that last trip to London? Well . . . I had to fetch him from the police station that night.’
‘ What? ’
‘He was in a cell. He was . . . well, they’d scraped him off the High Street. They said they’d charge him next time. It was awful. I’ve been really worried about him, Sacha. I know you have too. You said as much in that essay.’
She chewed her lip, thinking about it.
‘We’ve made a deal,’ I said. ‘He is not to binge ever again. We’re going to give it two years—he feels that’s a fair crack of the whip, and without a mortgage we can scrape by on my income. Then, if the painting isn’t going anywhere, or if we hate it out there, we’ll think again.’
‘So you slave away while he’s a kept man? Marvellous.’
‘That’s really unfair. This house was bought with Kit’s money, much of it made before I ever met him. For the past nine years we’ve been bankrolled by his income. He’s been a father to you in every way, school fees and all, never quibbled. Maybe it’s my turn to be the main breadwinner. Marriage is a partnership: you take, and you give.’
She was silent, blinking tearfully up at her mermaids.
‘I’ve had enough,’ I whispered. ‘I want my man back. You and I both know he’s worth this risk. A filthy old lag in a police cell, laughed at by a bunch of coppers—that isn’t our Kit, is it? Our Kit’s beautiful. He’s got an artistic temperament, okay, but he’s brilliant and kind and fun. He’s . . . well, he’s Kit. I love him, and I want him back.’
‘Me, too.’ She dropped her forehead onto the desk. ‘Okay. I’ll come quietly, but I hope you know what you’re doing, because I’ve never been so scared in my whole life.’
I hope you know what you’re doing, too , needled Mum. But I doubt it.
I was on my way out of the room when Sacha held up the photo album. ‘This is just about finished.’
‘Well done.’
‘I’ve left a blank page at the end. I’m saving that for photos of someone, but I’ve still got to take them. Someone special.’
Caught off-guard, I waltzed straight into the trap. ‘A special someone! Who’s that, then?’
‘My dad. My actual, factual, biological father. Because sooner or later I’m going to find out who he is.’
Mum laughed. Bitch.
Late in July we said a sad farewell to our home, closed the front door for the last time, and went to stay at Dad’s.
Muffin came too. We spent those last few days stroking the old dog’s gentle face and wondering if we’d ever see her again. Muffin had been a fixture since Sacha was four, when I stopped our car for a quivering fluff ball abandoned beside the A5. One floppy ear was dark grey, the other white. The little creature immediately clambered onto the back seat, whining and licking bleeding paws. Girl and dog grew up together.
On our final morning our friend was anxious, troubled, shambling round and round Dad’s kitchen table. She leaned her head against each of our knees in turn, graphite tail miserably sweeping the floor.
‘Don’t worry, Muffin. You’re coming soon,’ said Charlie, kneeling with his arms around her neck. The other children joined him, showering her with kisses. Kit and I exchanged glances. Muffin was twelve years old and shaggy as a polar bear; her eyesight was dodgy, her joints arthritic. Secretly, we thought it might be best if she ended her days peacefully with Dad.
Suddenly, time ran out. Kit looked at his watch, then at me. I stared around the
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