shoots would soar sky-high again. He’d herd me and everyone else into the long hours of a night that could just as easily end up in a club in Camberwell as on the beach in Brighton. You never knew with Tom. All you knew was that the week was finished, if he had his way. Finished, celebrated, drunk over, joked about, yelled at, laughed at, then discarded; ready for a new dawn on Monday.
Now I dread Saturday nights. I dread them.
I look out of my window. There is nothing about Churchill Road tonight that says it is any different from Friday night or, say, Monday night. I just know it’s different. I know that behind those curtains, couples are sitting on the sofa, shoulders and legs touching, sipping wine, watching a DVD box set; other people have already headed out for a night with friends in a city that I have always loved but no longer know.
In desperation once, when Tom had Rae one weekend, I even suggested to Suzy that we go into Soho on Saturday for a drink. But she said she couldn’t leave Jez on his own with the kids and that she wouldn’t trust a stranger to babysit them, either. So it never happened.
I walk around my flat impatiently.
Where on earth is Suzy? She was due at 9 P.M., and now it is 9:40.
I am on my second glass of wine. I sip it again, too fast.
It is Suzy’s reaction to my news that I have worried about the most this week. Because we both know that I will be leaving her alone. I never asked her to ignore the school parents who have so pointedly turned their backs on me. Yet she did it anyway. So now, because of me, there will be no one for her to roller-skate with or swim with or talk to over coffee in this lonely corner of the city during those weekdays that stretch into infinity.
The thing is, I remember how it feels.
Suzy once told me, shortly after they moved in, that Jez thought he might have made a mistake basing his communications consultancy back in London. At the time, Rae and I were at Northmore every few weeks for checkups after her second op, the big one, before she started school. The thought of knowing I might have to return from the brittle stink of hospital without Suzy’s new but already welcoming arms across the road sent me into a night of anxiety dreams that my desperately welcome new friend had already left, her house replaced by a fish-and-chip shop.
I check the clock again: 9:41 P.M. Where is she? Putting down my wine, I walk into my bedroom to look through my wardrobe in the vain hope I’ll find something to wear to work on Monday. Ruefully, I recall hacking through it one afternoon years ago, after the news came that Guy could no longer extend my endless maternity leave. Sartorial self-harm, if you like. By the time I had tearfully bundled my carefully chosen work clothes onto the bed for eBay there were just folded piles left: T-shirts, jeans, jumpers, and a padded coat. Not much good in a Soho design studio where image is everything. Great for the play park.
Mentally, I calculate how much Dad sent me for Rae’s swimming lessons. I could spend that tomorrow at Brent Cross shopping center on something to wear, then pay it back out of my first paycheck. Is that a bad thing to do?
The thought of going back to Guy’s studio on Monday sends my stomach into a roller-coaster plunge.
The intercom buzzes. Suzy. Thank goodness. I push the thought from my mind and open the door.
“Hey, hon. I can’t stay long,” she says, breezing in. “Jez just put Peter to bed without his eczema cream.”
“Oh no—call the police,” I say, following her back into the kitchen.
She pretend-punches my arm. “Shut up.”
“Glass of wine?” I say.
She nods, motioning a half glass. Moving around the kitchen, my body is tense and upright in anticipation of its difficult duty.
“So . . .” she says, checking her mobile distractedly. “What’s up?”
“Suze,” I say, handing the glass to her. “I’m really sorry—there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you
Now I dread Saturday nights. I dread them.
I look out of my window. There is nothing about Churchill Road tonight that says it is any different from Friday night or, say, Monday night. I just know it’s different. I know that behind those curtains, couples are sitting on the sofa, shoulders and legs touching, sipping wine, watching a DVD box set; other people have already headed out for a night with friends in a city that I have always loved but no longer know.
In desperation once, when Tom had Rae one weekend, I even suggested to Suzy that we go into Soho on Saturday for a drink. But she said she couldn’t leave Jez on his own with the kids and that she wouldn’t trust a stranger to babysit them, either. So it never happened.
I walk around my flat impatiently.
Where on earth is Suzy? She was due at 9 P.M., and now it is 9:40.
I am on my second glass of wine. I sip it again, too fast.
It is Suzy’s reaction to my news that I have worried about the most this week. Because we both know that I will be leaving her alone. I never asked her to ignore the school parents who have so pointedly turned their backs on me. Yet she did it anyway. So now, because of me, there will be no one for her to roller-skate with or swim with or talk to over coffee in this lonely corner of the city during those weekdays that stretch into infinity.
The thing is, I remember how it feels.
Suzy once told me, shortly after they moved in, that Jez thought he might have made a mistake basing his communications consultancy back in London. At the time, Rae and I were at Northmore every few weeks for checkups after her second op, the big one, before she started school. The thought of knowing I might have to return from the brittle stink of hospital without Suzy’s new but already welcoming arms across the road sent me into a night of anxiety dreams that my desperately welcome new friend had already left, her house replaced by a fish-and-chip shop.
I check the clock again: 9:41 P.M. Where is she? Putting down my wine, I walk into my bedroom to look through my wardrobe in the vain hope I’ll find something to wear to work on Monday. Ruefully, I recall hacking through it one afternoon years ago, after the news came that Guy could no longer extend my endless maternity leave. Sartorial self-harm, if you like. By the time I had tearfully bundled my carefully chosen work clothes onto the bed for eBay there were just folded piles left: T-shirts, jeans, jumpers, and a padded coat. Not much good in a Soho design studio where image is everything. Great for the play park.
Mentally, I calculate how much Dad sent me for Rae’s swimming lessons. I could spend that tomorrow at Brent Cross shopping center on something to wear, then pay it back out of my first paycheck. Is that a bad thing to do?
The thought of going back to Guy’s studio on Monday sends my stomach into a roller-coaster plunge.
The intercom buzzes. Suzy. Thank goodness. I push the thought from my mind and open the door.
“Hey, hon. I can’t stay long,” she says, breezing in. “Jez just put Peter to bed without his eczema cream.”
“Oh no—call the police,” I say, following her back into the kitchen.
She pretend-punches my arm. “Shut up.”
“Glass of wine?” I say.
She nods, motioning a half glass. Moving around the kitchen, my body is tense and upright in anticipation of its difficult duty.
“So . . .” she says, checking her mobile distractedly. “What’s up?”
“Suze,” I say, handing the glass to her. “I’m really sorry—there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you
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