‘About how things have been since your father left.’
I got her as far as the reception desk, but when I gave our names to the receptionist, she asked, ‘And Zoe, your daughter. Is she with you?’ And I realised that she no longer was.
I stayed for the appointment anyway.
I was hoping for some pointers for how to deal with Zoe, but other than advising me to de-dramatise the food situation (by basically letting Zoe eat whatever she wanted) and asking whether perhaps I didn’t need to be in therapy myself, he didn’t tell me much that I didn’t already know. He suggested I get Ian to make Zoe eat as a condition of seeing him while I myself stopped mentioning it at all. He thought this kind of role reversal might be helpful. And as I was leaving, he told me that if I wanted Zoe to come and see him I’d be well advised to negotiate that with her, rather than trying to trick her into coming, which was as obvious as it was impossible.
I only spoke to Jude about Zoe’s food issues once, and it was his considered opinion that she was doing it for effect. ‘She eats at night,’ he told me. ‘You do know that, right?’
‘She eats what at night?’ I asked him.
‘Cornflakes, mostly,’ he said. ‘Bowls and bowls of the stuff.’ And the second he said this I knew it was true. We were getting through three boxes a week at that time. ‘Sometimes she puts a banana on top, too,’ he said. ‘But don’t say you know about it or she’ll stop. Honest, Mum, if you stop caring, she’ll start eating. It’s just to wind you up. It’s just, you know, Zoe being Zoe.’
So for a while, that became my new strategy. I followed my now-eleven-year-old son’s advice, which was surprisingly similar to what the shrink had suggested. I stocked up on fortified high-vitamin cornflakes and extra-protein soy milk (now with vitamin D and calcium!). I did my best not to show that I cared about, or even noticed, what Zoe ate.
And it seemed, for a bit, that this was a winning strategy. Zoe put on some weight. She even deigned to eat a jacket potato with beans from time to time, as long as she could do it alone, in her room, without anyone watching to see how much she ate.
Things with Ian got messy for a few months. He started to intimate that he might need his share of whatever the house was worth. But then suddenly they eased up again, for the saddest of reasons.
His mother, who I had always rather liked, had died unexpectedly. This meant that not only was he no longer strapped for cash, but he was far too busy clearing and selling his mother’s house to care about ours. So the pressure that had been building around my own living arrangements simply fell away. We found ourselves getting on quite reasonably, which, considering the circumstances, was a surprise.
Zoe’s mood, always somehow linked to how well I was getting on with her father, seemed to perform a brief upswing around then, too. It wasn’t going to last long, because something was going to happen that would truly upset the balance. But around then, I was feeling quite proud of myself and how I was coping with it all. And I had no idea whatsoever just how bad things were going to get.
Two
Jude
My iPhone starts warbling at six in the morning, and for the first few seconds I can’t remember why. But then it comes to me, and my first coherent thought of the day is, This is a mistake.
I throw back the quilt and all the hairs on my chest stand up on end. The room is freezing. I stand and head through to the bathroom to pee. The floor tiles are icy cold, and around me, the flat is silent. None of my flatmates ever get up before eight.
‘Stupid, stupid idea,’ I mutter, as I head through to the kitchen, pausing to peer out at the garden as I pass the hall window. But I can’t even see if that’s snow out there or just frost. The window is misty and beyond it everything’s still pitch black.
By seven, I’m at East Croydon station, my backpack wedged between my trembling legs. I’m wearing my thickest suit and my longest overcoat. I have a woolly hat and a scarf on. But all of that’s still not enough for this sub-zero January morning.
The platform opposite, the one I usually stand on for the 8.35, is already packed solid with commuters heading into London. But then a train slides into the station, hesitates for a moment, and then slides on out again, taking the entire contents of the platform with it. It crosses my mind that it looks like a magic trick. Now you see them, now you don’t.
And here it is, the 7.03 to Gatwick. I scan the windows until I see Jessica jumping up and down, gesticulating madly.
‘I’m so excited!’ she says, the second the door slides open. Then, ‘Hello!’
Jessica is always excited. It’s pretty much her default state, whereas I tend to cultivate an attitude of restrained, defiant cynicism.
‘I’m so cold!’ I say, aping her tone of voice, as I follow her through the carriage to two seats she has spotted.
‘I could hardly sleep last night,’ she says, once we’re seated.
‘It’s Bristol, Jess,’ I say. ‘It’s just Bristol.’
‘And then Cornwall!’ she says. ‘And I’ve never been to either. Can you believe it?’
‘Well, let’s hope they live up to your expectations,’ I say. ‘And I hope you have some warmer clothes with you.’ Jess is wearing an incredibly cute woollen pink coat and a pink bobble hat, but down below she’s in a polka-dot skirt, stripy bumblebee leggings and yellow Dr. Martens boots.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘And you . . . What’s with the suit? You look like you’re going to work.’
I shrug. The truth is that I like wearing a suit. It makes me feel sharper, more adult. I can’t really explain it, but I feel more myself, I suppose you could say, dressed this way than in just about anything else. Jess, like everyone else, assumes that I have to wear suits for work, and I’m happy to let them all think that’s the reason. In fact, everyone at work took the piss out of me to begin with. Most of my colleagues at AMP wear jeans and three-day-dirty polos. It’s one rare occasion where I’m totally happy to stand out.
At Gatwick, we find the car-hire place quite quickly. It’s still not 8 a.m., and there are only two people in front of us.
I fill in all the paperwork and the guy – pleasant, polite and with an accent that makes him sound like a super-cute meerkat in an insurance advert – checks his computer screen and announces enthusiastically that he has good news. ‘I have upgrade for you!’
‘What upgrade?’ I ask. My generation grew up on messages of the ‘Good news! You have been selected for a free iPhone’ variety. We’re vaccinated against good news.
‘I have no Vauxhall Corsa,’ he says, ‘so I give you Peugeot convertible. This is good, huh?’
‘A convertible?!’ Jess asks. ‘What, with the top that folds down and everything?’
‘Yes,’ the guy tells us.
‘And how much extra is this going to cost?’ I ask, waiting for the punchline.
‘None for the car,’ Mr Meerkat says. ‘Just little extra for insurance.’
‘We don’t want it,’ I say. ‘Just give us what we booked.’
‘Hang on,’ Jessica says. ‘How much extra is it?’
‘Only five pounds a day. It’s excellent deal.’