Richard reaches down to pick up the suitcase. ‘I want to get this all unpacked tonight.’ Then he opens our front door and steps into the suburban street, and out of my life.
* * *
I put Charlie’s fish fingers and chips in front of him and his eyes light up.
‘My favourite,’ he says happily, as he starts cutting his food up. My heart tugs. At four years old, he’s so easily pleased.
I sit down beside him and tuck into mine. The fish is flavourless and I smother it in ketchup and then watch my son do the same. He’s the spit of Richard with his dark curly hair and long eyelashes. He’s only four, but he looks older, his long legs dangling under the table.
‘Dad says I shouldn’t have lots of ketchup,’ he says as he squeezes the bottle.
‘Well, Dad’s not here.’
Charlie looks up at me, and for a moment I think he’s going to ask where his father is. My stomach swirls in anticipation, but instead he squeezes the bottle once more and the fish fingers nearly disappear under a sea of sauce.
The house is silent, and I can hear the sound of the streets outside through our double glazing. The traffic rumbles down the main road a few streets away and high-pitched laughter rises and then falls as a group of schoolchildren pass by the house, most likely on their way to the park. I’ve always felt secure here, comforted by the constant noise of the London suburb, knowing that there is always someone around.
Charlie wolfs down his food as I push mine around the plate. How am I going to tell him his father’s left us, that he lives somewhere else now? How can I say it in a way that will cause the least amount of damage? I remember when my own parents divorced, how convinced I’d been that it was my fault. I don’t want him to feel the same way.
‘How was school?’ I ask, trying to keep things normal. I usually ask him on the way home, but I’ve been so distracted by the tension between me and Richard that I forgot today.
‘It was OK.’
‘Just OK?’ His eyes are downcast. I reach across the table and touch his arm. He moves it away. A part of me wishes I hadn’t said anything, that I could have just enjoyed his simple pleasure at being given fish fingers.
He’s silent now, and I can see him swinging his legs back and forth under the table. I wonder if he’s anxious because Richard isn’t here, or if something happened at school. He had some trouble with a few of the other kids at the beginning of term, but I thought that had been sorted out.
I look at my watch. Forty-five minutes until my new clients arrive. I need to hurry up.
I rush through Charlie’s bath, all the time wishing Richard was here to help. Even though there’s not much time, I let Charlie play with his green boat and squirt me with his toy octopus. As I rub soap over my son’s little body, I realise that this is the first day of the rest of my life. My evenings are going to be like this every day from now on. I won’t have anyone to help. I won’t get a break. And once Charlie’s gone to bed, I’ll face the evening alone, with just the television for company. I wrap my son in his towel and hold him tightly, breathing in his scent and the fragrant smell of his bath wash.
‘I love you,’ I say.
‘I love you too, Mummy.’ I wipe a tear on the back of his towel before he sees.
In his bedroom, I read him his favourite story about a dinosaur who’s afraid of the dark and then kiss him goodnight. He wraps his little arms around my neck and kisses me on the cheek.
‘Don’t be sad, Mummy,’ he says. ‘Things will be better in the morning.’
He’s repeating the words I said to him over and over again when he was crying because he wasn’t fitting in at school. I thought I’d managed to keep my sadness hidden, but my kind little boy can sense it. I see the tiny frown on his brow, the perceptive eyes. And I can’t stand the fact that my four-year-old feels the need to comfort me, when I’m the one who should be keeping him safe.
‘I’m not sad,’ I insist as I kiss him once more. Then I quickly turn off the light and escape to the landing, where I allow my tears to fall.
It’s ten minutes before I manage to stop crying and go to the room at the front of the house where I conduct my counselling. I need to calm down before my clients arrive. Danielle and Peter. A couple visiting me for marriage counselling. If I didn’t feel so full of despair, I’d laugh at the irony.
Instead I go through my usual routine to centre myself before they arrive. I light the candle on the coffee table and close my eyes. The calming scent of lavender fills the room, cleansing the air. I need to empty my head. I’m full of anger at Richard, that he could leave me like this, leave our son. How can I provide marriage counselling when my own relationship has just imploded? But it’s too late to cancel.
I think of my little boy alone in his room. He didn’t seem himself tonight, and I know he’s worried about me. What if he wakes up and needs me? Richard would normally be at home to check on him. But if it’s just me in the house, then who will go to him if he calls out? I’ll have to leave the door ajar.
A wave of nerves threatens to overwhelm me, all my anxieties bubbling up inside me. I think of the couple coming to see me. I always feel nervous when I meet new clients. Before I open the door to them, I have no idea who they are. They could be anyone.
I open my notebook to the page where I’d jotted down some thoughts after my phone call with Danielle. Danielle Brown. Her husband’s called Peter Brown. I pick up my phone and type their names into Google. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. There’s a huge list of Peter Browns on Facebook. The same for Danielle. I add London to the search term, but the list doesn’t shorten much. It’s pages long. I’m scrolling through the Peter Browns when the doorbell rings, making me jump.
After peeking into Charlie’s room to check he’s asleep, I rush down the stairs before the bell rings again.
‘Hello,’ I say, forcing a smile as I open the door. I wrap my arms around me against the cold blast of air that comes in from outside. ‘You must be…’ I hear my voice falter, as I stare at Danielle in surprise.
Two
Danielle
Beth does a double take as she opens the door, her mouth parting in surprise and her eyes widening. My pulse quickens and I step backwards, wondering if I should just turn round and leave, forget all about counselling, forget about trying to fix myself. But then I see her gaze resting on my cheek and I realise that she’s just doing what everyone does now when they meet me for the first time. Noticing the angry scars that riddle my face and then pretending they haven’t noticed at all.
I take a deep breath, hold out my hand and introduce myself. ‘I’m Danielle,’ I say with a practised confidence I don’t feel. I’ve spent all day plucking up the courage to come here, to Beth’s home, and start taking steps to address my past.
‘Beth,’ she says with a friendly smile, taking my hand and shaking it firmly. ‘Come on in.’ Her skirt swishes behind her as I follow her into her home. She can’t be much over forty, but it feels as if she’s older, with her sky-blue blouse and floral skirt. I’ve come straight from work, so I’m dressed more formally. Under my smart coat, I’m wearing a pencil skirt and a crisp white shirt, but I’ve left my suit jacket in the office, exchanging it for a grey cashmere cardigan before I left. Beth’s brown curly hair has a natural bounce to it, unlike my straight bobbed hair, which sits flat against my head, no matter how long I spend styling it.