‘Charlie, just cooperate, please. We’re going to be late.’
‘I don’t want to go to school.’ I wonder if the other boys are giving him a hard time again. A good mother would sit him down and get to the bottom of why he didn’t want to go to school. But I don’t have time. I refuse to watch the school receptionist raise her eyebrows at me when I sign him in late for the second time this week.
‘We’re going to school,’ I say forcefully, ‘whether you like it or not.’ I grab the shoe and put it on him as he cries, then put the other one on.
‘I’m a big boy. I can do my shoes myself,’ he mumbles through tears.
‘I know you can.’ I stroke his curly hair, wondering when my little baby got so old. It feels like only yesterday I was taking him home from the hospital.
I put his coat over his shoulders, encourage his arms through the sleeves, slide my feet into my slip-on shoes and open the front door, grab his hand and pull him outside. The drizzling rain blows into our faces as we hurry down the street, me two paces ahead, geeing him along. I arrive at the school red-faced and breathless, the only mother without a coat on herself, just in time for the bell. Charlie lets go of my hand and runs towards his friends at the entrance.
I breathe a sigh of relief, and watch as he chats happily to the other children. I don’t know what the tantrum was about this morning, but he seems fine now he’s at school. Maybe Richard leaving is affecting him more than I thought. I nod to the gaggle of mothers chatting by the gate and then hurry away again, embarrassed by my unbrushed hair.
Back in the warm house, I calm down and make myself a cup of tea. I need to sit down for a moment after the rush of the morning routine without Richard. Doing it all on my own isn’t easy, and it hasn’t helped that Charlie has been in a bad mood all week. It must be because he misses his dad.
But as soon as I sit down I realise my first client’s due in ten minutes, so I get up and speed round the kitchen tidying up the breakfast things, managing the occasional sip of my tea.
Three hours later after back-to-back clients, I’m exhausted. I’ve had two sets of couples this morning. Extramarital affairs are a common issue in marriage counselling, and usually I can see both sides, understanding that each relationship has its own complications. But since Richard left I’ve found it much harder than normal to take a neutral stance. It’s difficult to switch off my thoughts about my own life. I miss Richard, miss having someone in bed beside me at night, someone to talk to and share my day with. This week, other than my clients and Charlie, I’ve only seen the mums at the school gate. I’m emotionally exhausted and I have no one to talk to. A part of me is jealous of my clients this morning, because, despite their difficulties, there is hope for them. They are still turning up to counselling, trying to fix their relationships. Whereas Richard has made it quite clear there’s no going back. I know I should hate him, but a huge part of me still loves him, still craves his company. I love the way he used to make me laugh, the way he takes his own work as a therapist so seriously and genuinely cares about his clients. I don’t understand how he can be so heartless towards me when he treats his clients with such kindness.
The wife I’ve just seen had begun a forensic investigation into her husband’s affair. She knew every detail of every time they’d had sex. It made me wonder why I had buried my head in the sand about Richard’s affair, accepting his explanation that it was just a fling, not asking for any details. Not wanting to know.
Now I’m curious, suddenly feeling an overwhelming need to know who it was Richard slept with, who broke us apart. She was someone he’d met in a bar. That’s all he’d told me. I go upstairs and retrieve the photos from the drawer. I look at the picture of Richard kissing her. How could he do that? But no matter how long I stare at the image, they don’t offer me any more clues as to who the woman is. They are standing in front of the glass windows of a building. It looks like it’s in central London, but the design of the building is so common that it really could be anywhere.
I’m getting nowhere with the photos, so I load up Richard’s computer, determined to look for other evidence. There must be emails between them, or messages on social media. I try and hack into his email, guessing again and again at the password, until I finally give up. It’s the same with his social media. I sigh with frustration. I go through folder after folder on his hard drive, not even sure what I’m looking for. While I’m searching, my phone beeps and I jump. There’s a missed call and a voicemail. I stare at the number in disbelief. Genevieve Price. The head teacher at the school where I taught art a few years ago. I should have deleted her number. Why would she be contacting me? I feel a headache starting to form behind my eyes. The last time I spoke to Genevieve she’d been so angry, furious that I’d brought the school into disrepute.
I pick up the phone and listen to the message, holding my breath. But her voice is friendly. She’s moved to London after the death of her husband and wants to meet up. I feel a stab of pity. They’d been married at least thirty years, with two grown-up children. But I’m still not sure why she’s wants to meet up with me. Not after everything that happened.
I return to the computer, the message still playing on my mind. I have a few more attempts at getting into Richard’s emails. No luck.
I stare at the computer screen for ages, lost in thought, remembering my teaching days. It’s only when my phone beeps again with a text from the bank to say I’ve gone into my overdraft, that I notice the time: 3.16 p.m. I’m going to be late to collect Charlie.
I grab my keys and run out of the house.
* * *
The evening is a battle. Charlie refuses to eat his dinner, have his bath or go to bed. I can tell he’s angry with me for being late collecting him. I’d fought my way through the hordes of parents leaving with their children to find him waiting on his own with his teacher in the classroom. After a telling-off from her that made me feel like I was the one still at school, we’d trudged home together, Charlie refusing to speak to me.
I’m angry with myself too, for getting so caught up in trying to find out more about Richard’s affair and thinking about the past that I forgot the time. I swallow my guilt and try and remain calm while I attempt to persuade Charlie to go upstairs before Danielle and Peter arrive. Eventually I get him into his bedroom and into his pyjamas. I read him his favourite book about dinosaurs. He never grows tired of it. No matter how many times I’ve read it to him he still laughs in the right places, and always wants a hug from me when the T-Rex appears. I love the way he sees me as his protector. He doesn’t know yet how fragile I really am. That I’m afraid of things too. That I can break down and fall apart.
I read the book two more times but he won’t go off to sleep.
‘Again, Mummy,’ he says insistently.
‘No, sweetheart. It’s time for sleep.’ He’s tired and I can see his eyes starting to shut, before he snaps them open.
‘Again!’
I stroke his dark curly hair. Danielle and Peter will be here any minute. ‘There’s no time today.’ I point to the dinosaur clock on his wall, which I’m using to teach him to tell the time. ‘See the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is nearly on the eight. That means it’s way past your bedtime.’ He’s supposed to be in bed by seven thirty, but things have slipped since Richard left. I know the doorbell will ring any minute.