‘So, Hannah, you have recorder today,’ I say in between guiding cereal-laden spoonfuls into Chloe’s mouth. ‘Luke, you won’t forget, will you? I think the music book is still on top of the piano in the sitting room.’
‘Er … yes, all under control,’ says Luke. He leans over to Hannah and whispers theatrically, ‘Have you got the music book?’
Hannah flicks a glance in my direction and whispers back to Luke. ‘No. I thought you had it.’
I pretend not to notice Luke put his finger to his lips and then mutter, ‘Leave it with me. I’m on the case.’ Hannah gives a giggle and when I look at Luke, he winks at me and then makes a big show of being engrossed in pouring the tea.
‘Oh, God, would you look at the time?’ I hurriedly shovel another spoon of Weetabix into Chloe’s mouth. ‘I have the Monday rumble at nine with Tom and Leonard. Come on, Chloe, eat up.’
Luke reaches over and takes the spoon from me. ‘Off you go,’ he says. ‘Don’t want to keep the boss waiting.’
‘He’s not my boss any more,’ I say, gulping down the cup of tea Luke has poured, wincing as it burns my throat. ‘I’m an equal partner now, remember.’
‘Hmm, well, you still act as if Leonard’s your boss. And Tom, come to mention it. Make them wait for you for a change.’
Ignoring the comment, I kiss the girls goodbye. ‘Have a lovely day, my darlings. Hannah, don’t forget to hand in the swimming gala permission form to your teacher. Chloe, be a good girl at nursery. Mummy loves you both very much.’
‘Love you too,’ says Hannah, blowing kisses as I manoeuvre around the table.
‘Uv you too,’ repeats Chloe through a mouthful of soggy wheat and milk.
‘Don’t forget, you’re going home with Daisy after school,’ I remind Hannah and then to confirm Luke has remembered the details, add, ‘Pippa’s picking Hannah up and giving her tea. She’ll drop her back later.’ Pippa is one of the few friends I have in the village. If our daughters hadn’t become friends themselves at school, then I probably wouldn’t have got to know Pippa. I give Mum a peck on the cheek. ‘See you later, Mum.’ Then I bend down to kiss Luke. His hand slips around my waist and he holds the kiss for a moment longer than necessary.
‘Go get ‘em, Babe, at your rumble in the jungle.’ He lets me go and shadow boxes Ali style. ‘Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.’
I feel a surge of love for this man. He is my best friend, my lover, my husband, my everything. I give Luke a high-five before I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and head out of the kitchen and down the hall, where my briefcase and sack trolley are waiting, the latter loaded with a pile of files I had brought home for weekend reading. I pause at the door and call back over my shoulder. ‘Don’t forget …’
‘The recorder!’ chorus Hannah and Luke before I can finish.
The drive into Brighton from the village where we live takes about thirty minutes on a good day and today is one of those days. The radio is on and I push thoughts of Alice to one side, singing along to the song currently playing. It fades out and the DJ announces the next song up is their retro record of the week. Within the first few bars, I recognise the song: ‘Slipping Through My Fingers’ by Abba. In an instant, my heart twists and tears spring to my eyes with such ferocity that for a couple of seconds the road ahead of me is a blur. This song always reminds both Mum and me of the Alice-shaped hole in our lives. The blast of a horn from another car jolts my mind back to the road. My heart lurches again, but this time fuelled by adrenalin as I realise I’ve run a red light.
‘Shit!’ I stamp on the brakes to avoid hitting an oncoming car. If my car had tiptoes it would be on them and I’m grateful for my BMW’s reliable ABS. I hold my hand up in an apology to the other driver, who thankfully had the foresight to stop too.
I’m no lip-reader but I’m pretty sure he’s used every uncomplimentary noun in the urban dictionary to describe me and my driving. I mouth ‘sorry’ before he puts his car into gear and tears off, squealing his wheels as a final gesture of anger.
A few minutes later I pull up into the car park of Carr, Tennison & Eggar, Solicitors, without any further incident and take a moment to check my make-up in the rear-view mirror. It wouldn’t do to go into work with black streaks of sodden mascara down my face.
Feeling composed, I grab my stuff and push open the door to the converted 1930s detached house that are our offices.
‘Morning, Nina,’ I say to our receptionist as I hold open the door with my hip and yank the sack trolley through.
‘Good morning, Clare,’ she replies, giving me a second look, which tells me I wasn’t successful in disguising the tears. However, she doesn’t pass comment. ‘Tom and Leonard are already in the conference room,’ Nina informs, nodding towards the frosted double doors across the hallway.
I check my watch. It’s eight-fifty. They can wait while I lug the files down to my office and repair my make-up.
Sandy, my secretary, is at her desk in a small reception area that leads to my office. ‘Morning, Sandy. Nice weekend?’
‘Morning, Clare. Yes, very nice, thanks. You?’
‘Good, thanks,’ I say avoiding eye contact, hoping she won’t notice the remains of my make-up. I have a mirror fixed to the inside of the tall filing cupboard and hastily wipe the patches of mascara with a tissue.
‘Ah, there you are.’ From the mirror, I see Leonard bustling into the office. He pauses and his astute eyes quickly assess me. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes. Well, I am now.’ I wave the mascara wand over my eye lashes.
‘Sure?’
‘Positive. Was on the receiving end of a bit of Monday-morning road rage.’
‘Your fault?’
My hesitation gives me away as I consider whether to be honest or not. Leonard pushes the door behind him and comes over to me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? I am aware of the significance of this week.’
I dip my head, feeling embarrassed at not just my lack of concentration but that my feelings are closer to the surface than I care to admit. I look back in the mirror at him with what I hope is confidence as I brush my eyelashes one final time. ‘I’m fine. Honest. But thank you,’ I smile and Leonard pats my arm in a fatherly gesture.
‘Now, come along, we’re waiting for you,’ he says reverting to his brisk businesslike manner. ‘I can’t be long. I have that blasted Mrs Freeman coming in.’
‘Mrs Freeman?’ I try to recall the name from our last Monday rumble as I shove the mascara into my jacket pocket and track Leonard out of the office.
‘Yes. Sour-faced old moo she is. Can’t believe her husband put up with her for so long. Must have been bloody good in the sack, that’s all I can say. Mind you, you’d want a bag over her head – and one over your own, just in case hers fell off.’
‘Leonard, you can’t say things like that.’ I can’t help smiling at Leonard’s comment despite my attempt at a reprimand. Leonard is terribly honest, to the point of being rude, but it has provided no end of amusing anecdotes over the years.
In the conference room, Tom is standing at the French doors that open onto the private gardens. He turns as he hears us come in.