In the car, her grubby corduroy flares and Airtex shirt had crawled with insects, or so she had imagined. She had wanted to rip Deirdre’s velvet party dress at the sleeve.
‘You’re going to be the only one in the whole party who isn’t dressed properly,’ her mother had ranted as she manoeuvred their Ford Cortina out of their drive. Slumped in the backseat, Mira had watched the 1970s bungalows pass by her window. ‘Always the same, you are, just like your father,’ her mother had hissed.
Always the same, always causing trouble.
Mira hung up the phone and wiped a layer of sweat from her forehead.
The troublesome Mira had grown-up. The new Mira was a much-loved and relied-upon teaching assistant, loved by the children, loved by the staff, loved by Barry. She was Mira Meerkat, no less.
After work, when Barry was home, she planned to present her dilemma about Rosie Bradley to him, over a glass of something in a relaxing bath, where she could think straight. She would tell him every last detail of last night. If Barry decided she should call PC Yorke, then she would. Nothing was real until she had talked it through with Barry.
Having turned off her phone, she went straight into Barry’s office, knelt at the chest of drawers and brought out the album. She opened it up to the page where Deirdre was digging a hole in the flowerbeds next to their mother’s roses. Her blonde pudgy sister in red Mary Jane’s and a home-knitted cardigan. She was adorable. Seeing her cheeky smile and chubby wrists made Mira feel better. It replaced the vile memory that had resurfaced. It hadn’t been all bad when she was little.
Her mind had lost its sense of direction. It seemed to be taking her back, not forward. This horrible business next door had triggered something deep down inside her, and it was bringing to the surface things she’d rather forget. The memories that came to her now felt worse than the reality had been for her back then. Or were they nightmares? Could you have nightmares while awake? Was she going mad?
Stop that. Get over it, Mira, she told herself. Stop these destructive thoughts. Yes, her mother had been strict. So what. Bad memories were bound to pop up from time to time. There was nothing to be scared of.
Before she replaced the album, she noticed the three old Tesco carrier bags that were stuffed full of instant photographs from her childhood. She shuddered. She and Deidre had found them under their mother’s bed after she had died. Although Mira had insisted on taking them, she had never dared to open them. They had been sitting there in the drawer, knotted up, for ten years.
Decisively, Mira lugged each bag out of the drawer and dumped them onto the dining room table.
She heaved a ragged sigh, slurped her cold cup of tea and glared at the bags. ‘There, now. I’m not scared of you, see?’
Chapter Seven
All of the clothes were pretty. Pink lace trims. Cream faux-fur shrugs. White ruffled shirts. It was a risk to buy a dress for Rosie without her with me.
Nevertheless, I had decided that it was worth it to see the enchantment and surprise on her face when I presented it to her in a smart bag with ribbon and tissue paper. And it would be just in time for Charlotte’s birthday party at the weekend. More than anything, I hungered to get rid of the unpleasant aftertaste of our row, to paper over the memory of our disorderly tussle. The skin across my whole body flushed as I thought of her rolling around on the floor holding her wrist.
I picked up the pink patent slip-ons. The shop assistant’s ironed blonde hair flicked onto the leather of my handbag as she bent down to straighten the rows I had disrupted.
The minutes were ticking away. I had an hour before I was due back at work to meet my managing director for ‘a little chat’. I was nervous about the meeting and flustered with indecision about the dress.
‘They are our bestsellers,’ the shop assistant said, pushing her tortoise-shell glasses onto her head.
The boutique was too quiet, exclusive, uncomfortably so. I was ready to bolt.
‘Very lovely,’ I replied politely.
A little girl’s dream, surely. My mother had forced me to wear brown buckle-ups until I was twelve. Whenever Rosie had wanted patent leather shoes or slip-ons, I, too, had always said no. This time I would get her what she wanted. Was pink too babyish? Had she grown out of pink? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure I knew what she liked. Although I pushed that thought aside.
In the baby section, I spotted an adorable stripy Babygro. My hand moved under my coat, to touch, to connect with that tiny six-week-old embryo. I imagined folding new Babygros into the drawers in the spare bedroom, which I would transform into a nursery, with fresh paint and soft rugs. I would reassemble the wooden cot I had used for Rosie and Noah and position it by the window with a view of the apple tree. I wanted to take care to tie the white waffle cot protector to the bars with proper little bows and position a colourful mobile above the changing table. My nesting instincts usually hit me towards the end of my pregnancies, but maybe I would give myself more time to fix the room up this time round.
I refolded the soft Babygro. This was about Rosie, not the baby.
My fingers danced across the dresses on the rail, and stopped at a blue polka-dot dress with a drop waist. I pulled it out, trying to imagine Rosie wearing it. She would look beautiful in anything I bought. I tried to think about what she would like. Did she like blue? What was her favourite colour? How awful that I didn’t know. I cringed, layering the guilt.
My dithering was bothering me. At work, I was considered focussed and purposeful. I was trained to coolly assess corporate lawyers for the firm, grill them and charm them; analyse them with rigorous psychometric testing, run workshops and make notes on their behaviour. I was employed to recruit dependable workaholic sociopaths to head departments and make the corporate world go round. But I was flummoxed by the task of choosing a dress for my own daughter.
The shop assistant was refolding the Babygro I had just folded. I needed her help. ‘Excuse me. I think I do need some help actually. I’m looking for a party dress for my ten-year-old.’
‘Of course, madam. What is her colouring?’
‘She has beautiful long black hair,’ I smiled, warmed by the vision of her. ‘And she has lovely pale skin. And big blue eyes.’
The shop assistant’s head was cocked to the side. ‘She sounds beautiful.’
‘She is.’ I was slightly embarrassed. All mothers thought their children were beautiful. This woman must have heard it a thousand times before.
‘And what’s she like?’
‘Ummm, well,’ I began. The question panicked me. ‘She likes to be the boss,’ I laughed.
‘Okay, so she’s quite sophisticated then.’
She walked straight over to a navy-blue dress that was hanging near the shop window. It had one long silk sleeve and the other was shoulder-less.
‘It’s very elegant...’ I began.
‘It was featured in Teen Vogue last month.’
‘I’d wear it. But I think it might be a little too sophisticated for her.’
‘They grow up too fast these days, don’t they?’
‘Yes, they do,’ I agreed with a tingle of dread as I imagined Rosie as a teenager.
‘What about this one?’
It was more like a sundress, with a white sweetheart bodice, detachable spaghetti straps and little daisies dotted across the skirt. It was the kind of dress I would have dreamed of wearing as a child. I took it from the shop assistant, felt the crisp cotton and noticed the yellow gauze that filled out the underskirt.
‘Perfect. The yellow will look lovely with her dark hair. Have you got any shoes that might go with it?’