I folded the grubby sheet back into its envelope. ‘I’ll call her and tell her politely that we don’t need any help.’
The smile fell completely from both of our faces after I said it. In the space of a few seconds, Peter looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten in a hundred years, as though the laughter had wrung him dry of every tiny last bit of optimism.
He rubbed his face and sighed, ‘What are we doing so wrong?’
‘What am I doing so wrong, you mean?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Mum and Jacs think I don’t spend enough time with her. Like it’s an attention thing.’
He looked almost hopeful again. ‘Do you think they have a point?’
‘You and I both made the decision to have a joint income, Peter.’
‘I’m not blaming you.’
‘It seems like it.’
‘We’re on the same side.’
‘Sorry.’ I rubbed my fingers at my hairline, hearing the scratch through my skull. I didn’t want to be obstructive.
‘D’you think we should make some lifestyle changes?’
‘Like what?’
‘We could sell the house? Reduce our overheads?’
‘I don’t know,’ I moaned, feeling my brain hurting.
Peter looked around him. ‘I love this house.’
‘The kids would be devastated. And Rosie might get worse.’ But I didn’t say what would sound selfish and un-motherly, that I loved my job, that I didn’t want to stay at home filling the hours before pick-up with tennis lessons and coffee mornings.
‘But at least Mira wouldn’t be listening next door.’ Peter shot a filthy look in the direction of Mira’s house.
‘That is not a good reason to move.’ However much I detested her being so close, I was not going to run away from the life we had worked so hard to create.
Peter poured more wine and cleared his throat. ‘Maybe this social worker woman might be able to recommend someone to talk to?’
‘What kind of someone?’
‘A counsellor or something.’
‘No,’ I barked, sounding like my mother. My heart was beating in my eardrums.
‘Don’t fly off the handle, okay? You always bloody fly off the handle,’ he snapped with a rare flash of anger.
I breathed in, as though sucking back an unexploded grenade. ‘I don’t like the idea of strangers knowing our business.’
He flashed his palms at me, surrendering, ‘Fine.’ He stood up, knocking the stool over, leaving it and weaving out.
I wrapped my arms around my middle, and imagined the tiny curl of a baby there. Perhaps when it was born, Rosie would realise that the world didn’t revolve around her, that her tantrums wouldn’t get her anywhere. I might consider asking her to help me transform the spare room into the nursery. If she engaged with a project, she might forget about her own dramas for a change.
In the meantime, if she had a tantrum again, I would put her in the television den, where the noise would bounce off Mr Elliot’s garage wall. We could fix a lock onto the door, take down the oil painting and cover the dangerous edges to keep her safe in there while she screamed it out. Or give her a cream egg. Anything to keep the police and the Social Services away.
Deep down though, I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I hoped she had been scared by the police visit as much as we had and I hoped that our day out in London would heal us, temporarily at least.
Chapter Twenty
TOP SECRET
* * *
Dear Mummy,
* * *
INVISIBLE INK ALERT: I bet you a gazillion Monopoly pounds that Mrs E will come up to me and Noah on the rec tomorrow again. She comes every day. I don’t talk to her. I just run away with Noah. She told me not to be shy. On Monday I won’t be shy. I’m going to tell her that you are AWESOME and LOVELY and that I love you so so so so so much.
* * *
Love you (again), Rosie.
* * *
P.S. We are going to LONDON tomorrow!!!!! BIG THUMBS UP EMOJI. You are the best.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rosie pointed out of her side of the car window. ‘There’s Mrs E.’
When Mira spotted us, she stopped, parked her shopping basket on the camber and waved. Rosie waved back.
Resisting the urge to slap Rosie’s hand down, I sped on down the hill towards the station. Through the rear-view mirror, I could see Mira turn to watch us go. Had she really expected me to stop for a little chat?
As soon as Rosie and I were standing on the train platform, hand in hand, I stopped seething about Mira and I felt a surge of eagerness and delight at the prospect of sitting in the auditorium with Rosie to watch the musical show, which my mother would think terribly lowbrow, a fact that added to my glee.
We found two table seats on the carriage and sat down opposite each other with two hot chocolates in paper cups.
I looked at her and saw how grown-up she was. Her white shirt was buttoned up to the neck, like the girls in the fashion magazines, and the necklace Peter and I had given her for Christmas rested on her collar. I was starry-eyed with pride. Without the stresses and distractions of daily life, I understood how I had lost sight of how fast she was growing up. I couldn’t believe we had never been to London together before, just the two of us.
‘Tell me about school. What’s the latest?’
I had wanted to know about her friends. Or teachers. Or books she was reading.
‘I got thirty out of thirty in my spelling test, and a silver medal for the times table competition.’
Knowing she had wanted a gold medal, I mustered up some enthusiasm to say, ‘Well done, darling! That is wonderful.’
* * *
‘I only didn’t get gold because stupid Edmund distracted me. He says girls aren’t good at maths.’ She rolled her eyes to the heavens.
‘That’s annoying of Edmund. Was he told off?’ I said, possibly too aggressively, fighting the desire to get my phone out and email the school about this irritating Edmund who ruined Rosie’s chances of a gold medal.
‘Mum, don’t you dare talk to the teachers.’ Her blue eyes flashed.
‘I won’t, but it isn’t very good that he got away with that.’
‘He didn’t!’ she cried. ‘This is why I never tell you stuff. You just stress me out and then cause a fuss at school and then it is just so embarrassing!’
Oh God, I thought, reel it in, calm down, put your own shit aside, Gemma. I talked myself down from my default competitive mode.
I imagined a tantrum in this full train carriage. She didn’t often have tantrums in public, suggesting she had more control over herself than we gave her credit for. But she did have them. Her last public display of fury had been in the summer of this year. We had been enjoying a game of rounders on the recreational ground in the glittering sunshine. Before the game, Rosie had been edgy and moody. Rounders had been an idea to snap her out of it. When Noah had hit the ball into the hedges, Rosie had ordered him to get it for her, and I had reminded her that as a fielder it was her job to get the ball while Noah ran. She refused. I became insistent. She had thrown herself down onto the grass and rolled around, wailing in that high-pitched way. Her screams had echoed around the grounds. Dog walkers frowned, children stopped on their scooters to stare, mothers with prams stole sideways glances, families on their picnic rugs chewed on their sandwiches pretending it wasn’t happening, until I dragged her home by the arm, feeling rumpled, aggravated and humiliated.
The train carriage was relatively quiet. I imagined her losing her temper; the day ruined before it had started. Strangers had little tolerance for noisy children, and even less tolerance for bad parents.
I would do everything to make every second of her day happy today. If it came to it, I had her iPod in my handbag for emergencies.
‘Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to stress you out. I absolutely promise not to talk to the teachers. You are an absolute superstar for getting silver.’