‘Off we go…’ he repeats dutifully as I glance at him worriedly. His coat is so padded he can barely move his arms. He’s going to start overheating wearing it indoors like this, unless I get a bloody move on. I grit my teeth, stand up and start to go through the drawers in the sideboard for the second time.
‘iPad please, Mummy?’ James suggests. He’s quite right. Why the hell would any sane person want to go out in weather like this rather than staying in, and cosying up on the sofa? He’s two, and he’s worked it out. I hesitate, and almost capitulate – the group started at half nine and it’s already ten to ten, but then he can’t just sit in all morning and play with Sandrine. It’s good for him to have a change of scene, and see other children. It’s important to make the effort.
‘Five seconds – I’ll check on the side in the kitchen again.’ I turn and dash through, scrabbling through the box that contains a couple of cook books, random bits of post, pens, a Calpol plunger… but no FUCKING KEYS. Where are they? Is Ed sure he hasn’t got them with him by mistake? I’m about to reach into my back pocket for my phone to call him again, when there is a shriek and deafening crash from the hallway. James! I spin on the spot, bashing my hip on the edge of the kitchen table I’m trying to get from the room so fast.
Sandrine is standing pressed up against the bannisters, James clutched to her body tightly. She’s completely white and staring wide-eyed at our large hall mirror that is now lying face down on the wooden floor – exactly where James was standing seconds ago – shards of splintered glass spreading outwards, making the frame appear to have landed in an iced-over puddle.
‘Are you alright?’ I gasp. ‘What happened?’
She doesn’t move; she seems to be in shock. ‘We are just standing here waiting and then it starts to fall. I lift James quickly and then it is everywhere.’
James turns his head and looks at the mess. ‘Bang, Mummy,’ he says, pointing at it.
‘It did, didn’t it?’ I agree, stunned, and looking at the daggers of glass in horror while trying to think straight. ‘OK, here’s what we’ll do. There’s a spare car key in Ed’s study. If you give me back your front door key, Sandrine – I’ll take you both now and come back to clean this lot up and find my keys. Just move into the kitchen for a minute to wait for me, and then we’ll go. Are you sure you’re OK?’
Sandrine nods, and gives a final incredulous glance back at the mirror as she carefully steps over it and carries James safely into the other room.
* * *
Once I’ve driven them there and come back, it’s twenty past ten – giving me an hour to clean everything up and do some editing before I have to go and get them again. I slide Sandrine’s key into the lock and the door opens to reveal the glass carnage. Putting the key on the sideboard, I crunch over the shards, gingerly pick up the edge of the heavy gilt frame and lift it carefully. A couple of pointed slices break free and slide down to shatter alongside the rest of it. Propping the frame against the wall I peer at the nails I hammered in years ago. Reaching out, I wobble one of them, and a tiny trail of plaster dust drifts down the white wall. It is very slightly loose, but still – that mirror has hung there undisturbed for the best part of four years. It was a hell of a gust of wind this morning, but enough to lift it to the point that it fell when James – and Sandrine – were right underneath it?
The clean-up takes for ever. After forty-five minutes – having stopped to answer a pointless call from the estate agents that scares me witless that something has gone wrong… only for them to tell me we are still on course for Friday, but did we agree if I was leaving the curtains because the solicitor isn’t returning calls? I’ve swept, hoovered and shone a torch over the ground to catch the sparkle of any flecks of glass that I’ve missed but James’s tiny fingers or toes will undoubtedly discover – I sit back. I’ve done the best I can, but he’ll have to wear shoes indoors for the next few days, at least.
I get to my feet and walk slowly into the kitchen. There’s no point in trying to start any work now, bar checking my emails, before I go. I sink down onto a chair and fire the computer up, resting my elbows on the table, and my chin in my hands as I wait, still deep in thought. Thank God Sandrine moved as fast as she did this morning. The weight of that frame really would have hurt her badly and James very badly indeed, maybe even… I swallow and try not to think of the woman from last night, pedalling towards our house in the dark, stopping and then waiting outside the house. An angel of death. ‘That’s enough,’ I whisper to myself. ‘That’s enough, Jessica.’ The two events are not connected. How could they be? HOW could they be?
I take a deep, steadying breath and click on my email, watching the spam download alongside a couple of genuine work messages, and, oh God, one from Natalia. I open it in dismay.
Dear Jessica,
I’m still feeling really upset about last night. The more I’ve thought about it, the more weird I think it was. Usually when something like that happens, the person’s phone is in their pocket, or bag, and you can’t really hear what they’re saying. I could hear you very clearly. Did you actually pretend that you’d called me by mistake, when really you wanted me to hear everything you said about me? Perhaps you’ve wanted to tell me for a while but not been brave enough to face the confrontation, so you faked ringing me ‘from your back pocket’ then let rip. Or perhaps you were trying to find a way to tell me what actually happened during your first marriage, because you know I have very strong personal feelings on adultery/infidelity. I genuinely can’t make sense of it. Having slept on it overnight however, while I still feel you obviously you didn’t need to tell me anything about your past life, and I don’t judge you for what you did then (I didn’t even know you!) – I really am very hurt by what you said about me, and I’m sorry to say I don’t think we can be friends any more. This isn’t a decision I’ve taken lightly, but one of the things about being a grown-up is recognising when a friendship has, for whatever reason, run its course, and this is it, for ours. I’m going to tell the other NCT girls why I’m bowing out of the group – which presumably they won’t mind about in any case, as they too think I’m ‘offensive’.
All best,
Natalia
Shit. I rake my fingers through my hair. What an absolute mess. For all of Natalia’s ‘that’s just me, take it or leave it, and I call a spade a spade’ attitude, I know she feels things very deeply – sometimes to an almost paranoid level – and I can see from this intense response she’s given this a lot of thought. Of course I didn’t ring her deliberately – that’s just crazy! I was privately bitching to my husband in my own house. I shouldn’t have said any of it, but really, who hasn’t done that? And now I’m going to have to talk to the other girls about it too. Wait… she doesn’t mean she’s going to tell them about me and Simon, does she? Surely not? I think she just means the remarks I made about her personally; at least, I sincerely hope so.
I glance at the computer clock. Eleven twenty – I don’t have time to think about this right now anyway; I need to go. I get to my feet, shut the laptop lid and make for the door, picking up the spare car key from the side on my way out.
* * *
I arrive to find James climbing up a slide in the busy church hall, with Sandrine next to him, watching and smiling – but not holding his hand. He’s pretty fed up to be lifted straight off it and it takes all of my strength to wrestle him into the car seat. He’s also devastated to leave behind a plastic helicopter, and cries all of the way home, and is still whimpering ‘James, heliclopper’ when we pull up on the drive.
‘You go and open up, Sandrine.’ I reach into my back pocket for her key and pass it over. ‘I’ll carry James in.’