Neeve sits Kiara on a kitchen chair in the middle of the living room, applying corpse-bride make-up, while I sew black roses on to a black velvet hairband. Derry presses the white dress, then carries on down the laundry pile. ‘As I’ve the iron on, I might as well.’
At some stage we open one of the boxes of Celebrations I’d bought for the Hallowe’en kids. A while later, Derry, Neeve and I have a glass of Baileys. It might be the alcohol or the sugar, but as I lounge on the sofa, watching Neeve apply false lashes to Kiara, Sofie leaning against me, Derry sitting on the floor, her head on my knees, I realize I feel okay. My life is so far from perfect and in five minutes’ time I might be in so much sorrow that I’ll want to tear my heart out, but in this moment I feel content and I’m so bloody glad for the respite.
‘Can I look yet?’ Kiara asks.
‘Nope.’ Neeve has painted her face white and created thick purple circles around her eyes. Now she gives her black lipstick, and when that’s done, Sofie jumps in, backcombing Kiara’s hair, clipping in dark blue hair extensions, twisting locks into Medusa-like ropes, then blasting the whole confection with salt-spray.
‘Okay, Amy,’ Sofie says. ‘Now do her veil.’
Carefully I attach the black-rose hairband and veil to Kiara’s elaborate nest of hair, then step back.
‘That looks great,’ Derry says. ‘Really great.’
‘Now you can look!’ Neeve decrees, sticking a mirror under Kiara’s nose.
‘Oh! Oh!’ Kiara squeals. ‘I look good, right?’ Her gleeful face is still there under all the make-up.
‘You look amazing.’
‘Now, you’d better have something to eat,’ I say.
‘Oh, Mu-um,’ Kiara complains. Then, ‘Okay.’
‘Pasta all right? I’ll do you the butterflies.’
I throw some red stuff from a jar over Kiara’s pasta and she says, echoing what Hugh and I – Masterchef fans – say, ‘That’s a good-looking plate of food.’
She really is the sweetest creature.
At five past seven her date arrives.
‘Ten minutes early?’ Derry is suspicious.
‘Good manners,’ I say.
‘Super-neurotic, more like.’
I hiss a sharp ‘Shush!’ at her.
Neeve opens the door to him. ‘Are you Reilly? Kiara will be down in a minute.’
‘Come in, till we have a look at you,’ Derry calls.
‘Ah, no, I’ll just –’
‘Come in!’
‘I think you’d better,’ Neeve says.
So in the poor lad shuffles.
It’s hard to tell what he’s actually like because he’s made up as a vampire – white foundation, black guy-liner and a lot of red drool around his mouth. But he’s tall, which is nice, because Kiara is also tall and self-conscious about it.
And here she is, tripping down the stairs. They squeal at the sight of each other. ‘Dude!’
‘Duuuuude!’
‘You’re totally Hallowe’en-tastic!’
‘You’re more Hallowe’en-tastic!’
Kiara leaves in a flurry of ‘Bye, Mum. Bye, everyone!’
‘Um, bye,’ I bleat. ‘Have a good time. Have you your phone?’ I’ve to fight the urge to call, ‘Don’t have sex.’
The door slams shut behind them. Then the four of us stare at each other, our eyes popping.
‘Our baby girl is all grown-up!’ Neeve exclaims. Then, ‘Oh, Mum! You’re not fecking crying again?’
It’s late on Saturday night and I’ve just realized that Jana is ghosting me.
I’d texted her twice during the week, once to thank her for being nice to me at the toxic brunch, then a second time to make sure she’d got my first text. Both times deafening silence was what I got in response but I was so busy angsting about Steevie blanking me that I neglected to realize that so was Jana.
Five minutes ago, paranoia hit me, like a slab of concrete, and when I checked my Facebook timeline, Jana hadn’t liked any of my posts since last Saturday.
She’s picked a side. Until now I hadn’t known there were sides to be picked. I’d thought Steevie and I would sort this out and soon. But apparently it’s bigger than just me and Steevie.
Now I’m afraid: who else is Steevie going to recruit? Because I’m certain that Jana didn’t unilaterally decide to take agin me. Is Steevie going to turn everyone against me?
I’m also terribly hurt. I’m so fond of Jana – I feel very tenderly about her. I don’t like when people mock her for being silly and I’ve stood up for her against several people including – yes! – Steevie. If Jana is being allocated, I’m the one who deserves her.
But haven’t I learnt that that’s not the way life works?
59
Wednesday, 2 November, day fifty-one
Caroline Snowden, the journalist sitting opposite me, has something to get off her chest. I wait it out.
‘Amy,’ she says eventually. ‘Ruthie Billingham’s done a big interview for this week’s Sunday Times magazine.’
Shite. This is the first print interview Ruthie has done. Until now, everything has been ‘sources close to’.
‘Look, you’re going to have to put out this fire.’ Caroline brings our lunch to a premature finish.
‘I’m so sorry, Caroline.’
‘It’s time I got back, anyway.’ She’s really nice. ‘We’ll see each other soon.’
I give her the full-body hug in gratitude, and I have twenty-one minutes before my next meeting. Think, think, think …
Right. A photo op with the kids. Where? In a playground? Hmm, something more meaningful would be better. Okay, got it, the football!
I reach for my phone. ‘Matthew?’
‘Amy?’ He sounds distracted.
‘Can you talk? Couple of questions. When are Fulham next playing a home match?’
‘This Saturday.’
‘Can you take the kids?’
‘It’s my weekend with them and we have season tickets.’
‘Even Beata?’
He half laughs. ‘Gender stereotyping, Amy!’
‘Ha-ha, my bad.’ Come on, I don’t have time for this. ‘Okay. I need to see you ASAP.’
‘Why? What?’
‘To set up a paparazzi op at the match.’
‘I’m not having my kids in a paper.’
They’ve already been in several. ‘They’ll pixellate out their faces.’
‘It’s wrong. Can’t I just be at the match on my own? Or with Dan?’
For a clever man, he can be astonishingly clueless. ‘Matthew.’ I’m gentle. ‘Two blokes. At a football match? Forgive me for being crass but it’s nothing like tragic single dad on a rare afternoon out with his two beloved children.’
I actually hear him swallow. ‘Today is crazy.’
Right. It’s Wednesday, when he does his shaming-the-politicians show.
‘All I can spare,’ he says, ‘is fifteen minutes around five thirty.’
I’d miss my flight home, but so be it. ‘You’re at the BBC? I’ll meet you there.’
‘So something’s finally happening. Dan will be happy.’
I doubt that very much.
Seconds before I arrive at the BBC, there’s a strange twang on my right shoulder, followed by a swift droop of my right breast. What the … Oh, God, one of my bra straps has just given up the ghost.
Desperately I look along Oxford Street – there’s a Marks & Spencer so near I can almost see it, but I can’t chance being late for Matthew. I need every available second with him. Maybe I could nip to the Ladies, pin the strap back to the main body of the bra and hoist my knocker upwards once more? But that assumes I’ve a pin on my person and I don’t …
My frontage is lopsided, I can tell just by looking down at it. I could take off the bra entirely and then my low-slung shelf would be at least symmetrical. But, no, decency insists that the bra stays on.
Shite. This is terrible timing, and unfortunately I’m wearing the wrong clothes – some days I’m in strict tailoring, which assists in keeping everything corralled. But today it’s a high-collared Victorian-style dress, which provides no support. There is nothing to do but style this out, so I swing my right arm forward, clamping my right knocker under it and move forward in Quasimodo-esque fashion.