She moves across the room and picks up a photograph of Tom, in a silver frame. He’s grinning at the camera, the wind in his hair, the sea behind him, his eyes crinkled. She feels a strange tightness in her chest and sets it down quickly, disconcerted.
‘Look, Joshie,’ she says, carrying him across to the glass doors and pointing at the neighbour’s elegant, blue-eyed Siamese cat. ‘Isn’t he posh?’
Josh’s lower lip sticks out and his chin wobbles but she murmurs words of reassurance and strokes his soft head. He nuzzles into her neck.
She and Robert had planned to have more than one child, but six years after Sophie it still hasn’t happened. Mostly she’s OK with that but just sometimes she wishes things were different. When Vicky fell pregnant for the third time Amber had felt crushed. It was somehow worse that the pregnancy was unplanned and as much a shock to Vicky as it was to her. She had helped her friend through a bad patch then, so was it any wonder that she felt a certain amount of ownership towards Josh?
Vicky goes on about her so-called deprived childhood but she has no idea what she’s talking about. If a child has a loving mother she doesn’t need material possessions. Which is why Amber is so horrified by her behaviour. Mothers don’t do that.
She adores this baby, feels an affinity with him. Like her he has moments of intense anger and emotion, like her he always wants more than he gets; and there is something else about him, some inner insecurity that Amber recognizes because it’s in her too. It’s as if he instinctively worries that life is precarious, that his next meal might not come, that his mother might go through a door and not come back. Which makes her wonder …
Vicky admitted to leaving him once or twice before; but what if it was more than that? What if she made a habit of it?
When I come back in, Amber is sitting on the kitchen floor with Josh. She’s playing This Little Piggy with his toes and for the first time since the accident he is really laughing, his cheeks bunched up and pink, his eyes sparkling. Amber lies on her back and props him on her tummy. She’s very relaxed, very natural with him. Her hair is fanned out over the stone, her skin pale in the light from the windows. Her arms gently pump him up and down. He waggles his feet and shrieks with delight.
‘Why don’t you and Tom come for supper on Saturday?’ she says, smiling up at me. ‘I’ll see who else is around.’
‘That’s so nice of you, but do you mind if I say no? I don’t think I can face the world yet.’
‘Just me and Robert then. You need to get out. It’s all a bit tense around here.’
‘I don’t know, Amber.’
‘Saturday week then,’ she presses. I agree, reluctantly.
‘Good,’ she says, as if that was that.
‘I can’t bear lying to everyone, Amber. This is awful.’
‘I know. I hate it too. But it’s the right thing to do.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Of course I am. Anyway, the truth is more implausible than the lie. Women like you don’t leave their babies alone while they go and look round houses.’
‘Women like me?’
‘You know what I mean. Yummy mummies.’
‘Thanks a bunch.’
‘Vicky,’ she says. ‘You do see, don’t you? This will blow over a lot quicker if you don’t say anything.’
‘All right,’ I mutter.
Later I wonder if she’s right or if she’s overreacting. Surely the authorities wouldn’t take him away. I try to examine it from their point of view and, yes, I confess with a sick feeling, if I was teaching and discovered one of my parents was doing what I’d done, I would report them and I would expect Child Protection to act.
Can I trust Amber? The answer should be an unequivocal Yes, but there’s something I can’t put my finger on. Then I remember.
Women like you.
When she said that it created a distinction between us that had never existed before. We had always been partners in crime; sharing jokes, attitudes, disappointments and triumphs. There’s a message lurking behind those three words, even if Amber is unaware of it.
She could destroy me.
But that doesn’t make sense. Why on earth would she want to do that?
March 1992
THE HOUSE MAGGIE took her to the following Monday turned out to be a bungalow. It squatted halfway down a wide, tree-lined avenue on the border of Streatham and Croydon. With its two bay windows sitting either side of a bright-red door it reminded Katya of a fat-cheeked, sleepy-eyed face, the half-nets only adding to the impression. White-painted lions crouched on the gateposts guarding the stone path that divided a neatly trimmed lawn with flower beds. The roses had been pruned severely and new shoots pointed enthusiastically towards the light. The place where Katya had lived before had a yard but no one really played out there. It was for the bins.
The street was called Hillside Way and the room that Katya was to have was in the front on the other side of the corridor from a lounge and divided from the bathroom by stairs that led up to Sally and Luke’s loft bedroom and bathroom. At the back, the kitchen had a conservatory that ran across the width of the house and out into the garden. A pinewood table sat in the glazed area and on the other side a beige sofa, glass-and-steel coffee table and widescreen television took up most of the space. Outside, because the road was on a steep hill and the houses behind were much lower and far away, there was a dramatic view over south London.
Sally Bryant was a stick insect, petite and shockingly thin with narrow hands and feet. Her hair was short and spiky and bleached almost white and she reminded Katya of a sprite or a pixie; like she could sprout wings. Her husband was extremely handsome; his face just how Katya imagined a fairy-tale prince’s should be. Dark-brown hair swept back, a square jaw and thin lips. She stared at him until he winked at her.
Maggie stayed for a cup of tea and a chat while Katya watched Rugrats and only half listened to the adults. When Maggie came over to say goodbye, Katya dragged her eyes away from the screen.
She dropped her voice. ‘Do they know about my mum?’
‘They know everything about you, Katya. But they aren’t going to judge you or Linda. They love children and they understand that sometimes life can be tough. Promise me you’ll be good and go to school every day.’
Katya nodded. Her eyes filled with tears but she forced them back. Maggie saw and bent to her level. She took her small hands and held them in hers. ‘You’re going to be OK. Now smile.’
Katya smiled but it felt like she was stretching her mouth into position.
‘Good girl. I have to go, or I’ll be late picking Emily up, but I’ll call tomorrow to see how you’re getting on.’
Luke Bryant was tall and stood as straight as a soldier. Sally had already told her he used to be in the army, which was why she thought of it. He wasn’t easy company like his wife and had a habit of talking at Katya, like a teacher, rather than treating her as a person, the way Sally did.
Before he left for work Luke kissed Sally on the lips. Katya glanced down, discomforted, and stared at her plate.
‘Someone’s looking perkier this morning.’ He ruffled her hair.
‘She slept well,’ Sally said. ‘Didn’t you, Katya?’