like to do a master’s in childcare or child psychology at some point. But a year—any post I took now, I would definitely want to think of it lasting longer than a year, for all our sakes.”
Sandra’s face broke into a huge grin, and I knew—I just knew that I had given the right answer, the one she had been hoping for. But was it enough to get me the post? I didn’t honestly know.
We chatted for about another hour or so, Sandra refilling my glass along with her own, though at some point after the second or third top-up I had the sense to put my hand over the goblet and shake my head.
“Better not. I’m not really much of a drinker; wine goes straight to my head.”
It wasn’t completely true. I could hold my wine as well as most of my friends, but I knew that another glass would probably see me throw caution to the wind, and then it would be harder to keep my answers diplomatic and on message. Stories would get tangled, I’d get names and dates in a muddle, and I’d wake up tomorrow with my head in my hands wondering what truths I’d let slip and what terrible faux pas I had made.
As it was, Sandra looked at the clock as she topped up her own glass and gave a little gulp of shock.
“Heavens, ten past eleven! I had no idea it was so late. You must be shattered, Rowan.”
“I am a bit,” I said truthfully. I’d been traveling all day, and the fact was starting to catch up with me.
“Well, look, I think we’ve covered everything I wanted to ask, but I was hoping you could meet the little ones tomorrow, see if you click, and then Jack will drive you back to Carn Bridge to catch your train, if that’s okay? What time does it leave?”
“Eleven twenty-five, so that works fine for me.”
“Great.” She stood up and swept all the crockery into a stack, which she put beside the sink. “Let’s leave that for Jean and call it a night.”
I nodded, wondering again who this mysterious Jean was, but not quite wanting to ask.
“I’ll just go and let the dogs out. Good night, Rowan.”
“Good night,” I said back. “Thank you so much for a delicious supper, Sandra.”
“My pleasure. Sleep well. The children are usually up at six but there’s no need for you to get up that early—unless you want to!”
She gave a little tinkly laugh, and I made a mental note to set my alarm for six, even while my eyes felt heavy at the thought.
As Sandra shooed the dogs into the garden, I made my way back into the old part of the house, with the same strange sense of jolting dislocation I had felt before, going the other way. The soaring glass ceiling abruptly lowered to wedding-cake-style frosting. The echoing sound of my kitten heels on the concrete floor changed to the soft click of parquet, and then the hush of carpet as I began to make my way up the staircase. At the first landing I stopped. The door closest to me, the baby’s room, was still ajar, and I couldn’t resist—I pushed it open and stepped inside, smelling the good, warm smells of clean, contented baby.
Petra was lying on her back, her arms and legs thrown out froggy-style. She had kicked off her blanket and, very gently, I drew it back over her, feeling her soft breath stirring the fine hairs on the back of my hand.
As I tucked it around her, she startled, flinging up one arm, and for a moment I froze, thinking that she was about to wake and cry. But she only sighed and settled back down, and I padded quietly from the room and up to my luxurious, waiting bedroom.
* * *
I tiptoed around cautiously as I washed and brushed my teeth, listening to the floorboards beneath my feet quietly creaking and not wanting to disturb Sandra below. But at last I was ready for bed, my alarm set, my clothes for tomorrow neatly set out on the plump little sofa.
Then I realized, I had not drawn the curtains.
Wrapping my dressing gown around myself, I walked across the room and tugged gently at their fabric. They didn’t move.
Puzzled, I tried harder, then stopped, peering behind them in case they were somehow fake, ornamental drapes, and I was really supposed to use a blind. But no, they were real curtains, they had