her to know that, at least on my part, I wasn’t settling. That in a truly shitty year when I’d buried my dad, I’d woken up to the fact that life was short and sometimes the best things in life weren’t the exotic unknown but there, right under your nose. I put the phone down feeling robbed of the chance to understand more about her life. Who she hung out with, whether she had real friends or just posh publishing acquaintances. Whether she was on a big fat salary and striding out in designer gear, if she’d met any fancy executives with cosy wooden lodges on a lake. I wanted to ask her if she missed me.
And now, nearly nineteen years later, I knew why that conversation had been so awkward.
I eventually dozed off in the early hours, woken up by a frantic ringing of the doorbell. My alarm clock said 6.30 a.m. I shot out of bed, running downstairs two at a time, the surge of adrenaline making me feel sick. I took a deep breath before I turned the key.
It was Phoebe. Dishevelled, wearing a baggy sweatshirt that didn’t belong to her. Her skin was white and blotchy, dark circles under her eyes. She’d definitely been up all night.
Relief washed away most, but not all, of my anger. I concentrated on sounding conciliatory. ‘Are you okay, love?’
She pushed past me in a waft of stale smoke and booze. ‘Yep.’
‘Do you need anything?’ I didn’t let the words, ‘Like the morning-after pill’ escape my lips, but the effort nearly suffocated me.
She turned to me. ‘From you? I don’t think so. I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me up.’
I stood in the hallway, watching her stomp upstairs. My anger collided with my despair at her disrespect, her rudeness. Nothing good would come from insisting on a confrontation now. I put on my slippers and picked my way through the chaos of my kitchen. The fear that had engulfed me when the doorbell went drained away. For now, she was here. Safe. I frowned as my slipper stuck to the floor. My desire not to get into a slanging match wavered. I considered dragging her down to clear up straight away but I couldn’t trust myself not to escalate the situation beyond repair. Far better to direct my energy to cleaning. I filled a bucket with hot water, located a scrubbing brush and got down on my hands and knees.
I was on my fourth bucket of water, finding a grim satisfaction in the white grouting reappearing from under the brown dregs of cider, when I heard the key in the lock. I carried on cleaning, my back tense.
I sensed Patrick standing in the doorway. I was torn between a martyrish ‘look what happens when you take your eye off the parenting ball’ and punishing him for – what? – not telling me earlier? Not using a condom? Having a son, a special bond with another child that excluded me? I couldn’t ignore the fact that also in that combustible mix was a sense of the sturdy scaffolding of a long marriage, framing our fragile lives. My jaded brain swung between abandoning all faith in our relationship and trusting myself to its robustness.
Patrick sighed. ‘Jo.’ That concerned and gentle tone. It reminded me of when he’d come to Dad’s funeral and not left for a whole week afterwards. My mum had twittered about, making sure he sat in the best armchair, delighted to find a home for the fruit cake left over from the wake. He’d taken one look at me in my dressing gown the morning we buried my dad and held his arms out. ‘Oh Jo.’ And that was enough. I didn’t need him to tell me it would be okay, or come up with any platitudes about how time would heal and at least I had my memories and how Dad was now at peace. I only required him to hug me and to tolerate my pain without shying away.
Patrick stepped into the kitchen. ‘Jo,’ he said again.
I couldn’t tough it out. I put the scrubbing brush into the bucket and faced him.
A second person in our family who looked like they’d slept in a hedge. ‘You look knackered.’
‘I am.’ He paused. ‘Let me guess. Phoebe had a party?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Are they still asleep?’
I hated myself for the little stab of jealousy that came with him asking after both of his children.
‘Yes. Phoebe was out all night. Came