The Apartment - K. L. Slater Page 0,7
looks genuinely pleased. ‘Now, I don’t want to keep you if you’ve company coming, so let me call for the cab.’
Having someone who wants to make life easy for us feels so refreshing. It seems to have been just me against the world for so long, I have to stop myself from insisting we can sort our own transport out.
While he busies himself looking for the number, I take a last look around the doctor’s lounge, willing myself to believe that, incredibly, we’ll soon be making a new start here.
Finally, as my eyes flutter over tables and sideboards and shelves, groaning under the weight of various beautiful pieces, I realise what it is that’s missing from the room.
Photographs. There isn’t a single framed photograph perched on the furniture or hanging on the walls.
No pictures of Dr Marsden and his wife, their grown-up kids, or grandchildren playing with family pets.
Nothing of that nature at all.
4
Palace Gate seems quiet as we walk up towards the congested traffic of Kensington Gore. In the end, I asked Dr Marsden to forget the cab. We’ll get the Tube instead so I can show Skye the park.
‘Mummy, all the houses are so big and tall here!’ Skye gasps, tipping back her head to look up at the buildings.
Compared to living in Acton, in our tiny home with its minuscule backyard that’s overlooked by at least five other houses, the pads here must seem like true palaces to Skye.
‘And we’re going to live in one of them.’ I grin down at her, thinking how it still seems utterly surreal to me, too. ‘Aren’t we the lucky ones?’
She doesn’t answer but she doesn’t complain either, so I’ll take that as a positive.
I grip her hand as we wait at the crossing to enable us to safely negotiate the crazily busy road at the top. Just a few minutes later, we are inside the railings of Kensington Gardens, walking up the wide path that leads towards the golden gates at the top of the incline.
Within a minute or two, the leafy calmness of the gardens works its magic, and it feels as if we’ve left the traffic behind us.
We stop at a small kiosk at the bottom of the hill, and I buy a pack of sandwiches and a bag of crisps before we carry on walking.
Skye seems quiet, her head turning this way and that, taking in everything that’s happening around her. Runners, dogs, cyclists, people picnicking on the grass . . . the place is so alive.
I feel a pincer-like grip in my chest as I realise how few places I’ve taken Skye these last few months. I’ve been so absorbed in my own problems and worries – at times it truly felt as if I might drown in negative emotions – it was all I could do to keep functioning on a basic level each day.
I forgot all about taking her to the park to feed the ducks or to the cinema to see a film together. Instead I spent my time making lists so I wouldn’t forget to complete mundane tasks like doing the laundry, paying the bills, and packing Skye’s lunchbox each evening for the next school day.
I have a lot of making up to do.
Halfway up the hill, I stop walking. ‘Close your eyes and tell me what you can hear,’ I say. It’s a game we used to play a lot when we went for walks as a family.
Skye squeezes her eyelids shut and waits for a few moments before blurting out, ‘Birds!’
‘Me, too. Birds and . . . and can you hear the leaves rustling a little in the breeze?’ Eyes still closed, Skye tilts her head and a look of concentration crosses her face.
A sudden movement to my right takes my attention from my daughter’s expression. I squint as a figure darts behind the enormous gnarled trunk of an oak tree. I felt sure that when I looked over, the person was holding up a phone as if they were about to take a picture of us.
‘I can hear the leaves rustling, Mummy!’ Skye exclaims, her eyes springing open again.
‘Hang on, poppet, just wait here a moment.’ I take a few steps towards the tree and then have to wait as a large group of tourists walk in front of me. When I get to the tree, there’s nobody there.
I stand for a moment and pull in air as a wave of panic rolls over me. There’s nobody there, it’s