tactics, kept my mouth shut and my bad thoughts to myself. I’d find a way to get at her, I decided. But Amber, being Amber, found a way to get to me first.
There’s a loud knock at the door, jolting me out of my musings. I start to panic, then remember that I’m safe. Brushing a few crumbs from my lap, I put on my game face and open the front door.
‘Yes?’ I say to the elderly woman standing before me.
‘Hello, I’m Barbara,’ she says. ‘Bob’s wife. You met him the other day, we live at the Nook.’
‘Oh yes.’ I smile, seething inside. ‘How can I help you?’
‘It’s more a case of how we can help you.’ She takes a small photocopied booklet out of her bag. ‘We thought you might like a copy of the parish magazine. There’s lots of useful information inside about the local area, services and activities, adverts for tradesmen. And we have a mother-and-baby group you might be interested in. They meet every Wednesday morning in the community hall in the next village.’ She plants the booklet in my hand.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Very kind of you.’
‘Well, I thought, seeing as how you’re on your own, you might like to get to know a few people your own age.’
I put on a confused expression. ‘But I’m not on my own. Where did you get that idea from?’
‘Um … I don’t know … I thought …’ She squirms uncomfortably, cheeks pinking beneath her powdery make-up.
‘My husband’s been working abroad. He’s due home next weekend.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Our little boy has been missing him so much; he can’t wait to see him,’ I add for extra authenticity.
She tries to peer around me. ‘Where is he? I’d love to meet him.’
‘He’s having a nap at the moment,’ I reply, mentally crossing my fingers that Mabel doesn’t choose this moment to bawl. ‘Anyway, I must get on. Thanks for the mag, very helpful.’ I wave it dismissively at her and start to close the door.
‘You haven’t told me your—’ she says as I shut it firmly in her face.
No, dear, I haven’t told you my name and I’ve no intention of doing so either. Not my real name, anyway …
I stop off in the kitchen to hurl the parish magazine into the bin, then go back to the sitting room to check on Mabel. She glares up at me from the bouncy chair, kicking her chubby little legs in defiance.
‘That was Busybody Barbara,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to go to a silly mother-and-baby group, do we?’ I extract her from the seat and parade her around the room. ‘Old MacDonald had a farm …’ I sing. ‘Did Mummy used to sing that to you? Your old mummy, I mean. I’m your mummy now.’ I pause in front of the gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace and lift her up so that our faces are close together. Hmm, I think, nobody’s going to believe for a second that we’re mother and daughter. I’m going to have to dye my hair auburn for a start.
The idea of turning myself into a version of Amber makes me feel slightly nauseous. I squint at my reflection, remodelling my features – lengthening my nose, arching my brows, grinning through even white teeth. No thank you, I’d rather stay as I am. The hair colour, however, is a concession I’m prepared to make.
I take Mabel into the bedroom, spread a towel over the bed and lay her down on it. As I remove her sleepsuit to change her nappy, I go back over the recent encounter with Barbara. Was it a genuine call, or did she come to check me out? If so, the parish magazine was a clever prop, allowing her to bring up the mother-and-baby group and find out whether I was indeed a single parent. And she asked to meet my ‘son’. Was that neighbourly friendliness or smart detective work?
As I pluck a baby wipe from its packet, my earlier optimism fades, darkening my mood. The neighbours are a problem.
‘Is it all worth it?’ I ask Mabel, forcing her into her nappy and sticking down the flaps. ‘You’re a bloody nightmare.’ She puts up a fight as I re-dress her in pink floral leggings and a white woolly jumper. ‘I guess it would be different if you were really mine.’ I lift her up and set her on my hip. ‘I assumed that because I love your father, I’d love you too. But it