is struggling? Has she hidden it that well? Or are they just a load of smug, self-obsessed gossip-mongers? As she drinks her wine, she decides this is her last mums’ meet-up. There’s no need to fall out with them; she just won’t turn up and eventually they’ll get the message. Not that they’ll care. It’s not like any of them are real friends …
Unable to face giving Mabel a bottle under their disapproving gaze, Amber makes her excuses and leaves the pub. No doubt they’ll be talking about her now, she thinks as she pushes the buggy back up the hill. Well, let them. Having been desperate to go out, all she wants now is to be at home where nobody can judge her.
‘Hey, shush, it’s okay, we’re nearly there.’ She leans over the buggy and peers at Mabel through the transparent hood, spattered with drops of rainwater. As she manoeuvres around the tree roots bulging through the pavement, she feels an alcohol headache coming on. She really shouldn’t drink at lunchtime. The weather isn’t helping either – the rain is furrowing her forehead, knotting the muscles in her neck.
She unlocks the door and enters the house, parking the buggy in the hallway and shutting the door with a backward kick of her heel. Mabel is crying properly now. Amber removes the plastic hood and wrestles her daughter out of the straps.
‘Whatever possessed us to buy a first-floor flat?’ she thinks aloud, tramping up to the nursery and dumping Mabel in her cot. Not grasping that this is only a temporary measure, Mabel starts to scream, but Amber blocks it out as she takes off her coat and shoes. Rubbing her wet hair roughly with a towel, she rescues her daughter and takes her into the kitchen, balancing her on one hip while she runs the water cold and searches for the paracetamol. Mabel wriggles and protests, so Amber puts her in the baby bouncer instead and shoves a rice cake into her hand.
The washing machine has finished its cycle, but to her surprise it’s not bleeping at her in that annoying way it usually does. Nor is its light flashing. She bends down to pick up a stray sock of George’s that’s lying on the floor. To her surprise, it’s soaking wet. She sniffs it – that’s odd, it smells clean too. How could this be?
She replays her actions this morning before she left the flat. Mabel woke just before six and she got up to change her and give her breakfast. She entertained her and tried to keep her quiet so that George could sleep a little longer. He got up at seven, usual time. After he left for work at around eight, she gave Mabel a bath and dressed her, then put her on the activity mat, leaving her to play while she gathered up the dirty washing and put a load of coloureds on. Then she got ready for the mums’ meet-up, changed Mabel again and put her outdoor suit on. She thought the washing machine was still going when they left the house. At least that’s how she remembers it.
But she must be wrong. She must have put the washing on much earlier, and when it bleeped to tell her that it had finished, she must have opened the door to look inside for some reason, and at that point the sock must have fallen out. But why didn’t she remove the clean clothes and hang them up? There’s a simple answer to that: she was distracted by Mabel and then it slipped her mind. Except she has no memory whatsoever of any of this happening. A chunk of time has been completely wiped from her brain. She stares at George’s wet black sock sitting in her hand. My God, she thinks, I’m going mad.
Chapter Ten
Three days before
Amber only wants to talk to one person right now – Seth – but he probably won’t pick up. His lunch break is over and he’ll be back at his desk or in a meeting. Predictably, the phone rings out, then click into voicemail. She doesn’t leave a message because he often doesn’t get back to her. Instead, she rattles off a text.