Afterwards, as we walked home, or rather as I was escorted, my friends agreed over my head that we needed more practice.
‘Which is fine, because we’ve got plenty of time. The wedding’s not for a few weeks,’ said Jennie.
‘Wedding?’ I was surprised to hear my voice.
‘Well, that’s the whole point, that’s what we’re practising for.’
‘Oh.’
‘Every Monday,’ Angie told me firmly. ‘And don’t forget, you’re all coming to my house tomorrow.’
‘Are we?’ I felt panicky. ‘Why?’
‘Because we’re starting the book club. We told you that a week or so ago, remember?’
Oh, yes, vaguely. But it had been that terrible day. The one when everything had changed. All the clocks stopped. Black Friday. When, suddenly, I hadn’t been a widow who was finding hidden reserves and coping really rather marvellously, much to the relief of my friends, but in the blink of an eye, in twenty-five minutes to be precise, had become someone different.
‘And I said I’d …?’ I felt my way cautiously.
‘Come,’ Angie told me firmly. ‘Definitely come. And pitch in. Everyone’s bringing a few nibbles.’
‘Well, no, we might do that, actually,’ Jennie said quickly as they exchanged a glance. Nibbles from me might be a bridge too far.
‘When you say everyone …’
‘Just the four of us,’ Angie told me kindly. ‘Us three and Peggy to begin with. The idea is that this week we’ll just meet to discuss and decide who to ask along, what sort of books we’ll read, that type of thing.’
‘Oh.’
‘Manage that?’ asked Jennie gently, as we got to my gate.
I nodded dumbly. Stared at my shoes. Felt my body go rigid as they both embraced me. They bid me goodnight.
I realized, as I went inside, that my two friends were still loitering outside, conferring a moment and talking in hushed whispers behind my hedge. I leaned back on the inside of my front door and counted to ten. Then I peeled myself off and, with an effort, propelled myself towards the sitting room.
Frankie was on her hands and knees at my coffee table, already gathering her schoolbooks from it, stuffing them furtively in her bag. For all her big talk, Frankie harboured subversive tendencies: she was a secret worker who did well at school. I gave her a moment, lingering in the hall, taking off my coat and putting my bag on the table. I was fond of Frankie and knew there were some guilty secrets she wouldn’t want Jennie to know.
‘Thanks, Frankie,’ I said, going in and handing her some money as she stood up, swinging her book bag over her shoulder. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yeah, fine. We played for a bit then they did their teeth and went straight to sleep. How was your big night out?’
‘Oh, huge.’
‘Good. You look a bit, you know –’ she peered at me – ‘better, actually.’
I nodded, unable to speak. Angie and Jennie concerned about me I could handle. Frankie, with her multitude of teenage problems, would reduce me to tears.
When she’d gone, I went upstairs and looked in on my sleeping babes, pushing each of their bedroom doors ajar. Clemmie was on her side, elaborate furrows of tiny plaits decorating her head and culminating in something complicated at the back. Her fist was clenched tightly around her rabbit’s ears. Archie, in the next room, was flat on his back, arms flung out like a starfish, mouth open, his wispy hair gathered in a top-knot tied in a pink ribbon on his head, like a Flintstone baby. His intense vulnerability almost made me cry out. My hand went to my throat. I stood for a moment, watching him breathe in and out, noticing the way the moon shone through a gap in his curtains, casting a silver sliver on the opposite wall. Then I turned and went back downstairs to the kitchen. Back to my chair.
On the pinboard on the wall opposite was a photo of Clemmie and her best friend, Alice. It had been taken at the beginning of term in their ballet class, a few days before Phil died. In the days immediately following his death I’d looked at the photo a lot. Two little girls, same ballet shoes, same little pink skirts, same advantages – except now my daughter was changed for ever. And she didn’t yet know it. Half of her unconditional love had gone, half of her quota to get her through life. I was terrified at how reduced she was. She wasn’t the same child in the photograph and whenever I looked at