Like an automaton, I get my things together, double-check the hob is turned off (OCD) and even leave a jaunty Post-it for Dan with his keys, saying Found them!
Because what else am I going to say? Found them, and found your secret texts to Mary too, you cheating bastard?
As I shut the front door, I see Toby emerging from Tilda’s house in black jeans and a trilby. He’s holding a massive great laundry bag, spilling over with things, and has a magazine in his mouth, like a dog.
‘Toby, can I help you?’ I say.
Toby shakes his head cheerfully and heads down the street, unaware that he’s leaving a trail behind him of T-shirts, underwear and vinyl records.
‘Toby!’ Despite everything, I can’t help smiling. ‘Your stuff! It’s all falling out!’
I gather his things up and follow him along the street to where a white van is parked. He dumps the laundry bag in the back, where I see several more laundry bags, plus a desk, chair and computer.
‘Wow,’ I say in astonishment. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m moving out,’ he says, his eyes gleaming. ‘Mooooo-ving out. Oh yeah.’
‘Oh my God!’ I stare at him. ‘That’s incredible! Where to?’
‘Hackney. My new job’s in Shoreditch, so. Makes sense.’
I gape at him. ‘You’ve got a job?’
‘Job, flat, cat,’ he says in satisfaction. ‘Shared cat,’ he amends. ‘It’s called Treacle. It belongs to Michi.’
‘Michi?’
‘Michiko. My girlfriend.’
Toby has a girlfriend? Since when?
‘Well … congratulations!’ I say, stuffing his pants into the laundry bag and zipping it up. ‘But what about the start-up?’
‘It never did start up,’ says Toby frankly. ‘That was the trouble with it.’
We walk back from the van just as Tilda emerges from her front door and I wave to get her attention. She texted me last night, I suddenly remember, and told me her commute to Andover had finished for now, but I never texted back.
As I get near, I can see that she’s bright pink in the face and has a kind of suppressed energy about her. She’s actually quivering. Which makes sense. She must be so jubilant. At last. At last he’s going! And he has a job! And a girlfriend! No more noise, no more rows, no more midnight pizza deliveries … I mean, I feel quite relieved, let alone Tilda.
‘This is amazing news!’ I greet her. ‘Toby seems so together all of a sudden.’
‘Oh, I know.’ Tilda nods vigorously. ‘He just announced it, over supper two nights ago, “I’m moving out.” No warning, no build-up, just “Boom, I’m off.”’
‘I’m so pleased for you! God, it’s been a long time coming!’ I lean forward to hug Tilda – then look more closely. Is she quivering with jubilation? Or …
Her eyes are bloodshot, I suddenly notice. Oh my God.
‘Tilda?’
‘I’m fine. Fine. Stupid.’ She bats away my concerned look.
‘Oh, Tilda.’ I peer anxiously into her kind, crumpled face and of course now I can see it, beneath her bustly, energetic, Tilda-ish manner. Grief. Because she’s losing him. Finally.
‘It just hit me,’ she says in a low voice, perching on the garden wall. ‘Ridiculous! I’ve been begging him to move out, but …’
‘He’s your baby,’ I say quietly, sitting down next to her, and we both watch as Toby makes another journey to the white van, carrying a kettle, a sandwich toaster and a NutriBullet, all trailing wires along the street.
‘That’s my NutriBullet,’ says Tilda, and I can’t help laughing at her expression. ‘I know he has to move out,’ she adds, her eyes not moving from him. ‘I know he has to grow up. I know I pushed him to do all this. But …’ Tears start spilling from her eyes and she pulls a tissue from her pocket. ‘Stupid,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Stupid.’
I watch Toby returning to the house, oblivious of his mother’s grief, bouncing up and down in his hipster trainers, humming a happy tune, ready to start his proper life.
‘The girls will move out,’ I say, suddenly stricken. ‘They’ll move out one day, without looking back.’
I can suddenly see a grown-up Tessa and Anna. Beautiful, leggy women in their twenties. Brisk. Checking their phones constantly. Discounting everything I say because I’m their mother, what do I know?
I’m half hoping Tilda will say something comforting, like, ‘Don’t worry, your girls will be different,’ but she just shakes her head.
‘It’s not even that simple. They’ll try you. Hate you. Scream at you. Need you. Tangle your heart up in theirs. Then they’ll move out without looking back.’