it: the sum total of what my life amounts to now.
I put my stuff on the bed and open the cat box to coax Dizzy out. He steps out slowly, cautiously, sniffing the unfamiliar air and rubbing his furry face against my knuckles.
‘Just for a few days,’ I say to him. ‘Then we’ll be back home.’
I turn and find we’re being scrutinised from the doorway. Three boys arranged in height order, tallest to shortest. Tara’s sons are used to seeing me on a regular basis – I’m godmother to all three – but the sight of Dizzy is a rare novelty for them. My cat positions himself at the end of the spare bed like a grumpy sphinx, eyeing the three boys with suspicion.
Noah, Tara’s oldest, is a serious six-year-old who likes Bake Off and memorising flags of the world and has always seemed older than his years. He takes a few tentative steps into the room and looks at up me, big chocolate-brown eyes behind his Spiderman glasses.
‘Can I stroke her?’
‘Sure.’
He considers my answer for a moment, his face solemn, still standing at arms-length from the cat. I rarely have the boys over to my little house – it’s always easier to babysit at Tara’s, where all the boys’ stuff is – and he’s only seen my cat once before.
‘What’s her name?’ Noah says.
‘Dizzy.’ Originally called Daisy, I explain in a roundabout way, until a first visit to the vet had revealed certain undeniable male characteristics.
‘Will he bite or scratch me?’ Noah asks.
‘No,’ I say with a smile. ‘He’s just a bit nervous around small people, but if you’re gentle, he’ll be fine.’
Noah turns to his brothers, hands up like a teacher getting the attention of his class.
‘You have to be nice to him,’ he instructs the younger boys as they crowd around to stroke the cat. ‘Because he’s sad about not being at his own house.’
They each take turns stroking Dizzy carefully, even the smallest of the three siblings, Charlie, who’s a bit of a loose cannon at the best of times. Dizzy sits and takes it all with the patience of a saint, eyes front, ears up, big paws tucked beneath his chest. Not purring, but not growling either.
Lucas, the middle son, stares up at me after he’s taken his turn.
‘We’re not allowed pets,’ he says.
‘We are,’ Noah corrects him. ‘We’ve got Baby Shark.’
‘Fish don’t count.’
‘Do.’
‘Don’t,’ Lucas says, as if he’s ready to fight his corner on this important point of principle. ‘Because you can’t stroke them.’
Noah gives Dizzy a final little stroke.
‘Are you going to live with us now?’ he says. ‘And your cat?’
‘Just for a little while,’ I say. ‘Maybe a day or two.’
Tara calls up the stairs to summon the boys for their tea and I’m reminded as they stampede out – just like I am every time I visit – how far our paths have diverged over the last decade. Tara and I met in the navy, in the first week of training at the Royal Naval College in Dartmouth, homesick and disorientated by the sudden segue from student life into a military environment. Both graduates whose dads had been in the service, both competitive and sporty. She had done eight years and I had done twelve, but after she left the navy for a career in journalism we had stayed in touch. Then, once I rejoined civilian life, we ended up living close enough for Friday drinks, meals out, cinema trips. We were chief bridesmaid at each other’s weddings, thoughts turning to families of our own in our early thirties. She got pregnant within months of coming off the pill and our lives started to diverge more quickly, like railway lines splitting at a set of points. One son became two, then three, Tara’s life shifting to accommodate the continuous demands of night-feeds and nurseries, of maternity leave, weaning, potty training and school runs. We’ve worked hard to keep in touch, to remember why we first became friends, but it isn’t always easy. Since Richard left, she’s been the one I’ve confided in more than anyone else.
With the boys’ tea finished and Tara’s husband, Dave, watching In the Night Garden with them in the playroom, Tara opens a bottle of Pinot Grigio and pours two sizeable glasses. She sits me down in the lounge and I tell her about the last three days, starting with my appointment with the fertility specialist and going through everything that has happened since. Tara nods, eyebrows