Blink(19)

She sat under her ‘wasp shield’, as she now referred to her blanket, and ignored me, staring blankly at the TV. An empty cereal box lay on its side in the middle of the floor, a spoon flung further still. Evie still had on her pyjamas with grass stains on the knees that I could tell would never wash out. Her hair was tousled and loose and dry crumbs had collected at the corners of her mouth.

It was ten thirty. My daughter had probably been up on her own since 7 a.m.

I reached for the remote control and flicked the TV off. The silence reverberated, as if an invisible wall sat between us.

‘Do you understand what Mummy is saying?’ I tried again. ‘You mustn’t go outside on your own like that again, poppet. It’s dangerous.’

‘I tried to tell you, Mummy.’ Evie turned to face me, her eyes wide and glistening. ‘But you were still sleeping and you wouldn’t wake up.’

I clamped my hand over my mouth and closed my eyes. A hot thread of revulsion wrapped itself around my throat like a burning wire.

Who on earth was I turning into?





18





Three Years Earlier





Toni





Monday morning didn’t turn out to be the calm, organised time I’d planned it to be. I felt groggy and out of sorts, even though I hadn’t touched any tablets since the early hours of yesterday.

Evie was still clearly shaken by the wasp attack, aside from the physical discomfort of the still red, scratchy swellings on her arms and face.

‘Can you button up my cardigan please, Mummy?’ she asked in a small voice, her face forlorn.

‘Come on, a big girl like you knows how to button up, don’t you?’ I chided her, tickling under her chin.

‘I want you to do it.’

I’d plaited her blonde wavy hair into two braids. The red and grey uniform suited her, seeming to add a little colour into her pasty cheeks, which were still dotted here and there with the unsightly red blobs.

I buttoned her cardi up and pulled her gently to me and we had a little cuddle, silent in each other’s affection for a few seconds.

Then Evie pulled away and looked at me.

‘Mummy, are you taking me to school today?’

‘Am I taking you to school?’ I repeated with outraged amazement that brought the ghost of a smile to her lips. ‘OF COURSE I’m taking you to school, silly munchkin. I wouldn’t miss that for all the tea in China.’

I tickled her belly and waited for the throaty giggle I loved so much. But Evie stepped away from my wriggling fingers, edgy and wary. Her face grew solemn again.

‘Are you picking me up from school, too?’

I swear to God my daughter had an overdeveloped sixth sense. She could invariably pick up vibes from whatever was laying heavy on my heart at any given time of the day. Even when I thought I’d done a pretty good job of covering up the cracks.

‘Are you?’ she demanded.

‘No, because Nanny is picking you up from school, isn’t she? If you remember—’

‘No!’

Mum had already called Evie on my phone this morning to wish her luck and to tell her she’d be seeing her at the end of school.

‘Evie, don’t start. Nanny wants to pick you up and hear all about your day. You don’t want to upset her now, do you?’ I felt rotten even as I said it. What kind of mother tries to silence a five-year-old with emotional blackmail? But I had to do something to stop the threatened tantrum I could feel hovering like an imminent storm.

‘But I want you to pick me up on my first day, Mummy.’ Her big blue eyes shone, pleading with me. Her bottom lip wobbled. ‘Pleeease?’

I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath in.

Why did it feel like life always conspired to make parenting so damn difficult? Of all the days for me to get an interview for the job, it had to be this one.

It had all happened so quickly from me submitting my application, I could never have reasonably anticipated problems with Evie’s first day at big school.

‘Mummy, please?’ Evie whined again, sensing weakness.



* * *



In the afternoon, after a sandwich and a quick shower, I dressed for the interview in my smart Ted Baker navy trouser suit and white blouse.

The outfit was now a few fashion seasons old but it still looked the part. Better than my custom leggings and T-shirt, at least.

I wondered if I’d ever be in a financial position that allowed me to shop for clothes at Ted Baker again.

It was clear I’d lost a bit of weight since I bought it a couple of years ago. Obviously, I’d noticed my clothes getting looser, but after I finished work, there was no need to dress for the office and I started to live in ‘loungewear’ – a nicer sounding word than ‘scruffs’ or ‘comfies’. Clothes that felt the same, whatever your weight.

Losing weight through grief led to a scrawny, malnourished body. There had been no celebratory buying of new clothes when I’d dropped two dress sizes.

I stood in front of the wardrobe and scrutinized my image in the long mirror fixed to the inside door. I suppose I didn’t look too bad, considering.

The jacket hung a little big on my shoulders and I could have done with a belt for the trousers. Luckily, as we were both a size six, Mum had been able to loan me a pair of M&S black court shoes, avoiding another unnecessary expense.